Chick’s dig ski bums. Actually, seeing as how I can’t ski, that statement could be broadened to include the entire Bum Nation. It’s truly heartachingly beautiful to see a gal go from standoffish and disinterested to biting her bottom lip when she learns that you’re on a journey of self-discovery with no real destination. Seriously, “I’ve been sleeping in my car for five days” is the new “What’s your sign?”—provided of course that your car is niceish, you can grow a legit ginger beard, and you show up at hipster clubs and spit game to chicks that voted for Obama and/or have an ironic tattoo. You can practically see the “My parents will hate you…swooooooon” thought bubble appear just above their dramatic bangs. They really don’t stand a chance.

 If you haven’t yet noticed, this is another post that has roughly zero relevancy to skiing, but I managed to throw “ski” into sentence numero uno. Count it. I fear that my “column” is going to turn into a Livejournal, but I suppose my recounting of bizarre happenings will be more interesting than hearing me lament my season ending injury again. I suppose. To clarify, I still intend to lament out loud about my knee and surgery, but my aim will be to inform and encourage fellow sufferers. So, I’m going to tell a couple of stories now not even remotely on the topic of skiing.

 Story 1:

 I woke up in my car at the intersection of NE something and NE 7th Ave in Portland at about 2:30am. It was raining and windy, surprise! Understand this, I never get up to pee in the middle of the night. I slept through a New Kids On The Block concert when I was 5, a full bladder ain’t gonna wake me up if “The Right Stuff” won’t. However, on this rainy night, I had to pee. I debated getting out of the car in nothing but boxers, but I figured if I got arrested for public urination, I’d like to be at least partially clothed—being barefoot in jail is not an option. So I threw on a t-shirt (pssh, I’ll be outside for 30 seconds), my jeans, and some sneaks- sans socks. I climbed into the front seat and hopped out of the passenger side door and in one incredibly fluid, graceful motion I locked my door with the same confidence and nonchalance with which NFL wide receivers shoot themselves in nightclubs. That was a clunky and awkward sentence, but editing and proofreading is for posers (and Jon).

 I knew what had happened before the door had even shut. I didn’t have to pee anymore. I slapped my pockets and let out a sigh of relief before I pulled my cellphone out of my pocket and proceeded to press the end call button over and over again fully expecting this maneuver to unlock my car. It didn’t…weird, right? I then spotted my silver kwikset house key shimmering alongside my head lamp and stuff sack pillow in my trunk. I considered crying and calling my mommy, but rather decided to pretend to be a grownup and called a locksmith. Jon was kind enough to point out the lunacy of driving aimlessly around the western US without AAA the following morning. It was helpful.

 The next hour went like this: Dial 411, get connected to a locksmith, listen to the phone ring endlessly, repeat. I did manage to get hold of someone eventually, and I waited for the man of questionable ethnicity and mastery of the Amurican language in a doorway of some building hugging my knees to my chest and shivering. He showed up, chipper as can be, and proceeded to get my car unlocked in less than 90 seconds. He neglected to mention that his credit card machine was down, so I was forced to follow him to an ATM. In retrospect, I should have dipsetted on him. It worked out though because I neglected to mention that I’m broke and couldn’t afford his fee in cash. I shorted him and we called it even. His face. Being a hobo isn’t all the glitz and glamour of hipster chicks with loose morals and wi-fi coffee shops.

 I realize that’s just one story, but I have to save the reeeaaally good stories for my book/movie. What? I’m white…I’ve been working on my autobiography since I was 7. Plus, that’s 711 words of pure gold right there, and I ain’t getting paid so that’s all for now.

 I swear on my moms and them that I have a cool article in the works about a fellow snowsports blog that happens to be headquartered in Portland, so be on the look out for that in the next couple of days. Possibly even a video…

Before afterbang, no poles, tight pants, tall T’s, Tom Wallisch’s facial hair, or the merits of Full Tilts were the topics du jour, there was the debate over whether skiing had lost its soul. There were articles in the major magazines, and more importantly there were endless threads on everyone’s favorite forum for the masses. My search for old NS threads was thwarted by the prevalence of “soulja boy” and “plenty soul” topics that have pushed the old “soul” threads out of the searchable archive. A Google search provides some archaeological evidence that the topic was hot around 2004-05, including a major mag that went to Mad River Glen and Mt. Bohemia to search for the lost soul.

As I remember it, the debate centered around whether newschool was true to the old soul of skiing. Some said that it was an obvious descendant of the freestylers and big mountain pioneers of yore. Others lamented the obsession with outerwear, gorilla steeze (remember that?), and artificial terrain parks. The youth had lost the soul.

The topic has largely disappeared from magazines and ski sites. Does this mean that the soul was laid to rest around 2005? Or was the hullabaloo just an old generation dying, and a new one picking up the torch? Have we proven ourselves to have soul? I think there’s a lot to say either way. Take a second and vote…but if you’ve got more to say then just drop in a comment. We’d love to hear the state of the issue as you see it.