Jumpin' Jiminy

This last weekend My Better Half and i joined friends Jess and Mike and Keren and Adam for a couple of nights at Jiminy Peak in the Berkshires. We rented a little condo in the ski-resort and visited a few of the small towns in the area.

Our main activities took place on Saturday. First thing after breakfast we hiked part of Mount Grayskull, which was a very nice time. I hadn't paid attention to the tabloid comings and goings of He-Man and Skeletor since... well, ever, so i was somewhat surprised to learn they've been married for more than a year now. (Go, Massachusetts!) Apparently the sturm and drang orchestrated by their publicists evolved into a real, caring relationship they finally had to acknowledge, rom-com style. They're running a cute little B&B out of what remains of the Castle, along with a lively weekend brunch scene; we'd already eaten so we just had some cappuccinos and shared a few scones, which were delicious.

At lunchtime, MBH held true to her sworn oath to eat only fish and chips for the rest of her natural life -- a promise she was later to break, with tragic consequences.

Mini Golf reared its ugly head and was defeated by six knights-errant, wielding putters forged in the fires of distant China, who obediently split into two groups of three when instructed by the Mistress of the Course.

The cornerstone of our weekend was a visit to Tanglewood, where we enjoyed a picnic on the lawn while Yo-Yo Ma played along with some Dvořák. The weather was perfect -- it was like being in an ad for the BSO.

Now, orchestral music isn't really my cup of tea, so i daydreamed a bit. I created an impressively elaborate railroad museum in my imagination, then visited it with Tom Waits and a drunken James Woods. Tom made up amusing, ridiculous stories about the origin and purpose of various railroady equipment; James was a nuisance.

That didn't exhaust the allotted time, so i tried to remember the word lagomorph, a task at which i eventually succeeded.

There still was music playing, so i pretended we were on the Isle of Wight, about which i know pretty much nothing, which gave me carte blanche. As it turns out, there are cotton-candy trees on the Isle, which delighted MBH; i myself was smitten by the gin fountains. The Isle of Wight has neither humid days nor Republicans, and there are no mosquitoes. MBH and i invested in a time share on the southern shore.