He deals them off, off of the topTies them offFills it upWith his past, gets carried awayHe fills it up with the thought of the girl

New Year's was cool. Both the Eve and the Day.



We had dinner with the Bells'. (Everytime I type that I say to myself "Bellseses," like nasty, fat, hobbitsess.) Bells' parents were here for Christmas, and they took Aden for a few weeks on a road trip. We've taken Aden for an afternoon or two, and Alicia's parents had him for a couple days, and Christopher's parents took him for a day or so... but this is the first time in three years (it is Aden's birthday today, by the way) that they have been apart from him for more than that two day period. id.



We went out to a realllly nice dinner, and then back to the casa de Dude to abide further, have some drinks and play some music.



Last week, I bought the Beatles Anthology, which is a 5 disc overview of their whole career. It's freaking awesome. My favorite is the last disc, where the group is falling apart, they hate each other, barely speaking and they are cranking out stuff like this:



I made several unspeakable New Year's Resolutions (read: funny/sexual/easy to achieve... in fact, here it is, 1/1/2008, and I've already checked one off. Yay me.)



One mentionable is that I resolved to learn that song ^^ and work it into something really cool for the Mitten. I just wish I could sing better.



I also have resolved to not only learn and perform "Why Don't We Do It In The Road? but also to actually Do It In The Road. (No one will be watching us.) Again, yay me. Achievable goals. Aim low. That way, you will never be disappointed.



I know it is easy to hate the Beatles, but, Lordy, that is an awesome song. Check out Ringo's jacket. And George's jacket/pants combo.



Also, I had a dream in which Billy Preston (the black dude laying down the sweet Hammond organ) was set up in the corner of my living room, like a bartender, except with keyboards and an organ, just walled off in the corner. And when I went down to get coffee in the morning, he would just start laying down some sweet riffs. Then later, we'd be watching a movie, or entertaining some guests, and he would just be ripping out a Hammond soundtrack to our lives.



I woke up excited that it was actually true. Except, I am pretty sure Billy Preston is dead, and if he isn't, I fear he has better things to do than live in the corner of my living room, entertaining me. Not that my living room isn't a pretty kickass place to hang out. I mean, I've got a plasma, a sweet seven speaker system and a choice music collection. Plus, Stanette can cook like a motherfucker. Besides, Led Zeppelin may be coming through and exploring the studio space.



(Billy Preston, if you're alive, which is doubtful... I'm too lazy to check wikipedia... call me. Or have your people call my people. I have an offer for you.)



Speaking of having my people calling your people, I went up to Big Sky today to shake off the cobwebs and throw some air. Stanette hung out in the lodge and I did my thing on the slopes. I was flying solo, riding alone on the chairlift and the slopes, with a laser-like focus on the 2008 Big Air Competition. There were no lift lines, and I was riding a quad chairlift.



All of the sudden this dude crept up and slipped onto my chair. It's nice to talk to people and everything, but when the chair is empty and there is no line, and an empty string of chairs ahead and behind, it's just kind of gay to plop down and join somebody. It's akin to walking into an empty men's room in an airport, with a row of 20 urinals to choose from and deciding to piss right next to the only guy in there.



Not that I have anything against the gays. In fact, I love the gays. My mom is a certified fag-hag, and I have a couple of awesome gay "uncles." (Hi Tom! Hi Rudy!) It was just weird.

(Why did that last paragraph feel like one of those "some of my best friends are black!" statements?)

((By the way, I don't even really know any black people. I have spent the last 13 years in Beaver Dam, Wisconsin, and Bozeman, Monatana. There are brown people, and red... but no black people in either of those places. True story. The blacks don't like the ice and snow. The browns will come up during the summer to work. And the red folks don't have a choice. They're stuck with a bunch of beads and shiny bits, saying, "Fuck. We traded Manhattan for this? I repeat: Fuck."))

Sorry if that was offensive, but I am pretty sure only white, heterosexual people read this blog, so who cares?



(((Did I forget anyone? Oh yeah, the Jews... Jesus killers. And Eskimos. Fuck those blubber-eating assholes.)))



It turned out that this guy is out from L.A., and he is the head of Fox Studios.



Nice connection to make on a chairlift.

So, to bring this full circle (and what a fucking circle ... if you aren't either mortified or laughing your ass off, there's something wrong with you. Or you're Chinese. Whatever.), Stanette and I went to the mountain, and left Chris and Alicia at the house this morning. It was sweet, like they were on their honeymoon. They were limp wet noodles, sacked out on the purple couch. I guess they watched two discs worth of Planet Earth (4+ hours, and freaking incredible... put it on your netflix.), played with the computer and Chris watched Snatch.

It was cool. It felt like they were taking a vacation in my house.

Hey, for serious, I love you guys, and thanks for coming by and abiding.

I've got a feeling, a feeling deep insideOh yeah

I once had something that I enjoyed. I was young. Naive. I thought it was all mine, and only mine.

I'm so tired.

I wonder should I get up and fix myself a drink.

My mind is on the blink. It's no joke, it's doing me harm. You know I can't sleep. I can't stop my brain, you know, it's three weeks. I'm going insane.

You know I'd give you everything I've got for a little peace of mind.

I finally feel better. I went snowboarding on Sunday and just knocked it out of me. See, I located the site for the Big Air Championship, 2008. As the reigning 2007 champion, it is my prerogative to situate this year's contest in a Joe-friendly locale. So I did.



My first run at it, I shot it at a relatively high rate of speed and, naturally, I misjudged the landing.

The jump itself was a thing of beauty and grace. Without exaggeration, I went about 20 feet. I launched and soared like a magnificent vulture. For a second.



Exhilaration took hold as I realized the drop underneath the jump was much steeper than I had anticipated. Hence the 20 feet of air prior to landing.

And I use the term, "landing" liberally, and with utter disregard for the traditional usage of the word.

"Crater," "explosion," "napalm," "Nagasaki," "rag doll" and/or "ass-over-teakettle" seem more appropriate.

The best part is that I did it underneath the chairlift, eliciting cheers, and probably tears, of utter joy.



Happy New Year.

Bells, it's on like Donkey Kong in '08. I'm gonna fly like an eagle, let my spirit carry me... right to the Big Air Crown. Again.