It’s my life

Tag: skis_legend

  • 4/20 Memories @ The Denver Diner

    Yay it’s finally April

    It’s funny how some 4/20 memories aren’t about massive crowds, smoke clouds over a park, or music blasting through the city. Sometimes, it’s just about where you land after work is done for fthe day.

    I’ve only really done one proper 4/20 outing, and it still sticks with me. My old ski partner and I ended up at Denver Diner—that perfect late lunch, early dinner window where you’re not rushed even though the Denver Diner was packed, everything slows down just enough to feel it.

    But the real story started long before we sat down.

    That day was all cutting and trimming weed. Hours of it. Hands sticky, senses overloaded, and that smell—fully locked in and happy. Not the casual “yeah, I smoke weed” kind of scent. No sir. This was the industrial-strength, been breathing weed all-day, loud-without-speaking kind of smell.

    There are levels to this game.

    Some people try to smell like weed.

    Some people are weed.

    I was firmly in the second category.

    By the time we walked into the diner, I was half-aware of it and half not caring at all because it’s 420. That strange mix of exhaustion and satisfaction had kicked in—the kind where you know you earned whatever’s coming next. Food hits different after a day like that. Not just better—earned.

    Now here’s the kicker: Civic Center Park—ground zero for Denver’s 4/20 scene—isn’t that far away from the old Denver Diner. We could’ve wandered over, jumped into the crowd, made a whole thing out of it.

    But honestly?

    We didn’t need to.

    It was already 4/20 on the calendar—and I smelled like weed… go figure.

    No big crowd. No spectacle. Just two guys, a long day behind them, and a meal that felt like a reward.

    And looking back? That might’ve been the best way to do it.

    Because sometimes, you don’t go to the event.

    Sometimes… you are the event.

    Denver 420

    Denver Diner

    Civic Center Park

    Denver Weed

  • Daily Journal — March 16, 2026

    Daily Journal — March 16, 2026

    8:00 AM and my phone rings.

    It’s Mr. George from WP. That alone kind of freaked me out—nobody calls that early unless something’s wrong, especially from Mr. George. But I answered anyway. Turns out he was “just” already bored at 8 AM on his first day off of the week.

    The last time the G-man called me was about a while ago when they had a mechanical issue on the gondola and had to break the ropes out. He gave me a full play-by-play of what was happening up there. Later that night I saw the same story on 9News.

    Today’s report from GMan: a couple of his lift maintenance snowmobiles were tied up dealing with kids and moms who were wandering into the closed lift area down by the snowmaking pond. Apparently that’s the first morning adventure of the day.

    I apologized for not calling him lately. Truth is, we just haven’t been heading up there much. The snow kind of sucks right now, and when the snow sucks, the motivation to make the trip in traffic disappears pretty fast.

    Still, it was good hearing from him. Funny how a random 8 AM phone call can suddenly drop a little WP into a quiet morning down here.

  • Gravity Is Undefeated — But I’m Still Standing

    Gravity Is Undefeated — But I’m Still Standing

    Gravity Is Undefeated

    Adjusting Effort

    There’s a difference between avoiding effort and adjusting effort.

    For a long time, I couldn’t tell the difference.

    If I took a day off, I felt guilty.

    If I took a week off, I felt like I was sliding backward.

    After a brain injury and a stroke, effort isn’t just about willpower. My nervous system doesn’t always fire evenly. That shows up in my gait. In the limp. In recovery time.

    Explaining it mechanically keeps it neurological instead of moral.

    I’m not lazy.

    I’m recalibrating.

    2. The Shower Debate

    Two days without a shower.

    Not because hygiene doesn’t matter — but because the effort had a cost.

    When you’re managing pain, recovery, and energy regulation, even a shower becomes a negotiation.

    “If I’m not working out, why shower?”

    Then I stepped in.

    Hot water. Steam. Stillness.

    When I got out, I didn’t feel perfect.

    I felt good.

    Sometimes maintenance isn’t about productivity.

    It’s about momentum.

    3. Weed Day

    There’s ritual in it.

    Cleaning the supply. Replacing it. Air moving through the house. Fan on. Draft from bathroom to office.

    Outside, Castle Rock hums with loud trucks and hard acceleration. It feels aggressive sometimes.

