This feels like it's been a regular occurrence, but once again, apologies for the silence. I've been out of town since Friday up in the snowy mountains of California enjoying the spoils of knowing people who know people who have nice things. In this case it was a way too fancy cabin up in Tahoe. As I am currently healthcare-less and therefore not trying to do anything that might leave me injured but short of dead, I didn't hit the slopes. I hit the bar.
As if that should shock you.
So imagine my confusement (that's totally a word, right?) when I woke up dehydrated, groggy, and breathing thin mountain air to check the weekend's scores only to find this:
At first I thought it was the lack of oxygen. I must be hallucinating. Then I thought it was a weird dream where Ernie and Kleybs were celebrating the invention of some new sex toy I hadn't heard about. And then I thought, "Calm down. Head back to the safe sea-level confines of San Francisco, drink a shitload of Gatorade, and get your head right. Things can't be what they seem."
BUT THEY WERE.