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Show Eweira for the c? r , so! Homme ?V7 ;i -V- (Left to right) Steve Castoldi puts on . ( lof'f552 1 . ,. 3 NtrnorDeb'by, that's Annie . X J j ) ) iiStfY . t , V " ' with Mountie Don Symonds. VvW 77 ' V v yy Mi-- if y J r v :'i i) '1 photos by f fl Ml I Jf I Randy Hanskat and , 1 IS " it-. It. j David Hampshire l 'j by Randy Hanskat I walked up the heated ' ' "Sidewalks of Deer Valley Saturday night, heading for the Snowflaker's Ball, not knowing quite what to expect. ex-pect. After all, this was my first Snowflaker's. Would most everyone be dressed up? Would I fit in? I felt a bit nervous, so I took a swig on my pint of Jim Beam. At least that melted the snowflakes that were accumulating on the back of my neck. I had a devil of a time deciding on a costume for myself in the days and hours, and then minutes before the event. At first I thought the Invisible Writer would be catchy, but when I wrapped some gauze around my mug I looked more like a bad imitation of Boris Karl-off Karl-off in "The Mummy," with hair sticking out here, a patch of skin exposed there. Then it was suggested for ease that I simply put a bag over my head and be the Unknown Writer. But then I remembered the old Rodney Dangerfield joke and realized real-ized I would have to give everyone else in the place a bag also, in case mine came off! .vwf "' How about a big white bunny? It would be easy to make, simply ruining a white sheet, and then stuffing stuff-ing the costume with newspaper news-paper to simulate some winter fat. The possibilities of untold hugs and squeezes from an unknown plump white bunny could be quite pleasant. But, alas, no sewing machine was available. avail-able. I could dress up as a woman... No, I've already been called that enough when I'm dressed as a man. Time was running out, so I finally decided on a fat pig farmer, sort of on the line of Elmer Fudd or Old Mac-Donald. Mac-Donald. Collecting a pair of overalls, a couple of pillows, two miniature felt-covered squeakable piglets, a scarlet bandanna, and a two-sizes-too-small cowboy hat, I was off to the Ball. I ambled up the steps of the Snow Park Lodge at Deer Valley, amazed at how difficult it is for even artificially fat people to walk. Walking up the wood- lined outer walkway, I heard the sounds of the snow guns blowing away diligently diligent-ly on the nearby slopes. Maybe this whole thing wouldn't be so bad after all. Inside the door I was greeted by a Star Wars-like scene. I bumped into the Pink Panther, who was gently purring by a table of candy apples. Mr. T. came over to the table after I had taken the last of the apples, looked at the lack of fruit, and promptly cried "Fool" in my direction. I snapped some pictures, figuring that was a sure way to get in good with the masses of unknown characters. charac-ters. A rather plump Jack Turner the Clown came into focus, as did a black and maize Killer Bee which I recognized to be my editor. Cracker Jack girls came by peddling their caramel-coated caramel-coated product. I later found out there was gold in them there boxes, as the Chamber of Commerce Convention & Visitors Bureau (the Snowflaker's Snow-flaker's is their annual fundraiser) had put $4,000 worth of prize coupons in some 400 Cracker Jack boxes. The usual Cracker-jack Cracker-jack prizes seemed pretty , shrimpy when compared with the free dinners, free hairstylings, free picture framings, all offered this night in those same boxes. I thought about alcohol. But drink setups were $1 each, and being a fat pig farmer doesn't leave much in your wallet. Who needed setups anyway, I rationalized, ration-alized, as I took a swig from Mr. Beam. There were two bands at this affair. One downstairs, one upstairs. The downstairs act was said to be New Wave, and I looked in, but it didn't sound much like "Rock Lobster," so I waddled wad-dled back upstairs. As I looked for some lucious photo opportunities I noted a large pack of male characters dancing in one area. I made my way over and found the focus of attention: a shapely blond woman dancing. She wasn't in any cartoon character costume that I knew of, but her turquoise silk shirt was unbuttoned to her navel. You get the idea. I focused on Miss Piggie, Bert and Ernie, Spiderman, Wonder Woman, and then on Wilma Flintstone. Wilma was dressed up as Kris Rodman of the Chamber Bureau and was emceeing th "Name the Theme Song Contest." Julie Hayes, a not too shabby cavewoman herself, her-self, beat out Stevie Dering for the top honors by correctly naming the Dick Tracy theme song or something. some-thing. Julie won two rounds of golf at Park Meadows, two rounds at Jeremy Ranch, two day passes to Deer Valley, and two day passes to Park West. Little Stevie, all the while singing "Ma Cherie Amour," won dinner for two at the , Glitretind Room at Deer Valley. And there was a drawing. Cindy Frazzio won a season pass to the Park City Ski Area. Lloyd Stevens won a trip to Disneyland, and Una Young won a trip to Lake Tahoe. The scene was reminiscent rem-iniscent of the Price is Right. Finally I got smart (or was it the half gone Mister Beam?) and started to come down with Dance Fever. I took a spin with a Norwegian-dressed fair maiden who wanted to disco. Needless Need-less to say, excessive weight and Mister Beam is not conducive to fine Jrhn Revolta dancing, and .-ne soon wandered off in search of Superman. The night was winding to a close. I growled around the floor a couple of times with the Pink Panther, and then made my way home. While spinning my VW tires on a slick Woodside Avenue I thought back to the event, trying to decide which costume was the best. I considered the fact that there are different criteria for judging costumes, be it originality, or humor, or design, or whatever. I pondered pon-dered for a moment then decided to make my choice on sheer attention-grabbing potential. And though she had quite a simple costume on, the girl in the blue silk shirt just had to be the winner. Such was a night of Looney Tune fun at the hands of the Chamber Bureau... Vi ; I A 'k V, v i I A' Would you buy advertising from these people: Kelly Newman, Steve Dering, Amy Mayer, and Media Man Jan Wilking? m What's up, Doc? Just ask Doug or Terry Whitney, or Mister Beam, Junior Hanskat. |