A whole new kind of ski lift

The snow has only just begun to dust the Sierra Nevada, but my new 2005-06 ski lease gang has already been confirmed and we're all getting ski fever. Today we held our second meeting at the Marina Sports Bar & Grill on Lombard Street, and it looks like our group is all just about locked-in.

I was running a bit late, so I when I got there it wasn't hard to find the group. There was Tracey, the organizer, parked at a table with a stack of papers and a pen. Aaron and Sarah, our resident Brits, were to her right. And going around the table were Christine, John, Mike, Jennifer, Nunzio, Ward and Ana. Apparently East Bay Mike and Mary Ann couldn't make it. I found a chair between Ward and Ana and plopped down. After signing the lease, settling a few housekeeping issues and submitting our checks, we ordered some more beer and got into some serious conversation.

"You know those Pony tows they have sometimes instead of chair lifts?," said Nunzio, as he began a story about skiing in Europe. "Here they have them on beginner slopes, but in Europe they can be on really steep runs."

"What?" asked Aaron. "A Pony what?"

"A Pony tow," said Nunzio.

"I've never heard of a Pony tow," said Aaron. "But I've heard of a Camel toe."

Tracey hid her head in her hands.

Nice start. I can already tell this is going to be a fine year.

The Golden State

Ahhh, there's nothing like a quiet morning commute through the Bay Area to get my day started. As I drive eastbound on Highway 237 through Alviso at 7:30 a.m., the sun rises over the east bay hills to expose the broken glass glistening along the side of the road. Blowing garbage dances from lane to lane as overgrown weeds sway in the breeze. And a discarded bumper hangs majesticly from the delicate cyclone fence that outlines the pavement.

But fall evenings in the Bay Area are equally as nice. Who could dispute the beauty of metering lights gingerly flashing red and green, causing traffic to back up on-ramps to the delight of CHP officers just waiting to pounce on the next carpool lane scofflaw? Or the soothing consistency of temporary white concrete walls dotting the landscape? Never mind the potholes and erratic lane striping, or the retread tires that pepper our wonderful California landscape. This is my home. And I can dream of living nowhere else.

Declaration of authenticity

Much has been made about who makes the best bagels, and who makes them authentic and who doesn't. And I admit it, I don't know anything about bagels, so I probably shouldn't be the judge. But I think I've found an authentic bagelry.

I found myself down in California Avenue area of Palo Alto this morning and decided to stop off for a cup 'o joe. Wanting to avoid the Sunday morning crowds at Starbuck's, I ducked in to Izzy's Brooklyn Bagels.

Now mind you, I wasn't here for a bagel, just coffee. But the bagels were selling like... well... bagels, I guess. Business was good. And it wasn't the four Latinas behind the counter that signaled the sign of an authentic bagel, or the owner towering over his staff. It was the man with the yamaca ordering two dozen bagels.

They say "when in Rome, do as the Romans do." So when it comes to bagels, it's probably best to trust the Jews.

Canadian bacon? That's another story.