Yeah, been quiet. Busy March. Something about March, and just around the kids’ break: it usually is.

I’m in Tremblant, mostly coaching and working. Working because, well, March, and such is the rhythm of the business, I guess…

Coaching: yeah, well, my daughter asked if I could teach her to snowboard.

She’s doing really well. Managed some four blue runs down the mountain today, the last group from peak to base, no falls. Which is saying something for someone who’s been on the board some four days total, and it’s one of those hard-pack days, bits of ice. Not easy when you’ve only two edges, and can only ever use one (and the correct one, at any given time, if you wish to continue to live), and you’re new at this. So: I’m impressed..

Anyway. And then this evening rolled around and in the adjacent place there were partying college-age types. Not really obnoxious, but there was dance music, playing quiet but just loud enough—at that low, subsonic thumpa thumpa—that Yours Insomniac Truly really couldn’t practically sleep, and never mind everyone else seemed to be managing. Guess I can’t so much blame them, it being Saint Drinking Weekend and all, but y’know: if you can’t sleep, you can’t…

And hey. It had been a long week, and me with little me time over its course. So I figured, hell, let’s give up on the lying here trying not to notice the bass for a bit, go out, just have a brew at my favourite place, see if when I come back in an hour or two if it’s still thumpa thumpa next door. So I put a few logs on the fire, do the dishes quietly enough to avoid waking those sleeping, slip out into the minus fifteen…

Yes, minus fifteen. Weird March break it’s been, up and down, but at least less downright bizarre than last year’s plus twenty, and now, at least, it’s back down to something approaching seasonal…

So I get through that kinda welcomely, familiarly frigid air, get to the place, sit at the bar, have an ale, read some Ingersoll for a bit…

Good for the sanity, Ingersoll, I find, especially with papal conclaves all over the news and the usual froth of silliness from the usual suspects making headlines with sporadic outbursts of what the hell is that anyway. Was Chavez the twelfth imam? Or did they merely have one another’s business cards? It isn’t quite clear (or no more so than is most theology) but still, we are… amused. I think the word is amused, here. Other words are less fit to print. Not, I suppose, that this ever really stopped me.

Good for the sanity indeed…
They found that the ghosts knew nothing of benefit to man; that they were utterly ignorant of geology—of astronomy—of geography;—that they knew nothing of history;—that they were poor doctors and worse surgeons;—that they knew nothing of law and less of justice; that they were without brains, and utterly destitute of hearts; that they knew nothing of the rights of men; that they were despisers of women, the haters of progress, the enemies of science, and the destroyers of liberty.

Tell it, brother. That’s from Ghosts, for the record. Happened to be on my phone, at the time…

Bar was a weird scene, tho’. Turns out there’s this Ultimate Fighting thing on this eve, and the heavier than usual Y-chromosome dominance in the place is probably due this event. It’s up on all the flatscreens: two guys pounding the hell out of each other. Or more the one, pounding the hell out of the other… As I left, the local favourite (thing was in Montréal, apparently, and it was a US and Canadian fighter behind the chain link mesh that apparently marks the ring in these things) was dominating… And in the place, this is no sideshow: they turn up the volume, and everyone’s watching, intently.

And it’s a bit… Bizarre, watching this. Not so much the bout as the audience…

They’re into it. Intensely. With focus. With passion. At one point the local boy’s got the hated enemy on the mat, gets a knee into the poor bastard’s abdomen and all this crowd natty in high-end alpine outerwear are nothing short of wild with a delight that seems heavily underscored with an almost celebratory viciousness. There’s this tint of something pheromonal in the air. And hell, I can feel my own nostrils flaring… Even getting slightly edgy about the flavour of all this… Like geez, sure, this is a pretty well-heeled crowd, and sure, I guess I get this is all sublimation and living vicariously, in this company… Pretty damned unlikely anyone here is gonna throw a punch of their own.

But still, man, that bloodlust, you can practically taste it. It’s like it smells like a brawl in here.

It’s not so much a revelation or nothing. I mean, I guess it’s something I always knew about us slightly more hairless-than-other-chimps: we’re never that far from the edge of claws and teeth and blows, and these are ubiquitous human passions. Watch any crowd at a hockey game, you see the same undisguised hunger for bruising and pain…

Still. A mite alarming, when it’s a room full of that stuff.

I went home. Gonna have to get to sleep, now. Aerials to attempt in the morning…

I’m guessing from the noises the neighbours were making when I returned, however, the local boy prevailed.