Woke up at a decent time. Felt good and rested. No hangover to speak of. A success. Hopped the big roads down to the airport. Found myself unimpressed by that part of the metro area. Very nondescript surroundings. Secured Big S in the parking lot and started in on the hike to the gate. Got lost a couple times. Had to catch a shuttle to another terminal. No problems with security. A smooth flight out to the Rockie Mountains. Met up with the colleagues from Snowboard mag. Waited around in the airport some. Got a rental. Split up to Boulder, laughing, wondering, speculating. Denver glimmered in the distance, with black mountain peaks some distance past the skyline. Loaded into our hotels with little trouble. Walked the downtown stretch in search of grub. Only thing open was the Cheesecake Factory. Hmmm. Our first time.

Downtown Boulder, much like any earthy, painfully eclectic Western apres’ ski/college town offered up a handful of “local businesses with a dog reference in their name.” Fuckers. I called it ahead of time, with confidence. I mean, of course. Take any western town, add some sort of mountain schtick to it and you are gonna get yer share of “Waggin’ Tail Ale” and “Dog Dick Dan’s Java Hut” or whatever. So predictable. Not a block into Boulder and we’re standing in front of the “Lazy Dog Saloon.” I was ready to fight. Then there was the out-on-a-limb offering of the “Flying Dog Brewpub.” You guys are wild. Fuckers.

I own a dachshund. He ain’t worth a shit. He doesn’t save people in mountains. He doesn’t call 911 when I fall and break a hip. He barks. He isn’t named after a mountain range or some obscure Native American word. We’re gonna keep it that way.

Went to bed grumbling some. Only for a bit. Fell asleep reading about “men dying from Cholera on the sun-baked, open plains of New Mexico.” You know, upbeat “Western” shit like that.