Saturday, February 26, 2005
A trailer with a view
Recently, I made good on a pledge I made to myself and took advantage of a weekend to explore the South. Steve the "I promise I'm a straight" Flight Attendant had an overnight in Little Rock, Ark. and I headed north to meet him.
The drive alone was worth it. Winding along the Mississippi River, hugging the Louisiana/Mississippi border, I passed through some seriously country Southern towns. Along the way I stopped for lunch in Natchez, Miss., a sleepy historic town with a lot antebellum architecture and a beautiful view of the Mississippi. It's also home to the Under the Hill Saloon, a dark, seedy bar on the river with nothing on tap.
Not being in any particular rush, I stopped in to catch the matinee crowd and have a Dixie beer. There wasn't a lot of company at 2 p.m., but I was served by a midget woman, and chatted up by a creased-faced middle-aged woman chain smoking at the bar. Add to this the Confederate kitsch dotting the wall, and it was a satisfyingly weird pit stop.
From there I continued to ride storied U.S. 65, which continually criss-crossed the state border, until the gas light and nature forced a stop at a gas station in some small, non-descript north Louisiana town. Looking around the station's store, I noticed a lot of vampire-themed items and I worried I had fallen into a Twilight Zone episode with an unpleasant ending until I looked at one of the vampire beer cozies: Transylvania, Louisiana, it read.
So I stocked up on water and snacks at the Transylvania Quick Stop and brought it to the register. There, the malnourished, bearded and slightly inbred looking store owner rang me up as his probably 16-year-old, country cute daughter eyed me and blushed slightly. This, I thought, is where my car breaks down, I stay at the friendly locals house and get run out of town with a shotgun pulling up my pants.
My fantasy unfulfilled, I continued on and pulled in to Little Rock around 9 p.m. and met Steve at his hotel. There a fat, baby-faced bell hop who looked 17 excitedly gave us detailed advice on drinking and strip clubs. After a few beers at a nearby sports bar, Steve and I ventured downtown and found, to our horror, that the bars in Little Rock close at 1 a.m. Putting efficiency first we quickly downed several drinks and closed out the bars before heading to a strip club in the Little Rock ghetto.
In one of the lower moments of my life, we were told, after a $15 cab ride, that no dancers had shown up that night and the club was closing. We then heard the voice behind the door respond to someone, "No, just a couple of drunkies."
The next day, haggard and still smarting from our misadventures, Steve and I decided to explore the two things Little Rock is known for: Barbecue and Bubba. So we started the day with delicious barbecue pork sandwiches and ended it at a ratty, neon lit barbecue joint where I ordered a rib sandwich, fully expecting some kind of boneless rib sandwich. What I got was a pile of dripping, bone-in ribs on top of a helpless, drowning piece of white bread with another piece of white bread placed precariously on top for show. It was delicious.
Between our straight-to-coronary meals, we headed to the William Jefferson Clinton Presidential Center. First off, the center is right on the banks of the Arkansas River and is meant to represent a bridge a la Clinton's bridge to the 21st century. In reality, it looks, fittingly enough, like a giant trailer. Once inside this monstrosity was what I can only describe as a Bubba overload. (Almost) Everything Bill adorned the walls of the cavernous, three-story building. From the displays one gets the impression that Clinton brought peace to the Middle East, brought all the downtrodden out of poverty and really didn't fuck up universal health care that badly. It did genuinely make me nostalgic for the 90s. One display had video of Tony Blair saying that the United States had never been so well-respected in the international community. A nice fuck you to the current regime and also terribly depressing.
The highlight however was the Lewinsky display. In a building the size of 42s libido, the Lewinsky affair was off in a corner in a four foot by four foot glass case with no fanfare. Of course, that's the amount of attention it should have got in the first place, but it was amusing nonetheless.
The drive alone was worth it. Winding along the Mississippi River, hugging the Louisiana/Mississippi border, I passed through some seriously country Southern towns. Along the way I stopped for lunch in Natchez, Miss., a sleepy historic town with a lot antebellum architecture and a beautiful view of the Mississippi. It's also home to the Under the Hill Saloon, a dark, seedy bar on the river with nothing on tap.
