SLALOM TO HELL

If ever I needed a reminder to stay off the slippery slopes of winter, the picture of a friend in a cast will do the trick. 

Tracy Mastaler (better know to fans of the blues as "Tracy K.") was born in Beausejour, Manitoba but now lives in Thunder Bay. A multi-talented lady, she plays a mean axe, wails on harp, sings like Janis Joplin, writes her own songs and apparently can't stay off a snowy hill to save her life.

I'm sure by now, she must be sick of hearing people like me say, "It's 'Break a leg!', girl. Not 'Break an arm!' "

She claims her injury is the natural consequence of skiing on a "Sleeping Giant" (the name for Thunder Bay's landmark, Sibley Peninsula). But Nature never had to prove to me that I don't belong on skis. I learned that on my own long ago.

It was shortly after I'd gotten engaged, so I blame romance for clouding my judgment. In any case, when friends invited Rae Katherine and me to a weekend of skiing in Wisconsin, I said, "Sure!"

You had to go to Wisconsin to find a hill high enough to slide down; and even there, they were hardly very high or intimidating.

I remember thinking that as I peered up the Beginner's Hill. I remember thinking, "How bad could it be to strap on a pair of long, wooden runners and glide down that?!" And then, for the next hour or so, I found out!

To begin with, I've never understood the logic of skiing - preferring sports that have a practical side or, at very least, a reasonable explanation for how they got started. 

I can see the logic of curling! I don't find it very hard to imagine some snow-bound Scot deciding to pass the time by playing shuffleboard with river stones and brooms on an icy lake. I can even see the sense of gluing handles to the stones to get a better grip.

But what I want to know is what demented ancient ancestor stood atop some snow-covered cliff and thought to himself, "You know, I think I'll cut down a couple of saplings, shave them flat, strap them to my feet and hurtle headlong down into that valley." 

Whoever he was, he was only outclassed by that other idiot who later decided to wax the saplings so he could make the trip even faster.

Then, there was the question of my equipment.

The skis were old and borrowed and didn't match my boots. So, I was advised to "take it easy" - a pointless warning, since I'd decided that well before we reached the resort.

In any case, I was kitted up, strapped to my skis and given a few basic instructions before being led to the tow rope.

"At least," I thought, "I won't have to clump to the top of the hill."

I grabbed the moving rope which burned through my gloves until I gripped it even tighter  and went lurching forward, face-first into the snow.

That should have been indication enough of what was to follow. But by that time, I'd succumbed to peer pressure and vowed to turn the chortles of other, younger beginners into "oooo's" and "ahhh's". 

I intended to command a certain level of respect. And so, I did! Before the afternoon was over, other skiers would see me preparing to start my run and flee in terror.

Even after I learned the purpose of those little cords hooked between boot and ski, the others still kept well clear of me on my descent - terrified that equipment would suddenly break loose and shoot off in every direction.

I ignored their glares and their shouts and convinced myself I was finally beginning to get the hang of semi-controlled, downhill tumbling - even if I did spend half of every run using my backside as a sort of third ski.

Then, on one particularly impressive dash, I found myself upright at last and doing a passable job of controlling my intense fear of speed. And I was just about to smile, when I looked ahead and saw that I was pointed straight at a long line of skis stuck in the snow by people who'd gone inside to enjoy the comforts of the lodge.

It didn't take much imagination to see what was about to happen - and directly in front of the spectators at the lodge's large windows, at that.

And in that horrifying instant, I made two decisions.

The first was to throw myself sideways and take a tumbling, punishing fall rather than strike that row of expensive gear. And the other was to end my day - and all thought of ever skiing again - right there and then.

And in spite of what others have told me about the wonders of the sport, I've never regretted either decision.

And while I may feel compelled to offer sympathy to Tracy and others who've suffered a similar fate, I'm not about to join them. And I'm not about to change my opinion that for me, hell is spelled with a "he" followed by a pair of skis.

SCHLEMMER SHOPPING

When my neighbours left last fall to spend the winter in Europe, they asked me to collect their mail. And part of my reward for this, they said, would be free access to their copies of NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC.

But I must admit I've never broken the wrapper on any of those - preferring, instead, to comb through the catalogs they receive from that most unusual of American retailers, Hammacher-Schlemmer.

Founded in New York in 1848, the company originally specialized in selling a hardware-hungry public such essentials as quality plumb bobs and saw bummers and quickly grew into a world-wide operation that has become known for "offering the best, the only and the unexpected for 162 years".

It's certainly safe to say that paging through their catalog is bound to produce the unexpected: items you never knew you needed, like a diving mask with built-in digital camera or the world's only 3D webcam or an Indoor Dog Restroom.

You'll come across a pair of electronic earmuffs, a hands-free, steering-wheel-mounted speakerphone and even an ultrasonic jewelery cleaner - which has to make you wonder who comes up with these things and what motivation lies behind their ideas. I mean, did someone suddenly think, "You know, I'm really tired of having to clean my jewelery by hand! Why don't I see if I can find a way to do it with sound waves?"

However the inventors manage it, there's almost no aspect of life that's been overlooked by the folks at H-S. 

