Jumping the shark.

Jumping the shark.

In September of 1977, Happy Days was in its fifth season. The show’s ratings were slumping and in an effort to boost ratings, the writers decided to demonstrate modern special effects and the magic of television by having the show’s star, Fonzie, jump over a shark. While waterskiing.

When Fonzie jumped the shark, some fans inherently recognized: they’d gone too far.

Likewise, rather than fading into Telluride legend -- a cautionary tale of what can happen when you involve yourself with someone else’s girlfriend – the local epic of a guerilla revenge tactic has, for me, jumped the shark.
Inside gondola cabins, on lift towers, in bathroom stalls, on stop signs, inside foosball tables, on magazine racks, in residential medicine cabinets; you can’t swing a ski pole in this town without hitting an Eric Corff sticker in the ellipsis.

Now, years after the first sightings, one has to ask: is there a statute of limitations on douchebaggery? At what point does the revenge of an act of ‘baggery out bag the original bagging? Are the marketing geniuses behind this whisper campaign available for hire?

Unlikely. Professionals would have moved on, at this point, to something fresh and possibly more damaging: “Eric Corff shops at Walmart” or “Eric Corff…he’d rather be riding your girlfriend.”

Meanwhile, tourists are confused. Some assume Corff is an elected official, which doesn’t say much for douche bags or politicians. Google the cringe-inducing phrase and you’ll find YouTube videos, sightings from as far away as Austin and Buffalo, NY and a spattering of postings from non-locals desperate for an explanation. Who is Eric Corff!?

Just like Happy Days and the Facebook Fan Page for Stickers, this Corff hater-ation has jumped the shark. It’s traveled from never being that funny to old news and embarrassing litter. Above all, it’s really mean and petty for an otherwise really nice and unaffected community.

I don’t care if Eric Corff is or isn’t a douche bag; I’m taking these stickers down when I see them, the same way I pick up trash when I come across it.

On the other hand, maybe I could cash in with “Eric Corff…is he really a douche bag?” Segway Tours.

Meow!

On Saturday, I woke with the memory of a dream.

I dreamt of tigers.

Later, I walked into town where I saw a great tiger mask. I wondered which came first, the dream or this moment?

Next, I came upon note cards illustrated with tigers.

Eureka!

That's when it occurred to me, it was the first day of the Chinese New Year: The Year of the Tiger.

Ten Years Gone

Once in a while you find yourself looking at your life as if you’ve just arrived in the present, via time travel.

On this occasion, you’re investigating current conditions from the perspective of 18-year-old you. That feels right. There is something surprisingly monumental about being 28. It’s the ten-year anniversary of turning 18. You’ve come from the past to investigate the juxtaposition.

At 18, you are a C student, waiting to find out whether you’ve gotten into any of the colleges you haphazardly applied to. You’ve never traveled by plane; in fact, you’ve barely left northeastern Pennsylvania. Friends you have, but your roster has included the same names since grade school.

As you look around this apartment, presumably yours, you don’t see any familiar faces in the photographs; finally you discover a picture on the fridge: an Olan Mills portrait of you and your siblings. You’ve seen this picture before, it was taken in 1986. This truth — that in ten years time the only people you’re still celebrating with pictures on the fridge are siblings —strikes you. A mental pact is made. You’ll take your sister to the mall. You’ll be nicer to Matt. You’ll at least try.

The windows here are tall to match the mountains just outside them. Most notable are three mammoths identical to the snow capped mountains you’ve been doodling in margins of notebooks and lazily entering into school mandated art contests since the second grade.

Your brow is furrowed. There are threads from the life you know in the apartment you will inevitably inhabit, but not the ones you expected.

There is a chalkboard that says, “Reading this confirms you are a time traveler.” Though the handwriting is neat, you recognize this is your message. Without realizing it, you’ve relaxed and the corners of your mouth are now turned slightly up. You begin to think, you might be cool.

The book shelves are full of titles you have not heard: “Jitterbug Perfume,” “Organic Housekeeping,” “Hairstyles of the Damned.” Travel, language and cookbooks own the bulk of shelf real-estate.

Rather than the ubiquitous paneling you’re accustomed to, the walls in this place are painted in rich colors. The counter-top is granite. Intuitively, you suspect you rent.

There is a paper star hanging from the ceiling and a string of brightly colored elephants. The cabinets and fridge are stocked with food, some of which you don’t recognize. You think that is an avocado, but how could you be sure. Are those yellow beets? You’ve only seen jars of magenta beets on dad’s bar, next to pickled pig’s feet.

