“In darkness, there is light”
~ Henerishi
Lost expectations can be a drag, of course. However, the upside of having my Dodgers, Trojans, and Rams perform so dismally in recent weeks has allowed me to feed my reading habit with much more fervor and focus.
For a good while, now, I’ve come to deal with depressing outcomes in the sporting world by boycotting my favorite media outlets. Oh sure, I’d love to see those highlights one more time of all 11 missed tackles improvised by my lads dancing like St. Vitus on the defensive side of the ball. In fact, put it on a loop!
And, please, if you’re able to dig them out of your greatest blooper compilations, how about throwing in an assortment of our longtime ace serving up gopherballs down the middle of the plate during crunch time. And, if that gets too boring, you can always throw in a random assortment of our quarterbacks trembling in the fetal position.
Where once I drifted off to bleary images of home-run trots and QBs hitting wideouts, of late it’s been the likes of Edward Abbey’s “Confessions of a Barbarian,” Jim Harrison’s “Selected & New Poems 1961—1981,” and Ernest Hemingway’s “The Complete Short Stories.”
The four of us, all vying for geographic entitlement upon limited space, share the bed each night – a situation that should last at least until “wait ‘til next year” arrives. Heavy “thuds” announce any accidental jettisons during the overnight darkness.
Lately, it seems, I choose to remain unconscious right on through the commotion – content, as a favor to my friends down in forensics to draw chalk outlines around the corpses of the hardbound volumes, as, the following morning, I slosh coffee about the crime scene.
Being a creature of habit, upon arising each day, the first thing that crosses my mind is our POTUS, Big Orange, and which assaults on decency he may have come up with during his early morning Brazilian full-body wax. The second thing is which of my teams remain in intensive care and which are currently scheduled for lobotomies.
This past weekend, along with a couple of quite-close friends, I was fortunate to find myself enveloped in the restorative glow of Sundance Resort. And, wouldn’t you know it, right out of the chute, with no warning at all, another lost expectation occurred. The true horror and unjustness of the situation unfolded without preamble.
As I perused the lunch menu at the wondrous Owl Bar, it became quickly evident that their world-renowned tortilla soup was nowhere to be found. Whether or not I actually began to tremble, we’ll let pass. An inquiry concerning the plausibility that the soup might be “out of season,” ensued. A reply in the affirmative followed suit.
With that newly acquired knowledge, I realized a nefarious plot, targeting whatever post-Dodger playoff stability remained, as nothing more than the work of rampant paranoia. Having previously witnessed Kershaw’s breaking pitches being obviously out of season only a week earlier, I accepted the response in the spirit it was offered.
Both in lieu of and in response to such a state of affairs, I ordered two Moscow mules. Actually, having also boycotted all things Russian since that rumor of Vladimir and Donald began to circulate, I switched the order to two Jalisco Mules. Tequila might not be just for lunch anymore, but it continues to walk the walk.
I quickly made a mental note to check on the current seasonal availability of Deer Valley’s awesome turkey chili. (There exists a sense here of the neurotic grasping to gain at least a finger-hold upon the hem of the psychotic). But, remembering that it’s always been there for me year-around, I deleted that unnecessary chore from an already overworked hard-drive.
Although each, in the vernacular of Hawaiian Pidgin, “break ya jaw, brah,” they really shouldn’t be compared. They are separate wonders holding individual distinctions.
A calmness, of sorts, began to return. Until, that is, I spotted my amygdala and hippocampus sharing an adjacent table. In unison, they winked at me. Obviously, they were in cahoots.
As past memories of fear and anxiety began dragging me once again into the abyss of darkness, a door burst open. Rather than a dame with a gun, as in most noire narratives, however, the inspiring and delightful pleasures of Sundance Resort with its blue sky, tall conifers, and rushing water re-emerged to reclaim me. I’m back! Just, wait ‘till next year!
Jay Meehan is a culture junkie and has been an observer, participant, and chronicler of the Park City and Wasatch County social and political scenes for more than 40 years.