Where's a good "death panel" when you need one?

Ripped from the headlines--

"Cheney Resting Comfortably at Hospital after Chest Pains"

Golly, what shocking news--Dick Cheney's heart is giving him trouble. Who knew he had one in the first place? Badda-bing!

Thanks, ladies and germs, I'll be at Caroline's Comedy Club next week. On a double bill with Joy Behar.

I do hope Mister Cheney is receiving the most "enhanced" medical care his lifetime health coverage and pension plan can provide.

I know if I were at that hospital--whether as a doctor, a nurse, an administrator, or a cafeteria worker--I'd make sure ol' Lucifer's Grandad got the most appropriate treatment for his condition.

First of all, I'd crib a "do not resuscitate" order for the old bastard.

Second, I'd argue with the hospital board that waterboarding is, too, a suitable medicinal cure for whatever ails him. And I mean whatever--hangnail, ingrown toenail, boil on the ass of humanity. "Mister Cheney is taking to the waters just fine. He'll be back to his old, hateful self in no time."

Third, I'd yank the plug out of the wall myself.

And fourth, I imagine I would be totally frustrated that even a stake through his body somewhere in the general vicinity of where his heart might be wouldn't destroy Satan-with-a-Pacemaker. I suspect, like any determined specter in a slasher movie, he won't go down easily.

I don't usually speak ill of the dead, Dick, but, alas, you're not dead yet.

Try harder, though.

Herr today, gone tomorrow

From my friend Snorty (sometimes Blondie, sometimes Reddie). This had me doing the classic ROTFLMAO maneuver.

Ruth Elkins, "German Men: Hunky, Handsome, Wimpy, and Weak," Spiegel International Online, May 31, 2006. Retrieved February 21, 2010. [http://www.spiegel.de/international/0,1518,419029,00.html]

Ski Pennsylvania!

Dear Olympic Organizing Committee--in need of more snow for your next winter games? Might I suggest Pittsburgh as the host city for 2026 . . . ?

The really big snow reported on previously apparently wasn't so much a one-time cataclysm. A snowpocaplypse, a snowmageddon, as everyone locally has begun to call it. Rather, it was really the beginning of a trend--or, if you a prefer, a curse--of snowfall that, a week plus later, continues unabated. And unplowed, and unshoveled, and unsalted, for that matter.

There can indeed be an embarrassment of inches, at least in terms of snow. (Who knew?) I've lost count at this point, but I think it would be fair to say that there is still 20 inches (50+ centimeters) or so of snow on the ground at this writing with more on the way--on a daily basis, until the end of time, at least if the weather reports are to be believed.

And I'm not sure I do believe them--after all, the 6 to 10 inches predicted for the really big snow turned into 21 handily and officially, with estimates running higher in the neighborhoods and toward the Laurel Highlands. So I'm snow-banking on it being worse, much worse, from here on out. After all, it's only mid-February. Even an unfailingly reliable weather prognosticator as Punxsutawney Phil says we're due for 6 more weeks of winter. This is a region where, during the last winter, it snowed from prior to Halloween until mid-April. This winter, we had our first threat of snow in mid-October. By next year, we should be giving Winnipeg a run for its loonies for most-populated, coldest city in the world.

So what to do? Well, as for me, I'd just as soon hibernate with the local groundhog community until spring springs forth. I've spent the last week stuck--stuck at home, stuck in the garage, stuck in the driveway, stuck on sidewalks and crosswalks, unable to trudge through the snow to wherever I might feel the limited need to go (the post office, the Get-Go, and, oh yes, even work on occasion). Why not make it official and bury one's self underground until my low Nutella supply and lack of cable TV programming options get the better of me and I'm impelled to venture outdoors again?

An excellent plan, if I do say no, but one that was not to be. Because when the going gets tough, the not-so-tough make it even tougher on themselves and go cross-country skiing.

* * *

I have been cross-country skiing before--once, in Colorado, last year--and I, well, more or less enjoyed it. The weather was crisp and cold, but not terribly so, and the day was brilliantly sunny. The snow was luxuriously powdery, the trails freshly groomed and mostly undisturbed, so it was easy to glide along the grooves. I took a lesson that day, and I was impressed by the helpfulness and mellowness of the trainers at the Nordic center in Breckenridge (it's either altitude or attitude out Colorado way, or a Nordic combined of both). Not for a second did I feel ridiculous as a then-47-year-old virgin on the rails and trails--at least no more than I do drawing breath on a daily basis.

The beginners' trail was easy enough, so feeling more confident, I had to go chance it all and get on the intermediate trail. And while that went OK, it also went quite fast in places, as some of the trail was downhill.

Well, I didn't try cross-country skiing because I wanted to go fast. I'd do downhill racing if I wanted that speed, that rush, and the opportunity for the full "Sonny Bono experience."

Still, I only managed to fall two, maybe three, times--once while trying to learn how to fall properly on skis and twice while on the beginners' trail, trying to cross under a bridge on a sun-dappled and glazed-over trail. The downhill wipeouts were more funny than anything--what I learned later might be termed "yard sales," as I ended up with my stuff scattered all over the place.

Nonetheless, while the experience wasn't terrible, it wasn't enchanting either. I wasn't fully convinced that cross-country was my thing. I can't speak for downhill skiing, but there's a lot of balance involved in cross-country skiing, and goodness knows, you need strong ankles to work those skis. In some ways, it reminds me of ice-skating: You have to be "present," mentally and physically, keeping your preferred choice of equipment in contact with the surface and, at least as a beginner, your mind on the task at hand (or, in this case, foot). These are not onerous requirements, mind you, but they require more commitment than perhaps I am willing to give to exercise and sport in general. Just call me Bode Miller at Torino, circa 2006.

