It feels like I'm wearing nothing at all.

The ski trip was a roaring success, impressing ladies and cute boys alike. I wore Chris' girlfriend's mother's (?) light-blue snug-fitting one-piece ski suit, and was gleefully dubbed stupid sexy Flanders by Choco. Downside: look like a raging homo. Upside: impervious to snow, hilarious.

The Skiing was great. This does not mean conditions were good. It hadn't snowed for a while, it rained fairly often, patchy cover, etc. However, gravity and snow friction appear to be at all time highs and lows, respectively. The dice roll in our heady gamble of speed vs. existence went our way, despite persistent provocation. That is, we tore arse all over the damn mountain.

Chris and I drank a bottle of bourbon a night, cleverly concealed on our person. The second night we also took cans of red bull, and made our own little special drop of Jesus juice. In fact, the bottle was gone rather quickly, so we bought something like another 5 bourbons, and an absinthe shot. The mix of bourbon, absinthe, and red bull was spectacular. We hooked up with some Poms who suggested we head over with them to kareoke at the Buller bar. They wanted us to join them doing some 'Take That' number, which we cautiously agreed to. It took over an hour for this occur, during which time we had the absinthe and a few more bourbons, and watched a rather plastered Cameron Knight dick around (a stand-up comedian who is on the Comedy Channel all the time). As my old housemates may know, I've spent many a good hour on the couch in front of the telly huffing and puffing impotently about how spectacularly unfunny this guy is. And there he was in the flesh, and to be honest, he was actually mildly amusing when both he and I were pissed out of our respective skulls. Anyway, the pub was going off, and our turn came up, by which stage we were right up for it. The next bit is a bit blurry, I don't remember why everyone else left the stage and why Cam Knight came up and grabbed the other mike, I'll have to get Chris to fill me in there. Cam started dicking around again, I don't remember what it was. My natural response was to start freestyling to the Take That track, and, amazingly, I pulled it off. I vaguely remember going on about being "straight outta Toorak" (a rich Melbourne suburb), and having a go at snowboarders, talking about how Chris was black and so shouldn't have been there, and filling all that in with suggestions that ladies and people who've been intimate with their mothers should dance around a bit. During this thing poor Cam was flapping around, trying to get in on the action, with minimal success. Chris caught the end of it on video, as I was making my closing arguments, which mostly consist of me deriding others for thinking that they are hardcore, reassuring them that I was fact hardcore, that I'd drunk a bottle of bourbon, and suggesting that the audience may wish to suck my balls, the location of which I left in no doubt. Hijinks! Whatever mischief will I get into next?

Chris and I decided that in our own personal renaissance of rad, as were were the sultans of the slopes, the belles of the black runs, we would film some of our death-defying exploits for our posterity. There was a chute between two rocks that was short, but steep as all buggery-get-together which we picked as a suitable scene for our tribute to the definition of awesome. I got in position after falling over a lot, almost pissing myself, ripping down the flanders suit, and relieving myself. For some reason my bladder control disappeared at that temperature and altitude. There were three seperate occasions where I was fine, then bam, I had three seconds in which to operate before disaster struck. Contemplate that disaster if you will, put yourself in my warm sodden ski boots, and shudder. Anyway, Chris did a remarkable job of coming down the chute, I was heaps impressed. He was going to finish off by buzzing the camera at high speed while executing a tight turn. Predictably enough, he wiped me out, and we slid down the hill.

Sin City is the best movie ever. I love it so much I feel dizzy and dry retch when I think about it.

I got another offer for stop-gap postdoc stuff (i.e., getting paid to do whatever until I felt like until what I felt like was buggering off to do something else), this time at the University of Melbourne, with the assurance that it would be well-paid. This is reassuring, and shall be added to the salty brew that is my future options.

Rock on and out.