Comcastic

I got to be the comedic host of the Comcast Annual Party. I want to work there. Those people spend more time on their annual party then they do their annual budget. I'll tell you more about the party and the dangers of snowshoeing after a trip to Red and Jerry's. A place where good times go to die. But the beer is cheap.

Seven hours later and I'm dealing with one of those midday drunk hangovers. You know the ones where you want to function properly and are pretty sure you should be able to because it's still light outside but your face is numb. And I'm really lazy.

I guess I could be tired from yesterday's triathalon of activity.

Stage 1) Snowshoe five kilometers. Now here's a bit of advice, the first time you ever snowshoe maybe don't do a 5k race. I think five kilometers is about sixty miles. Uphill. Miles are typically flat and measured on interstates. Sarah and I have wanted to snowshoe for some time. In retrospect I'm not sure why. It makes a lot of sense when you're an Arctic native and need to conjure up some blubber for the kids, not when most American food is proximate to plowed streets. This race is called the Snowshoe Stomp. It's something that later was added to the festivities of the Gould Ski Scramble when snowshoeing grew in popularity. And there are many people who really take it seriously. Sarah and I started an hour before the gun fired just so we could try out our new snow flippers without getting in the way of the experts. I'm always way too optimistic about time and distance. So about when I figured we were half done we started climbing some steep terrain--it was extreme, extremely painful--Sarah reminded me that the flier for the race warned people that at least 25% of the course was uphill. We hadn't done any uphill yet. We clung to our poles, to dangling branches, to hope, whatever possible to get up the sheer face of our first incline. .0000000000001% done. Sarah looked at her watch. "Dude, it's 11:25." We had wanted to leave at noon as to embark on stage 2 of our day. She continued, "and we're still heading away from where we started." Optimistically I chimed in, "but we shouldn't head back. It looks like the top of hill is just up there and then we'll start heading back." Now ladies here's some advice about males and your relationships with them. Much like a canary asphyxiating on a miner's shoulder, there are signs to help you avert disaster. Whenever you hear your mate say one of two things, "it's should be just around the corner," or a popular variation, "i think it's just over this hill," save yourself and turn around. I could feel my wife tense up behind me. I'm a large target and she had a sharp ski pole. She might have muttered something about blubber. About an hour later, roughly twenty minutes after we wanted to leave Gould, we finally got back to the truck. Just as we were approaching my hometown's community center the racing gun shot it's blank and we watched the pros take off. 'Snowshoe Stomp' has a playful ring to it like maybe it's something for kids. Whatever. These folks were all grown up and actually running in their snowshoes. It looked like something had spooked a herd of Appalachian clog dancers. These 'shoers had all the best outdoor gear, the lycra outfits, the wrap-around sunglasses and GoreTex boots, but when your sprinting in size 50 shoes, you might as well have saved on regalia and picked up used muumuu at Goodwill.

We felt pretty good about our casual stumbling around the trail. Our hearts were racing and our muscles aching. We then treated our bodies to the second part of a sunny Saturday.

Stage 2) Driving three hours to get to Denver in time to get cleaned up to host a company party.

No matter how warm Sorels might keep your feet they are very hard to maneuver in the cramped quarters of a Toyota pickup. Fighting fatigue and cramping muscles we shared driving duty down the Poudre Canyon, through Fort Collins and onto I-25 South to Denver. We were beat. Part of the preparation for this thrilling triple sport event is spending a sleepless night at the home that used to be your mother and fathers but now seems to belong to your father's girlfriend. I laid awake wondering if my mom would come back from the dead to run the vacuum. The house is such a mess that squirrels have eaten through the wall to get at whatever is growing in the kitchen. However, we ate food the previous night from that very kitchen and it was pretty damn good. My dad's girlfriend raises all her own animals including my father who she's sculpting into quite the handy choreboy. But her all natural supper extrvaganza gave me so much gas that it sounded like I had an outboard motor. Several my ass woke me up. And then I'd lay there silently laughing, helpless to stop leaking methane.

Being beaten to a pulp and starving we stopped at a McDonald's in Fort Collins. Our bodies welcomed it's unnatural goodness.

Stage 3) Host a Fortune 500 company party.

Remember when you were in college and you'd come back from class to a room full of your giggling, stoned friends. They'd be on a whole different level leaving you to stand there and be laughed at. Well, the Comcast group is tight. Let me just say that I felt like I might have done better stoned. Then I wouldn't have been so keenly aware of my dud jokes thudding loudly to the ground. The night went well enough and I received a few compliments but I was so tired from the two previous events that I was a tad bit emotional and my mental fortitude was weak. I loved the party though. It took place at the Univeristy of Denver's Cable Center which may very well be one of the sexiest buildings in Denver. The whole party was a seemless mockery of the Oscars including teleprompters, flashy video pieces and Hollywood themes run amuck. I put together a Powerpoint demonstration of my own made-up life of the company's veep of sales. That was a hit.

Other than that the whole time I felt I might have been funnier in snowshoes.