Happy St. Patrick’s Day: I’m In One Piece

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Me on the slopes

THE BOTTOM OF THE MOUNTAIN – The groom’s brother was a wreck. He could barely move. All of thirty years-old, he stiffly hobbled about the 1990s condo that passed for a ski chalet like a man twice his age trying to recover from back surgery.

I took it as an omen.

In the last post I talked about the quandary that confronted me: to ski or not to ski? The quick rehash is that I’m performing a wedding ceremony for a couple in May, and so the groom invited to the bachelor party high atop a mountain in West Virginia. What to do? Should I get out on the slopes, even though I’m rusty and was never that good on skis, or do I maximize the other aspects of a bachelor party?

I didn’t ski.

I know, I know, just another sign that I’m a pathetic 40-something who’s watching all the joy in life evaporate. And I’m okay with that, quite frankly.

Kinda like this, but without the women

Maybe that’s not what I’m supposed to say. Maybe I should follow American popular culture’s bizarre dictum by vaingloriously holding onto every fading vestige of youth. Maybe I should pop a Viagra and tumble down the slopes into the arms of a ski bunny half my age.  But hell with it.

This body just doesn’t work the way it used (not that it ever worked all that well to begin with), and so be it. That’s the nature of life.

So instead, I spent most of my time drinking beer and scotch, and soaking in the outdoor hot tub. There’s was also a nice dinner on our second night. I had the scallops and some good red wine.

For physical activity, I went for a nice walk around the mountain. I refuse to call it a “hike.” Unless you’re rappelling down the side of a boulder, it’s not a hike. It’s just a goddamn walk. I don’t know why people make such a big deal out of it, buying “gear” and packing “supplies” to go walking. It’s okay, ya know, somehow I think I can manage to walk for a few hours without having to eat granola and drink water from neolene bottle strapped to by belt.

Look into my eyes and tell me what you see

It was nice. I saw a deer. We had a staring contest. The deer won, of course, but not because I stopped staring first. He stopped staring first, but the reason he stopped is because he realized I was a loser. And then he went back to munching on the lawn.

Goddamn deer.

Anyway, it’s time for the NCAA tournament, and I’m feeling good. I hit 14/16 on Thursday, and I seem to be doing about as well on Friday as I write this column. I’ve got Michigan State over Ohio State in the final.

Christ, what was I thinking?

Cheesy O'Bruin & The McMatts

Thankfully, Cheesy Bruin, who was in pretty rough shape this time last year, is here tomorrow to offer you a much more realistic take on sports and March Madness.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day.

 

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Mattville's George Plimpton, The Public Professor, is indeed a real, honest-to-goodness, legitimate professor at a major Maryland university. But because he doesn't have a cell phone or cable, he's crazy enough to be with us. A member of Angry Ward's Urban Spur Posse, the terrorized Bronx graffiti artist's by correcting their grammar. His loves? The Yankees, Knicks, NY Rangers and the Pittsburgh Steelers. He also has a real website: ThePublicProfessor.com (http://www.thepublicprofessor.com/).

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