Not being in any particular rush, I stopped in to catch the matinee crowd and have a Dixie beer. There wasn't a lot of company at 2 p.m., but I was served by a midget woman, and chatted up by a creased-faced middle-aged woman chain smoking at the bar. Add to this the Confederate kitsch dotting the wall, and it was a satisfyingly weird pit stop.
From there I continued to ride storied U.S. 65, which continually criss-crossed the state border, until the gas light and nature forced a stop at a gas station in some small, non-descript north Louisiana town. Looking around the station's store, I noticed a lot of vampire-themed items and I worried I had fallen into a Twilight Zone episode with an unpleasant ending until I looked at one of the vampire beer cozies: Transylvania, Louisiana, it read.
So I stocked up on water and snacks at the Transylvania Quick Stop and brought it to the register. There, the malnourished, bearded and slightly inbred looking store owner rang me up as his probably 16-year-old, country cute daughter eyed me and blushed slightly. This, I thought, is where my car breaks down, I stay at the friendly locals house and get run out of town with a shotgun pulling up my pants.
My fantasy unfulfilled, I continued on and pulled in to Little Rock around 9 p.m. and met Steve at his hotel. There a fat, baby-faced bell hop who looked 17 excitedly gave us detailed advice on drinking and strip clubs. After a few beers at a nearby sports bar, Steve and I ventured downtown and found, to our horror, that the bars in Little Rock close at 1 a.m. Putting efficiency first we quickly downed several drinks and closed out the bars before heading to a strip club in the Little Rock ghetto.
In one of the lower moments of my life, we were told, after a $15 cab ride, that no dancers had shown up that night and the club was closing. We then heard the voice behind the door respond to someone, "No, just a couple of drunkies."
The next day, haggard and still smarting from our misadventures, Steve and I decided to explore the two things Little Rock is known for: Barbecue and Bubba. So we started the day with delicious barbecue pork sandwiches and ended it at a ratty, neon lit barbecue joint where I ordered a rib sandwich, fully expecting some kind of boneless rib sandwich. What I got was a pile of dripping, bone-in ribs on top of a helpless, drowning piece of white bread with another piece of white bread placed precariously on top for show. It was delicious.
Between our straight-to-coronary meals, we headed to the William Jefferson Clinton Presidential Center. First off, the center is right on the banks of the Arkansas River and is meant to represent a bridge a la Clinton's bridge to the 21st century. In reality, it looks, fittingly enough, like a giant trailer. Once inside this monstrosity was what I can only describe as a Bubba overload. (Almost) Everything Bill adorned the walls of the cavernous, three-story building. From the displays one gets the impression that Clinton brought peace to the Middle East, brought all the downtrodden out of poverty and really didn't fuck up universal health care that badly. It did genuinely make me nostalgic for the 90s. One display had video of Tony Blair saying that the United States had never been so well-respected in the international community. A nice fuck you to the current regime and also terribly depressing.
The highlight however was the Lewinsky display. In a building the size of 42s libido, the Lewinsky affair was off in a corner in a four foot by four foot glass case with no fanfare. Of course, that's the amount of attention it should have got in the first place, but it was amusing nonetheless.
Monday, February 21, 2005
Hunter S.
I got a call from Ryan around 10:30 tonight. "Dude, Hunter S. Thompson killed himself."
"Let's get a bottle of whisky. I'll be over in a second," I said.
So Ryan and I drove to the store to get liquor and mourn the man's death with an appropriate bender. Fittingly, I guess, we got to the gas station and were reminded by a Sheriff's Deputy there that on Sundays blue laws prevent you from buying hard alcohol.
"Fucking East Baton Rouge Parish," I said.
"Man, that's all over the country," the deputy said.
"No, I assure you that's not true," I ill-advisedly said.
"Maybe if you're buying something illegal," he replied.
Secure in the knowledge that the people charged with protecting me have never been out of East Baton Rouge Parish (you can buy hard alcohol in the next parish over), we settled on beer and took to the porch.
A toast to Gonzo journalism.
"Let's get a bottle of whisky. I'll be over in a second," I said.