They will sell you a laser-guided pool cue, a perpetually-rotating globe which uses light and the earth's magnetic pull to operate or a life-size, working version of Robbie The Robot from the 50's sci-fi thriller, FORBIDDEN PLANET.

Of course, I'm never likely to own any of those things (or even see them in operation), since I'm only a window shopper in the Great Mall of Life.

I suppose I got that way by perusing the catalogs my grandmother used to get to shop for prizes for the Martha Club booth at her parish Fall Fair. Reading them taught me that, however rare or unusual the item, there's always someone willing to sell it to you - and that, however unlikely the chance you'd ever buy one, reading its description and checking its price can offer hours of cheap and educational entertainment.

Later in life, I learned to pass those long winter days waiting for the first fishing trip of spring by poring over volumes of sporting goods paraphernalia. And the whole voyeuristic process seemed to culminate when I discovered the delights of that consummate collection of 1960's Counter Culture, THE WHOLE EARTH CATALOG which not only listed goods for sale but contained many bits of free information and suggestions on ways to get more.

Then, one day, the very concept of printed catalogs seemed to be under threat - something my friend, the local postmaster cheered, since the mere mention of Sears was enough to remind him of the hernia he'd acquired delivering them.  Sears and Eatons announced they wouldn't be publishing catalogs any more. And as PCs became popular, more and more retailers posted their goods for sale on the net.

But it's just not the same! Aficionados know that nothing can ever replace the delight of thumbing through the glossy pages of a good paper catalog. And it appears that Hammacher-Schlemmer understands that.

So, I send them a tip of the hat - if not an order. And I remind them that an important part of their function in this world is to entertain those of us who aren't likely to be customers. 

Because in the end, we can be the best promoters of their products. And if you don't believe that... well, hasn't reading this got you wondering how much a pair of spring-loaded walking shoes might set you back?

I AM, THEREFORE I THINK

There came a time when I was still in university that I had to make a choice: major in English or Philosophy. And since I liked to think as much as I liked to write (and since I absolutely despised the head of the English Department), the choice seemed simple.

Besides, I had no intention of getting my degree anyway. After all, I was learning more working for a film distributor than at the classes I nipped out to attend at nearby Loyola. And the real reason for going to those was to keep from going to Vietnam.

Now, you didn't see a lot of job openings in the paper for philosophers, so most of the people I met in class were obviously headed for employment at other universities teaching other people who wanted to teach philosophy in other universities... and so on and so on.

But there were a few, more interesting people - like Ilka, the tall, Teutonic blonde who introduced me to the crazies in Loyola's Drama Department or that dark-eyed girl who moonlighted at a restaurant on the other side of Michigan Avenue as a waitress and belly-dancer. 

Still, on the whole, the philosophers-in-training were a pretty boring lot.

If I'd expected stimulating discussion and debate, I was sadly mistaken. And when one of those sullen note-takers did catch fire from some spark the professor had generated, it could prove to be more of a nuisance than anything else. 

I remember one character whingeing on about the problem of identity. 

"Who am I?" he'd moan, obviously never expecting an answer but perfectly willing to share the pain of his doubt with the rest of us. "I mean, who am I?!"

This went on for a number of days, until I could stand no more.

"You really want to know?" I finally asked him. And he looked shocked that I should even try to tackle such a weighty issue but managed to nod his assent.

I leaned close and spoke in a whisper.

"You're the one who's asking 'Who am I?' And now that we've settled that, will you please shut up!"

It may have been the most profound bit of philosophizing I ever did, but I will admit it's not the best philosophical argument I've heard. That was delivered by a professor at the seminary, an evil old bully named McPharland (who naturally became known as "Spanky").

Spanky liked to pace the floor with his thumbs stuck proudly in his Jesuit sash (which I always thought was meant to keep their knuckles from getting scratched on the floor). And he'd purse his lips and drone on in Latin (as if we didn't have enough to worry about!). He'd carefully explain the tenets of each new branch of philosophical thought and then gleefully demolish them with cunning arguments.

And we'd sit and take notes and wait for the day when he'd get to the subject of Solipsism, that school of thought which insists that nothing exists outside the thinker's mind, that what we call reality is nothing more than a product of our own imagination. 

"Let him try to argue with them!" we thought.

But when the day came, Spanky surprised us all by suddenly slipping into English to tell a remarkable story.

He and a friend (a professor at the University of Chicago and an avowed solipsist) were having lunch at the Palmer House. And when the waiter brought them their martinis, Spanky calmly reached across the table, picked up his friend's drink, drank it down, then started in on his own.

His friend sat in stunned silence for a minute or two before demanding, "What the devil do you think you're doing?!"

To which Spanky calmly replied, "Don't ask me! You're the one who's making all this up."

It is the only thing I remember of all the things he said, because (I think) it's the only thing he ever said that was worth remembering. And in the years that followed, I've used that line of argument to great effect.

I've met my share of philosophers, too - and in some of the strangest places: at a tiny, rural post office, behind the wheel of a cab and over the counter of a diner, just to name a few.  In fact, you might say that some of my best friends are philosophers.

And if you were considering becoming one yourself, there are one or two things you should remember. 

You're going to have to develop some sort of camouflage to hide your work. And you'll have to have another source of income, as well. 


Because, as we all should know by now, thinking rarely pays. And it can be very dangerous.