Sweet F@#k all. Guest post by Allie Jenkinson
by Mike on August 19, 2009
Last winter, on deadline and overworked, I hired my own fiance to write my long-running editorial column in the magazine I was running at the time, SBC SKIER magazine. With a deft pen and acidic wit, she lampooned my style and my recurring ski-bum-with-a-love-for-all-things-boozey-and-promiscuous theme. The following is her attempt at emulating my writing. She must have nailed it because I haven’t heard the end of it from friends, family and (all 7 of) my writing fans. You can find her HERE.
The simple act of living requires many small, irritating tasks. There’s always something you should be doing beyond what you’re actually doing. Who hasn’t experienced the pang of obligation tainting an otherwise pure and joyous experience? I, too, readers, know this feeling. These small hiccups, tasks that should be accessory but manage to shove their way into priority, are the shit-fly in my otherwise soupy existence. I’ve never had much patience with the monotony of day-to-day life. Paying bills, grocery shopping, earning a living, washing underwear. These chores leave too little time for more worthy pursuits. The connection between this existential imagery and skiing is clear. To me. These things suck, but skiing is so good!
Standing in line at the bank, SBC pay-cheque in hand (that’s three zeros, bitches) I shuffle through the roped off area required of me. Under harsh lighting and the watchful eye of security cameras, my mind wanders. I can’t help wondering if the old man in front of me has ever had first tracks, or if the kids behind will ever experience living in squalor in a ski town before the reality of normal life sets in. Could the guy at the ATM know the joy of recounting an epic ski day while recovering from shinbang? Does the security guard know what it feels like to throw a pair of toxin-laden skis on a bonfire? And has the hot chick behind me ever hooked up with a skier? I, of course, have done all of these things and more. Helloooo, do any of these people even care about freshies?
My girlfriend, coworkers, and doctor think I have attention deficit disorder, but the truth is that I am simply passionate about life. How can I be expected to devote time to bathing when I’ve skied Chamonix? How can I do my own dishes and take out the garbage when I’ve actually hung out with Glen Plake? Christmas Shopping? Uh… well, I can do a Back Flip.
Don’t get me wrong; my life hasn’t been all gravy. Devoting yourself to a life of skiing means endless sacrifice.
I’ve had to deal with years of one-night stands, low-responsibility jobs, crushing hangovers and starting the car when it’s really, really cold!
But now that I’ve paid my dues I feel I can just kick back, enjoy, and write about how hard it all was; I don’t owe anyone anything, but I’m sure gonna let them know that. Powder, glades, faceshots, rails! You’re a skier and I’m a skier- that’s how I know you know what I’m talking about.
You have to keep an eye on priorities and be uncompromising, because things have a way of sneaking up on you, and the little things take over. One day you agree to hold your wife’s purse at the mall and the next day you’re living in suburban Toronto with eight kids, giving your skis away in order to make room in the garage for her… whatever that thing is. I insist on consciously critiquing my lifestyle for fear of waking up one day in my 50’s and realizing my persona is more William F. Buckley than Hunter S. Thompson. Ladies and gentlemen, I, Mike Berard, am fighting the good fight.
Approaching the teller, my balls glow with the reverie of past experiences and the knowledge that when I’m not running errands, I’m living life to the fullest, carpe diem yo, making each moment count. With skiing- because I have sweet fuck-all else! -Allie Jenkinson
Due to time constraints and and intense dedication to the issue’s weird theme, Mike Berard’s life partner was commissioned to write this tribute to his inimitable style and insufferably repetitive subject matter with the intention of outing him as a one-trick pony of existential literary ski wanderings. Apparently, she says, it was surprisingly easy.
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