So Ryan and I drove to the store to get liquor and mourn the man's death with an appropriate bender. Fittingly, I guess, we got to the gas station and were reminded by a Sheriff's Deputy there that on Sundays blue laws prevent you from buying hard alcohol.
"Fucking East Baton Rouge Parish," I said.
"Man, that's all over the country," the deputy said.
"No, I assure you that's not true," I ill-advisedly said.
"Maybe if you're buying something illegal," he replied.
Secure in the knowledge that the people charged with protecting me have never been out of East Baton Rouge Parish (you can buy hard alcohol in the next parish over), we settled on beer and took to the porch.
A toast to Gonzo journalism.
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Mardi marathon
Eunice, La - As I sat on the grassy levy, covered in the sticky sangria my drunken friend had just spilled on me, I looked at the flooded fields and crawfish traps behind me and the procession of hundreds of hammered locals riding horses and wearing colorful costumes, pointy hats and masks in front of me and I had a serious moment of "Where the fuck am I?"
It was the final leg of an epic Mardi Gras that ended up being a four day, four city tour of South Louisiana - a boozy, beady bender to be sure.
It started, of course, with Spanish Town Mardi Gras, which each year is the single greatest day ever. This year, my crew decided to come in uniform as the Spanish Town Jogging Team. We all showed up in hot pink, velour jogging suits and we looked great (especially me). The only catch to the jogging suits was that, as they were cut for a woman, they left little to the imagination in an important place for the guys. After I looked down and realized you could see evidence of the rabbinical surgery I underwent as a baby, I decided to go ahead and cover it up with a sock (a move shared by the rest of the guys so that we had an entire team of joggers in pink with stuffed packages).
The rest of the day was really just a haze of floats and beer and, despite our theme, very little jogging.
From there it was on to the obligatory New Orleans trip, where I made the same mistake I made last year - standing next to two cute girls - and caught very few beads. The parades were fun but not as fun as the bar we went to afterward where a brass band was playing all covers. You really haven't lived until you've heard The Thong Song played by a brass ensemble.
From New Orleans it was due west to my favorite city in Louisiana, Lafayette, home of the best bar in Louisiana, The Blue Moon Saloon. There, we met up with Bryan, an Advocate photographer and easily my favorite scruffy drunk of indecipherable race, and continued what was probably the least healthy four days of my life.
After an ill-advised night of drinking we got up at 7 a.m. to go to Eunice (population 11,500) to catch one of the weirdest parades I've ever seen. First of all, Eunice is about as country as it gets. As we drove through town there just a few dilapidated houses separated by flooded rice fields with crawfish traps bobbing in the water. We stopped on the side of the road next to a barn where we were told the parade would stop.
The Eunice parade has nothing to do with what you think of when you think of Mardi Gras. It stems from a tradition where men in the town would dress up and ride horses from house to house demanding ingredients (especially chickens) for a giant gumbo being made at the end of the procession's route. So when the parade finally made it to our spot (two hours after we had got there) it stretched a good mile and was almost entirely locals dressed in brightly colored cotton shirts and pants, all flowing with equally colorful tassels, and ornate pointy hats a little bit too reminiscent of the Klan. They also wore freaky looking masks and were falling-off-the-horse hammered. I swear I saw 11-year-olds drinking beer as the old sheriff's deputy with the nearly impossible to understand Cajun accent looked on and laughed.
I never thought I would feel like a freak for being dressed in khakis and a plain blue sweatshirt but people from outside of town don't really visit Eunice for much of anything so we were really the only spectators, at least on that section of the route. Everyone was friendly, though, and they gave us Yankee douche bag gawkers beer and boudin (a spicy pork and rice sausage) and no trouble.
It was a balls to the wall four day tour of South Louisiana and well worth it, though it might take until next Mardi Gras to detox.
It was the final leg of an epic Mardi Gras that ended up being a four day, four city tour of South Louisiana - a boozy, beady bender to be sure.
