Lots of excitement down here

The Stupor Bowl—that pretty well wraps it up.
There were some entertaining commercials, enthusiastic fans, and even a decent half-time show—sans a costume malfunction. The colour commentary, as usual, was pretty inane.
Too bad there wasn’t a football game to go with it all.
Like most, I was mystified at the absence of Denver in the whole process. Shell-shocked was the best description on those red-coated players’ faces.
What happened? Then it struck me.
Seattle comes from an area where BC Bud and magic mushrooms are pretty much endemic. That means living in those environs, you must build up a tolerance to certain substances either from first- or second-hand sources.
Even the salmon on the west coast are rumoured to be quite mellow.
Denver on the other hand, with the recent legalization of recreational pot, now has a widespread “Rocky Mountain High.” They simply have a low tolerance threshold for the stuff.
Perhaps that gift of “brownies” sent to the Broncos’ dressing room by the Seahawks was responsible for the stunned look on the faces of Manning et al from the opening snap.
The only bright spot in the whole affair was I won the pool at our Stupor Bowl party here on The Beach. My coffee break for the next week is now fully-funded.
Other excitement we’ve had here on The Beach this past week? Let’s see, first there was the ice storm. The Highways Department closed all the bridges for 24 hours and then extended it for another 12 when the temperature refused to rise above freezing.
For entertainment, we went down to the Welcome Center and watched the locals slide through the main intersection there.
Sanding was undertaken by loading the back of dump trucks with crews in striped jump suits from the local crowbar hotel well-armed with shovels to complete the tasks.
The three-four inches of sand they spread on the road surface certainly slowed down traffic. You barely could plow your way through it.
The Runt sent me an emergency e-mail offering to ship me down more wool socks but I declined, requesting instead a battery-heated jock strap to save me from the fate that was attending brass monkeys in the area.
It’s back up to 70 F today (Monday).
The fire alarm in our condo building has been having a series of nervous breakdowns. The latest was Sunday at 2:45 a.m. (I was getting up to go to church anyways, honestly).
We spent a half-hour standing on the balcony waiting for the all-clear. Ten minutes after the cacophony started announcing we must evacuate the building, the fire trucks rolled up with lights flashing but no sirens (wouldn’t want to wake anyone inadvertently).
They sauntered in nonchalantly and 10 minutes later the alarm was silenced.
We had checked the stairwells, the elevators, and the both sides of the building for any sign of smoke. There being none, we held our ground (seniors don’t do 12 flights of stairs without a raging inferno or an earthquake).
A tidal wave? We stay as high up as we can get.
The alarm only went off once more at 7 a.m. Time for church.

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