Straight out of Oregon, the Hood Crew shreds the Timberline Park.

Song: Guru– Life Saver

1. Big clothing

2. Rap music

3. Simon Dumont

But that being said, I have a nifty login here at BroBomb and damn it, I’m using it. Enjoy the 2010 Team America JOSS Edit. God knows Jon won’t.

-Rogge

When I began this little column a few weeks ago, I led you all (read: the 7 people outside of my immediate family who are reading this) to believe that I would lay out the heart-warming and touching story that was my hard fought ascendance from the hell of addiction into the splendor of ski-bummedness. While that’s fundamentally true—minus the histrionics—this column will also sometimes be a forum for me to ramble about any number of things even peripherally related to either the aforementioned hell or splendor. My hope is that these little breaks from our central narrative will act as colorful little asides that serve to let you, the reader, get a better feel for your protagonist. My other hope is that you all just bought that, and that I successfully put off delving into my past for another week. So…

I have reoccurring dreams; moreover, I’ve always had reoccurring dreams. Almost invariably, these dreams land somewhere between “mildly unpleasant” to “sleep shatteringly horrific.” They seem to emerge from nowhere, linger for a few months, and then recede back into whatever mess of a subconscious conjured them in the first place. The pattern is so regular, in fact, that I sometimes use the distinct dream phases as points of reference. For example, “Oh, right! We were doing that a lot in the summer of ’05,” is more like, “Oh, right! We were doing that a lot during the ‘I just got to English class after having not showed up for six weeks and a paper is due’ dream period.” Now, I’m no rocket scientist, but I’m pretty sure that this specific dream was a rather heavy handed metaphor for the nearly crippling anxiety I was wrestling with at the time. I haven’t really ever been able to draw any substantial parallels between the specifics of the individual dreams, leading me to believe that interpreting the dreams as a “whole” is more or less pointless. I feel qualified to make such an assessment as I’m quite certain that it’s literally impossible for a person to spend more time than I engaged in self-indulgent brooding. Rather, the dreams appear to serve as pressure release valves for whatever particular style of craziness has worked itself into a frenzy in my head at a given time.

The summer of 2009 will forever be known as the “Cruelly Unsatisfying Ski Dream Period.” It goes like this: There I am, at one ski area or another, ready to do the damn thing. I’m accompanied by friends—in the most recent iteration, Brobomb’s Jon himself—and the dream always begins with us in the lodge. My companions are already wearing the necessary garb and are lingering, waiting for me to get my ass in gear…so to speak. From my vantage, I have a view of the chairlift and those waiting to climb aboard it as I hurriedly attempt to get dressed. I’m dimly aware that time is of the essence, and that my piddling with my gear could turn out to be a disaster. However, one thing after another conspires to impede me on my quest. Sometimes, my jacket is a little bit wet inside, making it maddeningly difficult to work my hands through the sleeves. Other times, a glove or a sock that was present only moments prior, is now missing. Other times still, my skis, which were carefully left at the complimentary ski check, are MIA. All the while, my panic mounts, and inevitably my friends shrug and head for whiter pastures, leaving me alone and unimaginably frustrated. Sometimes I’m then forced to watch them ski, resigned to the idea that I can’t. Other times I just leave.

Gah.

When I relayed this dream to my friendly neighborhood coffee peddler, she responded sarcastically, “Gee, I wonder what that’s about”. Now, I know what she, and you Psych majors and/or Freud fans, are thinking. Goddammit, this is not about a fear of sexual inadequacy or dysfunction. My “gear” works just fine, thank you…so back off. What this dream is about, I’ve decided, is my bum knee. More specifically, this dream is about my fear that my bum knee is going to keep me sidelined this year, and that I’ll be forced to watch as my friends do what I love to do; what I live to do. 

Taos Ski Valley doesn’t open for just about another month, which in the world of healing knees is about half a lifetime; assuming of course that said knee is in fact healing. If I had money, health insurance, and/or I was born a Canadian, I’d know the answer to that question. I’ll save my rant about the U.S. healthcare crisis for a day I when I reeeeeaaally can’t bare the thought of being a tad vulnerable. For everyone’s sake, I hope that day never comes, because it’ll be a really shitty read.

Because no one likes a Debbie Downer, let’s end on a highnote:

Taos got it’s first real storm of the season on Wednesday. I drove the 18 miles to the base just to take a look. I had to. For the twenty minutes I stood there, I forgot all about my knee. I forgot about everything. That, my friends, is why I love snow covered mountains—even if I can’t play on ‘em.

My dad and I have had this conversation several times, and it pretty much always goes the same way. 

Me:  “Uncle Zack taught me to ski.”

