The Epic Storm

Dear Son,

Sorry I didn't get this written when I was in Montana but I was very busy skiing, skiing, skiing. When you called on day six saying , "Why haven't you called me about this epic storm", I hadn't realized it was epic, but we did have ten to twelve inches in one day. I had to wear my facemask, goggles and hat every day except the first and last. I had to ski seven days straight until four o'clock closing because it was too good. It just never stopped snowing. In one whiteout in a bowl above the treeline, I thought I was skiing downhill but I had turned and was skiing uphill. Once I thought I was skiing but I had stopped dead in my tracks. I felt really seasick for a while after that.

A hooded figure huddled on the chairlift next to me, turned his masked face and shouted through the blizzard, "So when's it going to start really dumping?" I wanted to laugh out loud but it would've fogged up my goggles for good. You gotta be careful when the skiing is perfect.

My friends couldn't believe the snow conditions. Now they call Big Sky the best ski resort in the whole country. We found some new tree runs. On Andesite Mountain we found the Blue Room run, which we heard about from a guy who works at Beaverhead Condos. Off Silver Knife you veer right through some gates with a black diamond and a double one drawn in by the locals, to keep you out. It's a perfect tree run and be sure to bring beers to our new best friends partying in the smokey Blue Room, a three sided room made up entirely of old skis.

But be sure you do not veer further right to check out War Dance because if you do, you can't change your mind. And you will want to--immediately. The reason it's so skinny of a chute is because of those avalanche fences alongside, stacked-up down the hill, a hundred yards of hill. And the reason for the avalanche fences (I see them on the map, now) is because it is too steep and too skinny to hold snow or skiers like me. Fun, it was not, but I did not kick-turn, side-slip or fall. It took forever, however. The only good thing about it, somehow I wasn't scared. No whining. We never saw another fool trying to ski it.

I wimped out, or I should say, took a burning-thigh breather on Elk Park--a lot of times and Sunlight is my knee-deep fresh powder favorite, unless you're on the chair at 9 a.m. sharp and get first tracks on Stump Farm. Never gonna happen.

The bumps below Thunder Wolf chair were calling me as usual. My friends started from the top--I only had the knees for the bottom half. One friend had to cut-out halfway--I'd warned her. The other had the knees for all of it at once. Impressive.

The last two days after the friends left I skied alone. I'd been longingly watching the brave skiers on the Peak. I decided to be brave before my 60th birthday and got in line for the Lone Peak Tram to the top. A big cloud blew in. I got out of line. The sun peeked out, OK OK just do it. The sign at the top said, USE YOUR LIFE-SAVING SLIDING TECHNIQUE IN LIBERTY BOWL. I felt nauseaous but it was probably from the 11,166 foot altitude. Standing at the top of Liberty Bowl for far too long, I buckled down, zipped up, pulled on goggles, blasted "We are the Champions" on my ipod and dropped in. It wasn't pretty but it was good and I didn't fall. Falling was not an option because I wasn't exactly sure what that life-saving sliding technique actually was.

I decided to venture over to the new chairlift, Dakota. Everyone I'd asked said it was great but "tricky to get to", or "dicey" or "you have to know what you're doing." I had no idea exactly what all that meant but, hey, I skied War Dance this week, you know. One guy said, "Oh you'll be fine--just don't ski below the green dots." Green dots? So I slipped through the gates glancing at the sign, DO NOT ATTEMPT TO SKI HERE ALONE. Too late. But there were big green dots on top of posts showing the way. I entered some trees and another few skiers came along who were Dakota novices as well. We threaded our way, snowplowing through the trees in single file, along a not-very-steep path for a long time (more green dots) and eventually came out under a beautiful new chairlift. The runs were wide tree runs, and so plentiful I didn't even have time to ski them all.

And, of course, I skied the requisite Challenger. Work work work. My leg muscles were disappointed we were still skiing, but for my final run I wanted to try an easier way down Challenger that I'd heard about. I ask Ski Patrol directions at the top. "Stay high and traverse left above the tree line, just follow the boundary line down. There's one spot where you drop through the trees that's a little tricky, but you'll find it. We're running the sweep in about ten minutes anyway, so if you cliff-out, we'll find ya."

Good grief!

Thank you for spoiling me with your condo. Having a wonderful time--wish you were here.

I love you,

Mom

Nothing As It Seems

As if I don’t have enough of my own, I’m working on a new TV series called Trauma with fifteen Drag Queens.  There’s nothing like a bunch of Drag Queens to take your mind off your own trauma.  They are drama central.  As well as sweet, funny, self-effacing girls, they prefer to be called while in drag.  It takes a while to sort it out.

The first morning they hang out together at a far table.  I can’t guess how the soft plump redhead in pink taffeta, matching heels, ruby red lips and polish, knows the Queens so well.  She smoothes her old-fashioned pageboy hairdo into place, leans in and whispers something.  They throw their heads back and roar laughing.  Tattoos peek from gown straps, the nape of a neck, an inner thigh-high cut dress.  Make-up shadows cleavage artfully into place, bodies are hairless, eyelashes lay triple thick.  The gowns are dazzling.

