Having just barely survived the harrowing experience of being trapped by an avalanche with no electricity1, and having been practically paralyzed by the uncertainty2 of whether the Foundry Grill would honor our dinner reservation--and then our breakfast reservation the next morning--I can tell you that when the General Manager of Sundance called all the strandees into the Robert Redford Conference Center the next day, your most vestigial survival instincts kick in, and as you scan the crowd, you do wonder to yourself: who do you eat first?
And the answer is emphatically not the kids. For the same reason you wouldn't eat the pilates ladies, either: there's just not enough meat there to make it worth the effort. The actual outdoor types, you probably can't catch, so they're out. Botox and boob jobs are probably red flags. And the euros are all smokers. So you're basically left with the LA producer guys. They're pampered, massaged, organically fed, and not too sharp on the reflexes. You could probably club'em from behind while they're loading the print of their new film they just happened to bring with them into the Sundance Screening Room projector.
So yeah whatever, the guy who had this hilarious license plate for five years got a raw deal from the unaccountable bureaucrats at the Virginia DMV, but he's also dead wrong.
 well, there was electricity at the restaurants and the lodge. But in the cabin, we only had gas fireplaces & hot water heaters, and half a dozen Frazier Fir-scented votive candles.
 well, for a few minutes, anyway.