It was fifteen minutes before Killington lifts closed and less than a dozen skiers total were still scratching the frozen boilerplate. As I was going to load the lift, a fellow skier rushed in to get on the same chair. He was in his late fifties, with a ruddy face and a swollen nose of a borderline alcoholic. He radiated cheerfulness and energy throughout the flat light of the incoming dusk. We started chatting.
He was from Finland, had an a lovely ex-girlfriend from St Petersburg because all Finn girls were the same but Russians were different. He was quite embarrassed because he started skiing only at 2pm. See, he was partying all night with his friends and his amazing new girlfriend from Honduras and he just woke up. He pulled a beer can out of a pocket and offered it to me. I politely refused and he emptied it in a few gulps. Feeling better, still a bit of hangover, he laughed. We got off the lift and skied down yellow and white ice of black Superstar slope; I could barely keep up with him. We jumped on the last lift. The Finn pulled a beer bottle out of another pocket and finished it in a few seconds with a contended sigh. We chatted about Finnish-USSR war of 1939 and annoying visa issues visiting St Petersburg from Finland, cause people were the same on both sides of the border, but drinking was better at St Petersburg. Again, I could barely keep up with him gliding unconcerned down the slope. My friends are inside, we’ll drink a few beers before coming home, wanna join? He suggested at the bottom. I politely declined referring to two little children and wife. The Finn grinned and bounced into the lodge.
An essay on Wild Cherry Pepsi.
I live blissfully unaware of the world around me. Hence, it was only a few days ago when I learned about Wild Cherry Pepsi. Without looking, I grabbed a Pepsi can from a store shelf and started drinking it. Surprisingly, a well familiar taste of sweetened sodium hydrophosphate intermingled with benzaldehyde’s acrid chemical flavor. Confused, I inspected the bottle. It looked like a regular Pepsi can but it carried a image of luminescent bright red berries and it had words “wild cherry flavor with other natural flavors”. My feeble brain struggled to reconcile multiple contradictions provided by visual, verbal and tasting clues.
Obviously no cherries, domesticated or wild, taste like benzaldehyde. Why not call it Pepsi with benzaldehyde flavor? It would more way sense. Also, cherries can be brown, white or dark red, but absolutely no cherries ever have radioactive color depicted on the can. Oh, wait, there is an exception – Maraschino cherries. If you soak cherries in potassium thiosulfate and bleach for a few weeks and add FD&C red 40, then they will indeed acquire such color. But then, Pepsi should’ve called the drink Maraschino Cherry. And to keep true to the taste, Pepsi should use the delicate mixture of thiosulfate, chlorine bleach and FD&C rather than benzaldehyde.
Also, why wild cherries in particular? Firstly, there are no wild cherries in North America. So-called wild cherries are actually domesticated variety trees brought from Europe that eventually escaped captivity and ran into the Great American Wilderness. Secondly, wild cherries somehow, however, irrational it may feel, associate with benzaldehyde taste and radioactive red color even less their domesticated brothers do. Are there other connotations to wild cherry term? Could it be that they meant “wild” cherries as opposed to “tame” ones? Did the branding department suggest a slogan Get Wild With Our Wild Cherry Pepsi? Or could it have a sexual connotation aimed at certain male users? Pop our Wild Cherry Pepsi can like you deflower a beautiful wild virgin? Pop 72 cans of Wild Cherry Pepsi and you will feel like you reached Muslim Paradise?
Whatever turns you on, enjoy your Wild Cherry Pepsi drink!
This is not my image, but this is what we climbed
It is 11 pm Pacific time. I am dreaming of granite walls merging with the sky, of snow patches hiding from the sun in the north facing gullies, of boulder fields and screes, of the city of rocks, of occasional pine trees and small lakes glistening far below, of an adrenaline rush, of fear and excitement, of happiness. I am dreaming of mountains.
I started mountaineering late, in my mid-twenties. It crept up on me over the years, slowly turning into an addiction. Why do I climb, spending days and weeks stuck in the mountains and on the cliffs, suffering through cold and heat, bleeding, eating power bars, sleeping on the rocks and fighting altitude sickness?
A journalist once asked George Mallory (one of the greatest mountaineers humankind has seen), “Why do you want to climb Mount Everest?”
Mallory answered, “Because it is there.”
He disappeared while trying to climb Everest in 1924. His body was found 75 years later. Some time ago, I tried to explain to my mom why I climb. “Mom,” I said, “All the roads don’t lead to Rome. They all lead to a cemetery, but the prettiest one climbs up a cliff.”
Tonight, Barclays Center sports arena is packed almost to limit of its seating capacity. 19,000 people came to hear Leonard Cohen. It is strange to see all these people quietly waiting for a performance to start. Barclays feels more like Lincoln Center than a sports arena.
The overhead lights dim and only cell phone screens glimmer in the darkness below me. The scene lights up in bordello red and blue and the band arrives. Seventy-eight-year old Leonard Cohen sprightly scampers across the scene, like a winner of the octogenarian Olympic Games. He starts the performance with ‘Dance me to the End of Love’. As his voice fills the stage, I am left to ponder on why I like him so much.
This is a stream of accidental images and encounters describing the people I see in the New York City subway. I will keep updating it.
Comments are welcome. Stories are even more welcome. Add them as comments and I’ll append them to the main file.
A 300 pound guy and a 100 pound girl are holding each other hands.
And gazing at each other tenderly. Good luck guys.
A plastic butterfly rides the black girl’s sunglasses.
Like Benigni in Night on Earth, driving a cab at night.
Nice boobs though.
Fashionable holes on fashionable jeans.