Hot Potato

I was hoping to have some great story about an ironic bender and mountain adventures in Salt Lake City this weekend but certain unnamed friends who also have blogs flaked, so I had more of a, as Sackface would say, cozy-at-home-with-the Druz couple of days.

Fortunately, I plan to have a much better story after this Mardi Gras weekend, during which my Cajun alter-ego will be reunited with my degenerate friends in Baton Rouge.

It's been a while since I last checked in and I apologize but I've been busy going completely native. I've been doing a lot of snowshoeing, an avalanche training course, a little backcountry snowboarding and I recently uttered the words, "Hey, that looks like a nice yurt." I've even flirted with the idea of growing a beard. I also got my first non-California driver's license — but not before I failed the DMV vision test. Miserably.

So with my 25th birthday (It was Feb. 1, so it's not too late to lavish me with gifts), came the first sign of decline. I had to get a glasses prescription before I could get my swank new Idaho driver's license. Soon it will nothing but soft foods and fading memories of bladder control. As if I weren't dashing enough, I now have hip, square (ha ha) black-rimmed glasses. (Although I think I have already lost them.) Joeja calls me professor when I wear them.