Dad:  “That’s incredulous (or whichever over the top, barely applicable word he favors at the moment)! I taught you how to ski!”

While it’s true that some overly serious guy with a shitty job (read: ski instructor at Camelback in the Poconos) spent a few hours desperately trying to hold my 6-year-old self’s attention in order to show me how to click into my bindings, but my uncle taught me how to ski.  Or rather, my uncle taught me how to point my skis downhill and how to stop.  Words fail in attempting to describe the transition from: “It’s cold, my feet hurt, and I’m tired of falling down” to, “I wonder how fast I can go on these things”.  However, Richard Strauss’ Also Sprach Zarathustra rings in my ears and I see the “Star-Child returns to Earth” scene from 2001: A Space Odyssey play in my head when I think on it.  Anyone who hung in there long enough knows what I’m talking about.

Pop didn’t teach me how to physically ski, but he sure gave me the chance to fall in love with it.  Sure, there were family ski “vacations” and a few school trips (more about who got a handjob on the bus ride, and less about the actual skiing. Sorry, mom.), but it was all about dad and me.

Growing up, my pop worked a lot of nights as a salesman; he worked a lot period—and thank god he did, because my annual stints in rehab have been quite expensive. But, he always made time for us to do cool stuff.  The coolest of said stuff was undoubtedly skipping out of work early every now and again so that he and I could go night skiing (skating?) at Blue Mountain, PA. We’d pile into his truck, hit I-476, listen to tunes, and talk Philadelphia sports (Deeeeep fly ballllll Mickkkkeeey Morandiniiii).  In no time we’d be bombing flattish, yet treacherously icy, groomers like only real east coast OGs can.  The mountain was always nearly empty—I don’t remember ever waiting in lift lines at night, but I do remember the lift towers blasting Nirvana’s “Lithium” and the Spin Doctors’ “Two Princes”. By now, I was rocking a backwards Columbia baseball hat instead of a beanie thanks to Mr. Dexter Rutecki from a certain film, and skiing in jeans more often than not.  My dad bought me a pair of purple 157cm Atomics with neon orange graphics that I’d lock up with my very own Ski-Tote.  Basically, I was the truth in the booth, son. We’d head back to the truck around 9ish, and hit the same convenience store every time (Slim Jim and/or Andy Capp Hot Fries and a YooHoo. Booyah!) before heading home. On the way back I’d brag to my dad about how I didn’t fall even once, though I usually had, and I’d close my eyes and rest my head against the cold window.  I replayed my best runs over and over again in my head as my legs felt like they were still skiing. I’d fall asleep before we hit Philly.

A lot has changed since those early days of paralleling, unnecessarily abrupt hockey stops, and twisters, but much more has stayed the same—namely that when I’m skiing I want for nothing, and I love my dad.

 I’ll see you guys next week.

Me, learning to ski. Too melodramatic?

We at BroBomb have decided to wage war against “bro narration.” It must be stopped, or at least quieted. So we are going to search the internet for edits (skiing and otherwise) that communicate fun, passion, enjoyment, friendship, and whatever else those dopey voiceovers usually cover – but without ANY narration. You see, we believe in the fine art of cinema, and we believe that a real artist with a camera can SHOW these things, rather than blurt them out through cheap and inorganic monologues.

This week’s edit is “First Snow of the Year” by Ian Welty. It goes above and beyond by not even including a single human being, yet the excitement of a skier watching the first flakes fly is all over it. Enjoy.

If you’ve made (or will make) an edit that meets these criteria, then please send a link to: jon@brobomb.com If anybody decides to buy some ad space on this site and thus provides us with a budget, there might even be a small prize involved eventually (but more likely it’ll just be the satisfaction of getting props from some cool ass dudes!).

Take a second and check out the “Video of the Week” in the right-hand column. We’re gonna use it to showcase whatever video we’re obsessed with that week, whether it’s music, skiing, comedy, snowboarding, or anything in between. This week’s video come’s from Philly/NYC/NJ hip-hop radio DJ Ed Lover. He’s got a hilarious show called “C’mon Son.” Just watch that shit, it’s real good.

The regular daily features kick back into full gear on Tuesday with our Andy Parry interview about Traveling Circus and Fuel TV!

We’ve got big things coming up for the future. Here’s some stuff to look forward to:

• Exclusive interview with Andy Parry about the possibility of getting Traveling Circus on Fuel TV, and a little about what he’ll do once he’s famous!
• New video reviews of the Line poles and the much anticipated Moment Planks!
• My very writerly friend Chris is putting together a really cool multi-part story about life, adventures, skiing, and all that shit that goes on in between.

So again, thanks for reading and scroll down to vote and leave some damn comments!