written by rigler@galileo.ifa.hawaii.edu (Somme Mersault)
on 1 May 92 12:57:10

The 'Mad Wolf' school of ski instruction:

My then-to-be-future-brother-in-law, Dean, taught me how to ski from 
scratch.  His methods were simple:  As soon as I mastered a particular 
technique or conquered some piece of terrain, so that I finally began 
to relax and enjoy myself, he would cut in and drag me away to face the 
next terrifying challenge.  He was an excellent instructor, and in me, 
he found the ideal pupil:  I was dumb and full of cum; the kind of 18 
year old you hand an M-16 to and point in the direction of Charlie. 

And that's the way it was, that day I faced the dreaded Mad Wolf run.

"Don't chicken out on me now!" he called, as we got off the ski lift 
and headed down the road for the trail.  "Just keep to the right...
and AVOID THE CORNICE!"

This last comment brought a burst of laughter from Ed and Pasha.  The
trio raced ahead of me.  I saw a flash of white powder as they went
over the lip.

"Wait!  Hey you guys!  What's a 'cornice'?"  I yelled; but they were 
gone.  In fact, I was completely alone at the summit on that bright, 
powdery, perfect day.  The powder seemed to be absorbing my voice (a 
phenomenon which I find makes me suddenly very keenly aware of my own 
mortality).  

I drew up near a sign, 'Mad Wolf,' and stopped short, recalling one of 
Dean's basic rules: 'Never look over the edge before you go.'  I slid
on my goggles and went through my psyche routine.  In the intervals 
between the gusts of the wind, I could hear far-off squeals which grew 
fainter and fainter, and then faded out completely.

"Piece of cake." I murmured, "Just keep to the left.  Avoid the 
cornice."  And with that, I pushed off with excessive arrogance--

--to land in chest-deep, fluffy, white powder.  I'm telling you that
this material was fine, like...like...like...

...like the downy feathers scattered by a passing host of angels, 
   or the dusting of a plague of colorless moths, 
   or chaff from the fields of barren wheat that flank the river Styxx, 
   or frost from the beard of Thor (blended with the dandruff of Odin),
   or the average yearly dose of cocaine for the city of L.A.,
   or the bones of your enemies which you grind into a fine powder 
       and blow into the breeze,
   or the accumulated cells of dead skin shed by the entire human race 
       over all of its grim history,
   or like that eternal blazing moment which hits you just before 
       your epileptic siezure,
   or like the way things were before you were born,
   or like the blind spot that you see behind your head,
   or like a cow in a field of grass,
   or like antimatter annihilation,
   or like Om,
   (or like none of the above).

Whatever it was like, I was up to my waist in it and all fears forgotten.
Yes, I was enjoying myself mightily and indulging like a son-of-a-bitch
(as Don Juan would say).  And by some trick of the light, the snow and 
sky merged in my vision; virtually the only way to tell which direction
was downward was by gauging the vague pull of gravity, which I was taunting 
and teasing as I playing myself in and out like a yo-yo. 

Thus it was, that I failed to detect the approach of that which I was 
later to learn is commonly referred to as 'a cornice'.  No, not the 
slightest shift in shades served to demarcate that subtle boundary 
'tween snow and air which I crossed in a mental state which can best
be described as 'obliviousness.'

It is not a bad way to die really, when you think about it.  Let us shift
gears for a moment.  I want you to picture yourself in the following 
scenario:

You are taking the sports model out to pay a visit to your mistress,
who lives in a cottage in the Spanish uplands that you have graciously 
provided her with for cervixes rendered.  Brahms is on the Blaupunkt, 
the motor is functioning smoothly, the radar detector is quiet, the 
snail is on the lark, the wing is on the thorn.  In short, all is good 
with God's World.

"Tra-la-la!" you are about to say, with genuine enthusiasm, when without
warning your right forward tire blows, and before you can say "Drat!",
you have missed the curve, broken through the guard railing and, for 
the briefest moment, you find yourself suspended in mid air over a seven 
hundred foot deep gorge, with what looks like a lovely green river winding 
through it at the very bottom.

Well, in such a situation, I would claim that the only thing for it is
to push the auto-reverse button and listen to "Ride of the Valkyries"
as you approach terminal velocity.

(And they laughed at you for recording Wagner on the B-side of Brahms!)

--
 Rigler                        State of Marqaha