    Outside is stimulus. Inside is control.

    Inside the house, it’s different.

    Slower breathing. Quieter thoughts. Contained space.

    I’m not hiding.

    I’m regulating.

    4. The Walk

    The elementary school route should be simple.

    But engines rev. Throttle echoes. My nervous system spikes before logic arrives.

    No one has hit me.

    No one has swerved at me.

    But unpredictability feels unsafe.

    Loud acceleration doesn’t mean danger — but my body reads it as volatility.

    If the vehicles were quiet and steady, I would enjoy the walk.

    That distinction matters.

    I’m not avoiding outside.

    I’m managing overstimulation.

    5. Rebuilding the Plan

    I told my physical therapist:

    “This plan has kept me in pain.”

    We scrapped it.

    Now it’s Monday, Wednesday, Friday — stretch days.

    Structure without punishment.

    The Gazelle machine isn’t discipline theater.

    It’s not punishment. It’s preservation.

    It’s mobility insurance.

    It’s future-proofing.

    I want to do this.

    6. The 3 A.M. Window

    I woke between 3 and 5 a.m. Wide awake.

    Not anxious. Just alert.

    So I played my weed-growing game.

    When I woke again at 7:30, I felt calm. Focused. Motivated.

    Observation instead of judgment.

    Optimization instead of shame.

    Even my curiosity about upgrading tools — premium software, better output, more structure — isn’t impulsive.

    It’s strategy.

    7. Gravity Still Sucks

    Let’s get this out of the way:

    Gravity is undefeated.

    If you’ve got a complaint, take it up with Isaac Newton. He turned a falling apple into law, and now we all live under it.

    Gravity doesn’t negotiate.

    It doesn’t care how motivated you are.

    It waits.

    People say, “He fell.”

    No.

    Gravity collected.

    Every wobble. Every misstep.

    It doesn’t need drama.

    Just opportunity.

    If gravity is always pulling down, then every time you stand up, you’re resisting the universe.

    Standing isn’t neutral.

    Walking isn’t casual.

    It’s defiance.

    Newton wrote the equation.

    He didn’t solve for grit.

    And sometimes, grit wins — at least for today

  • About Me and Why I Write

    About Me and Why I Write

    First and foremost, it gives me something solid to show for my day.

    Not every day comes with visible progress. Recovery is slow. Thoughts are messy. Time can slip by without anything concrete to point to. But when I write, there it is — a page, a post, a record. Proof that I showed up.

    Writing turns an invisible day into something tangible.

    There is only one boss: my spell check.

    No committee. No performance review. No applause meter. Just me, the keyboard, and the quiet discipline of putting words together in a way that makes sense. Spell check might argue with me, but it’s a fair boss. It doesn’t care about status. It doesn’t care about noise. It just wants clarity.

    I like that.

    Writing slows my thinking down enough for me to see it. It forces honesty. If a sentence doesn’t work, I fix it. If a thought doesn’t hold up, I reshape it. That process feels constructive. It feels like progress.

    On days when everything feels scattered, writing gathers things up.

    On days when the world is loud, writing gives me control over the volume.

    And at the end of it, I have something real — something I made.

    That’s why I like to write.

    Version two

    Day One Journal Entry

    One Journaling App

    I need to convince myself to stick with just one journaling app, and I’m leaning toward Day One.

    There’s something about having everything in one place that feels calmer — less scattered, less searching. One timeline. One archive. One habit.

    When I bounce between apps, it works, but it also feels unfinished. Like I’m halfway committed in two directions. Choosing one feels intentional.

    Day One is built for journaling. It feels like a home for thoughts, not just a storage bin. That matters.

    Recovery after my stroke isn’t dramatic or linear. It’s slow, repetitive, and easy to lose track of. Writing gives that process structure. It helps me notice patterns, track progress, and make sense of days when my thinking feels foggy or uneven. When my brain gets overwhelmed, the page doesn’t. It waits.

    Writing things down is part of how I rebuild clarity — one entry at a time.

    In other news, I still have some sativa left over from a half‑gram joint from my stepbrother John. It’s early. I could change my mind. But honestly, I think I’m good for the day.

    Living with a traumatic brain injury has made clarity not just helpful, but essential.

    Clarity feels better than drifting.