In a quiet corner a small handsome cop thwacks a nightstick against his palm.  A curly soul patch moves under his lower lip as he speaks into a cell phone, negotiating real-estate deals in a female voice.  A muscular 6 foot 5 cop wears a CHP jacket, matching leather short-shorts and thick leather high-heeled boots.  When he bumps into me over coffee at Craft Services, he catches me lifting me high into the air--way up off my feet--and apologizes profusely.  “Oh my god, did I spike you?  I am so sorry.  Are you OK?”  One fuzzy red bearded and mustachioed girl in a brilliant lime green patent leather suit laments her lack of Queen acceptance.  “It’s because of the facial hair” she tells me in baritone.  “It’s hard to be on the cutting edge.”  She looks me in the eye sadly, honestly and I nod.

My all time heartthrob is a blond bombshell nurse that you cannot take your eyes off.  She wears a white eye-patch with the Red Cross insignia, thigh-high white boots, silk stockings and a lab coat so short you hold your breath every time she leans over.  She sits down for lunch and strips down to her black birdseed filled bra and manly tighty whiteys.  Without the wig she is a drop dead gorgeous man.

I learn how to play a fast and loose game of cards called Speed.  “No pun intended” Stuart giggles in high pitch.  I am in on discussions about laser hair removal, boob jobs, botox, implants, bootie padding.  I know all about day jobs, transvestite bars, cross dressing, certain unnamed well-known men that gift diamond jewelry.  I know about meeting Debbie Reynolds.  “Open the windows, I’m flashing” someone pleads, fanning herself under a hot wig, tight gown, heavy dripping make-up.  Like me, they take off their pointy-toed high heels whenever possible, their oversize feet puffy and red.

One crosser in a strapless red satin gown that I covet, helps me write a press-release and comes up with the one word I have been searching for all day.  An angel with fluffy feather wings, matching bikini bottoms and hairy pierced nipples reads the Chronicle.  They have names like Dan and Larry but wear rhinestone drop earrings and pink sequined tube tops, confounding any sense of order.  There are no identifiable genders--no identities.

The A.D. walks into Actors’ Holding and shouts, “Listen up people.  May I have all the Drag Queens on set.  And you guys know who you are.”  “Not necessarily” quips the redhead hair smoother, in falsetto.  The dominatrix sneers “Yessssir” and cracks her little whip.  The gorgeous nurse pulls on her wig then lab coat and dashes off.  Long luminous hair lifts from her shoulders giving each leap a slow motion feminine gait.

Over in hair and make-up we have sequins glued, stars painted, lips pouted, hair spiked and we are fully heavily eyelashed.  The devil in the chair next to me has horns glued to his head while they strap on red leather stump wings.  When I ask the twelve foot guy on stilts how can he possibly sit, he says “Like this” and dives for the make-up table, catching his weight with long strong arms, then gracefully slides into a chair.

Connected at the hip, the get-a-room straight couple spends the entire day entwined.  Surely new lovers, they can’t keep their hands off each other: slow dancing, massaging, neck kissing, tickling, swaddling, cuddling, enveloping.  She wears a shimmery purple flapper dress and a matching headband.  He: Army boots, fishnet stockings, a low-cut green sequined gown baring a full chest of black hair.

On set we tape a barroom costume contest.  One very, so very white man wears the brightest blue suit ever made.  The towering Egyptian King lurches and sways in a heavy sharp edged copper and gold crown.  An East Indian woman wears a Chinese wedding dress.  A black man has war paint and a feather headdress.  Mimes speak.  The Playboy Bunny is actually a female—maybe.  One Queen who’s glued one hundred rose florets onto her fuchsia gown, blows kisses with large exaggerated lips, bats triple false eyelashes, turns and shakes her padded booty.  We cheer.

Lights twinkle and twirl, a silver faceted disco ball spins and The Great Oz spews smoke from his perch on high.  While not recording dialogue there’s throbbing disco music, bullhorns, high pitched screams, mayhem.  We sweat off sequins and cough up manufactured smoke.  While recording dialogue we silently toast with fake champagne in plastic pumpkin cups, mime MOS raucous laughter and dance to the frenzied beat of no sound whatsoever, just the soft rhythmic tapping of obedient dancing feet.

Our director is French, members of the crew are not the most outrageous ones, producers are uncharacteristically reticent.  Behind sunglasses, a plain dark mask and conservative gray suit with tie, a Fed leers?  Stunt people wear costumes and costumed people perform stunts.  There are real Firefighters, EMTs and Police; there are actor Firefighters, EMTs and Police.  We have breakaway chairs and bottles hurled from the balcony, fist fights, party crashers, electrical explosions, mass panic, a stampede, trampling and blocked exit doors.  Wings entangle bunny ears, pointy masks snag gauzy veils.  Everything flies through the air: wands, whips, batons, pink handbags, stilettos, parasols, tutus.  The floor is littered with feathers, fringe, sequins, rhinestones, and we work under the silent barrage of raining confetti.

The tall beauty in the red strapless dress is harshly criticized by the A.D.  She has unconsciously taken a sip from her fake champagne while filming a scene.  The director sighs and shouts, “CUT.  Back to one.  First positions quickly please.”  There is no simulated drinking of alcohol on Network TV.  You may hold, toast, and pour simulated alcohol if you are over 26, but you may never touch it to your lips on camera.  Mortified the actress turns, stoops her lovely soft white shoulders toward me and braves a winning smile, but I can see through it.  Although I only come up to her waist, I put my art around her.  She leans down and whispers “Thank you my dear”.

In this enchanting wonderland of mistaken identity, where nothing is as it seems, we are after all mostly just the same.