Noticeably missing is a stereo. Eight-year-old you shows up to remind you of the radio under your pillow. You see speakers plugged into a shockingly thin laptop. Come on, did you really think you’d leave you hanging?

You don’t recognize your presumed boyfriend from photos, but he’s handsome, painfully so, and you look as you do now, but somehow different. With magnet letters, upon the fridge, it’s written, “I Love John Best.” You and John look happy together in a picture taken from across a dinner table from who knows who. You try his name on a couple times. John. John. Beth and John. John and Beth. John and Beth sitting in a tree…You suspect that maybe John lives here too. This is confirmed when you find your bedroom. You find drawers filled with men's clothing. In an otherwise tidy house, your clothes are strewn throughout the bedroom. Some things don’t change.

You hear what you think is an alarm clock and follow the noise to a phone the size of a pager. Incoming Call from Jacey. You hit a couple buttons, SEND, POWER, OK. One of them worked.

“Hello?”

A perky voice answers, “Buenos Dias Senorita.”

You don’t know anything but English. Your panic is audible.

“You okay?”

Relieved. “Yes. Are you?”

Asking “who are you?” isn’t an option as really no reasonable answer from her would explain.

“Oh yeah, just couldn’t find my goggles but I’m on my way. Are you still up for skiing?”

You glance back out those big windows and see what you didn’t notice before: ski slopes, a lift, make that two lifts, and people skiing down a very steep trail.

You swallow hard, “Yeah, how soon before you’re here?”

“I’m at the spur. I’ll be there in 10.”

You don’t know what the spur is, but hopefully, in the future, ten minutes still means 15. But really, it's gonna take ten years to figure this out.

Rookie mistake.

Outside of the stray smudge of vanilla icing licked from my finger, out of muscle memory and not intentional defiance of my oath, I have remained a faithful vegan for 19 days. Which is true, only, if you'll forgive me the meatball and a half I ate on Wednesday. With more than a glass of wine in me, I proved no match for the meatballs, made in abundance in meatier days, of my own making. Mostly, I blame John for trusting I could keep myself from his meal. Rookie mistake.

The following morning I re-committed to the month long eating disorder. On Friday, I made vegan meatballs to reconcile my previous deficiency. John Kelly, an occasional pseudo vegan out of default, humored my efforts, comparing the vegan meatballs to frozen yogurt rather than ice cream, "gets the job done, but falls short of perfection."

When this month is through, I may take on other challenges. Just think of the possibilities! At dinner parties, you'll overhear me say, "Oh yes, I was one for a month..."

Cheese & Wine Reception

Cheese & Wine reception at the Museum. I selected and prepared and  served three different kinds of cheese, two Tillamook + one bree. Enough said.

I miss my friends: fish tacos and grilled cheese sandwiches

Something has changed.

Previously, on the Beth Show, I had been enjoying my new found strict diet of fruits and vegetables. I felt rejuvenated and excited. It was fun to find that I had lost a pound per day of veganism (mostly water weight, but good times no less). I marveled at the ease in which I was able to whip up meals I could share with friends and I savored the new dishes I was trying at some of my favorite restaurants.

Today, not so. I am irritable, hungry and I am lonely for my friends: fish tacos and grilled cheese sandwiches. Earlier today, I passed on tomato soup due to the splash of creme the chef so thoughtfully added. I don't recall tomato soup ever turning her back on me! Not when I was down and out and sought solace in her red velvety richness nor when I was too poor to afford anything else. Now that I think of it, tomato soup never so much as said peep when I went through the whole adding ramen noodles to my soup phase.

I'm beginning to think, there are too many good foods made by good people for me to stay indefinitely buckled in the culinary back seat whimpering and whining like brat faced child wondering, out loud, repeatedly, if we're there yet and is there dairy in that? (Pinch your nose when you say that for effect).

The lunch lady at the Film Fest Club House even rolled her eyes at me today. I asked if there was dairy in the hummus. I don't blame her really, the food was free and it still wasn't good enough for me.

I'm remembering now, last week, John spent five minutes in the meat section of the grocery store perusing grass fed and local beef without me. He missed me. I could tell.

Nonetheless, I shall persevere. Seven days down, 23 days to go.

Six products I'd like to market

1. My Butter from another Udder, "buttery" spread.
2. Unicorn burgers, you can't imagine a better tasting burger.
3. Whey-less. Why Not?
4. I Can't Believe It's Not Alive!
5. Smug Free! No haughty aftertaste.
6. Cheeses Christ: accept soy-cheeses into your life.