X: 3/3/03

Work Diary, 3/3/03

I hate the cold, which begs the question: What am I doing in a hotel
room at the bottom of a ski slope, two miles closer to outer space
where even my cigarettes have trouble emitting heat? Ostensibly I'm
here to write while my partner snowboards. He has the whole kit,
including a board, big boots, and a huge blue helmet that makes him
look like a suffocated Charlie Brown. I haven't hurled myself down ice
for years, unless you count that time last week when I forgot to shovel
the walk and had to throw salt on all of the ice that formed when
people marched across the walk anyway and packed the snow down, even
though the neighbor across the street had shoveled his walk and it was
clear of ice and far safer for pedestrians.

But I digress. My point is, I don't enjoy winter sports (actually I
don't enjoy any sports, believing in my heart that all sports should be
outlawed, thus taking millions of dollars out of the pockets of sports
"personalities" and giving them over to education). My partner's
getting into snowboarding, though, and that's all that matters. It
keeps him out of my hair while I try to write.

Our hotel resembles a dormitory on a college campus that's pressed for
space. We have a Deluxe Suite on the second floor. There are six floors
above us. I believe our room is called "deluxe" because the bedspread
is a faux red brocade. Also there's some almond-scented hand lotion in
the bathroom. Outside of our room it's a labyrinth of narrow hallways,
unmarked doors, and diagonal walls. To get into the hotel itself, you
pass your plastic room key through a sensor; I accidentally used my
credit card and the doors opened anyway. So, if you have a Platinum
Visa from Citibank, consider this hotel your oyster.

For lunch we ate in a noisy - but good - restaurant staffed by husky
voiced sorority chicks. Ski areas have a knack for finding these girls
by the dozens. Blond, pierced, thin-waisted, big-breasted girls - all
of a type, each and every one a psychology major at the local diploma
factory.

Not to worry - I am an equal opportunity mocker. Now it's the boys'
turn. Theirs is a world of cookie cutter goatees, wild hair, and dudes.
They are never lonely; every male stranger is a new friend named
"Dude." Their goal is to snowboard recklessly throughout the day, then
drink until charges of date rape bring in the morning. They're awfully
cute, and therein lies the danger.

In a moment, we will don our swimsuits and head for the hot tub. I
can't imagine what we'll find. It's only seven o'clock but it's also
Friday, with nowhere to go but the hot tub. Hold on, I'll tell you
about it in a minute?

?Okay, I'm back. Nothing but two large hairy men, a woman who needs to
reconsider her choice in swimsuits, and three pale, prepubescent boys
who clearly watch a lot of television. I'm disappointed; I was hoping
to witness some drunken mating rituals. Ah, well, perhaps I can work on
my own.

Tomorrow I'll find a spot where I can plug in my laptop and try to
churn out a couple of chapters. I'll tell any small children I meet
that those bumps on the ski slopes - the moguls - are actually kids who
didn't listen to their parents. Then I'll write and write. I'm getting
to the point where I'm ready to sit down and start organizing my book;
by the end of spring, I should have a rough draft ready to hand out.
This makes me nervous. I'm waiting for the excitement to kick in, but
instead I picture friends and family reading my words, frowning and
shaking their heads. They'd better not, though. I mean, just look what
I have to put up with to get the damn thing done.