All in all, I think I'm more of a snow-shoe kind of guy. From snow-shoeing, I still get a good workout tramping around with those ridiculous things on my feet, but I am less restricted by grooved trails and, more apparently, by my "balancing act," or lack thereof. Really, snow-shoeing doesn't require a lot of talent or ability--that's why it's not an Olympic sport, I'm assuming--but as long as you have the shoes and the poles, can stand upright, and enjoy the outdoors, it's accessible to just about anyone.

Nevertheless, I had been wanting to give cross-country another try, in part, to confirm my suspicions (that it's harder than it looks and that I'm clumsier than even I realized) and in part, just to do it again and maybe add a little something-something to my winter repertoire. Something to look forward to during the long, cold months, and something to get me outside and give me some good cardio.

So . . .

* * *

Yesterday, Valentine's Day, I met up with my friend, the Maryland Philosopher, in the Laurel Highlands to do this very thing.

This really wasn't my idea of fun on Valentine's Day. Not that I had Big Romance plans on the International Holiday for the Greeting Card Industry, mind you, but after a hard week of shoveling, sliding, and sniveling, I would have been all too happy to have sat at home all day, eating chocolate truffles I bought for myself, and watching my Sims get their groove thang on in Prairieview and Sunset Valley. When the going gets tough, the not-so-tough resort to cosplay online.

Still, I knew this was something that the Philosopher really wanted to do, and I figured it wouldn't kill me to spend some time with another human being while getting a little exercise and some fresh air along the way.

Wouldn't kill me and didn't kill me, but the risk of death of all varieties--physical, spiritual, existential--might have been avoided entirely if I'd only remembered to strap a third ski to my butt during the outing.

The first fall was funny, as was the second. The third, less so. The fifth, not at all. The seventh, hell no. And the ninth, well, by the ninth fall--when you're halfway around the 6 km trail, trying to climb uphill, going against the tide of other cross-country skiers, and end up laying splayed in deep snow on the sidelines, having passersby witness you buried in a snowbank of your own shame--the ninth fall leads you to rediscover your fatalistic Protestant upbringing in a huge way: God hates you--and, worse, you realize, so do you.

But wait, there's even more self-loathing.

At the Philosopher's suggestion (who while, breezing past me, casually revealed that he had spent many an adolescent winter at "ski camp" out West), we decided to forgo the limited beginners' trail in favor of the intermediate trail. And, at the Philosopher's suggestion, we also decided to "do something different" and head around the trail clockwise, rather than counter-clockwise, like everyone else that day. Because it would be, according to the Philosopher, "fun."

Fun. Hmmm. "Cavalierly suicidal" might be a better description. Going against the XC tide meant no groomed grooves to follow, no easy bypasses of the bigger hills, and no forgiveness from the other skiers as we positioned directly in the flow of opposing traffic.

The Philosopher navigated this alternative ski-style with aplomb and skill. And, really, in my own little way, I managed the situation, too--by falling into snowbanks on the sidelines, getting my skis stuck in the deep drifts, and after struggling Edward Scissorhands and -feet-like, eventually disconnecting myself from the skis, slinging them over a shoulder or under arm, and trudging up or down the hill on foot.

I got a good workout--just not like I originally envisioned.

I also got a goodly number of bruises, too. (For the inexperienced, it is possible to fall knees-first on your skis and, by the way, even though they are made of some flimsy-sounding carbon-fiber alloy, it hurts like hell when you do so.) Additionally, I also received my fair share of guileless (or so I'm assuming) observations from my fellow skiers. "Is your equipment broken?" one said. "No, just my spirit," I replied.

Nevertheless, we were on an actual trail, not back-country ("Maybe we could do that sometime?" the Philosopher questioned, with hope in his eyes), so this, too, should pass eventually. The warming hut--and the end of the trail--finally came into view. Downhill from where I stood, naturally.

"Come on, you can make it!" the Philosopher encouraged. "Just a little more," and he glided downhill, toward the path to the warming hut.

My turn. As I slid downhill and past the Philosopher, he called out, "You know, I really don't think it's a good idea to ski all the way to the parking lot."

"I get that!" I shouted back, snottily. "But I can't stop myself!"

Quite literally.

It should be noted that by the tenth fall, you really just don't give a flip anymore.

By this time, I'm fully feeling my Calvinist upbringing. Come on, God, I mutter through my frozen jaw, give it Your best shot. I'm halfway between loving the Devil and hating You. At this point, as the True Believers proclaim, it's all in Your hands.

In the meantime, while You're plotting Your next move in my snow-blinded predestination, I'm going to exercise some free will and head toward the relative safety of my car on icy, mountain roads, the pot-holed Turnpike, and the Promised Land that is Regent Square, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, US of A.

Glory!

* * *

Once home, I decompressed. I took a long, hot bath, then changed into something more comfortable and cuddly--something sans poles or hoods or gloves or boots or skis. I made myself a warm cup of mango black tea and arranged a plate of simple, Kedem kosher, orange-flavored tea biscuits, which always comfort me in their blandness.

Hmmm, I thought. Maybe it's like they say: Without the extremes of winter, the lows of life, you might not properly appreciate the spring and summer, life's sweeter moments.

I nestled into my usual spot on the sofa and involuntarily picked up the remote. It's 5 o'clock, I thought. I wonder if . . .

I clicked on the TV and up popped the winter Olympic games in HD. On the screen, at that very moment, the French, the Americans, the Norwegians, and the Japanese were fighting it out for supremacy in the power cross-country skiing portion of the Men's Nordic Combined.

Touché, God. Your cosmic sense of humor is in good working order.

Unlike me and my knees.

A really big snow

Snowmageddon. Somewhere in the East End of Pittsburgh, 10 a.m.-ish, 6 February 2010.