It started, of course, with Spanish Town Mardi Gras, which each year is the single greatest day ever. This year, my crew decided to come in uniform as the Spanish Town Jogging Team. We all showed up in hot pink, velour jogging suits and we looked great (especially me). The only catch to the jogging suits was that, as they were cut for a woman, they left little to the imagination in an important place for the guys. After I looked down and realized you could see evidence of the rabbinical surgery I underwent as a baby, I decided to go ahead and cover it up with a sock (a move shared by the rest of the guys so that we had an entire team of joggers in pink with stuffed packages).
The rest of the day was really just a haze of floats and beer and, despite our theme, very little jogging.
From there it was on to the obligatory New Orleans trip, where I made the same mistake I made last year - standing next to two cute girls - and caught very few beads. The parades were fun but not as fun as the bar we went to afterward where a brass band was playing all covers. You really haven't lived until you've heard The Thong Song played by a brass ensemble.
From New Orleans it was due west to my favorite city in Louisiana, Lafayette, home of the best bar in Louisiana, The Blue Moon Saloon. There, we met up with Bryan, an Advocate photographer and easily my favorite scruffy drunk of indecipherable race, and continued what was probably the least healthy four days of my life.
After an ill-advised night of drinking we got up at 7 a.m. to go to Eunice (population 11,500) to catch one of the weirdest parades I've ever seen. First of all, Eunice is about as country as it gets. As we drove through town there just a few dilapidated houses separated by flooded rice fields with crawfish traps bobbing in the water. We stopped on the side of the road next to a barn where we were told the parade would stop.
The Eunice parade has nothing to do with what you think of when you think of Mardi Gras. It stems from a tradition where men in the town would dress up and ride horses from house to house demanding ingredients (especially chickens) for a giant gumbo being made at the end of the procession's route. So when the parade finally made it to our spot (two hours after we had got there) it stretched a good mile and was almost entirely locals dressed in brightly colored cotton shirts and pants, all flowing with equally colorful tassels, and ornate pointy hats a little bit too reminiscent of the Klan. They also wore freaky looking masks and were falling-off-the-horse hammered. I swear I saw 11-year-olds drinking beer as the old sheriff's deputy with the nearly impossible to understand Cajun accent looked on and laughed.
I never thought I would feel like a freak for being dressed in khakis and a plain blue sweatshirt but people from outside of town don't really visit Eunice for much of anything so we were really the only spectators, at least on that section of the route. Everyone was friendly, though, and they gave us Yankee douche bag gawkers beer and boudin (a spicy pork and rice sausage) and no trouble.
It was a balls to the wall four day tour of South Louisiana and well worth it, though it might take until next Mardi Gras to detox.
Monday, February 07, 2005
Happy Druz day
After my aforementioned trip I flew into New Orleans on Feb. 1 (my birthday, for those of you who are bad friends). I had an early morning flight so I had been up since 5 a.m. and the airline lost my bag, so I was generally bedraggled and disgruntled.
My friend Kerry picked me up and whisked me away to New Orleans. Knowing me well, she immediately took me to a casino and split $40 between us, which we quickly lost at the blackjack table. We went to dinner and she started asking what I wanted to do for my birthday. At this point I still had a slight suspicion some kind of surprise might be planned, but I played along and suggested we round up the troops and head to Duvic's, a Baton Rouge martini bar.
As I called everyone and they all unflinchingly said they would meet me at Duvic's, I resigned myself to an uneventful birthday at the bar, like any other night except that my drinks would be paid for.
Kerry and I drove home and she dropped me off at my house so that I could take a much needed shower. Almost as soon as I got home, I got a knock on my door and there was a girl I had never seen before asking for help, saying she had just moved into the long-vacant house next door to mine.
"Sorry to bother you but I'm moving in next door and I just have one more item to move. It's a mattress and it's too heavy for me to move myself, could you give me a hand?"
Of course I obliged and in the midst of our small talk she opened the door to her new apartment and a couple dozen of my friends, dressed as me with masks bearing my face flicked on the lights and yelled surprise. After jumping back about 10 feet and nearly soiling my self, I took in the scene and realized that my friends weren't just dressed like me, they were wearing my clothes. Those who didn't have my clothes wore khakis and snowboarding-looking clothes. It was equally touching and creepy.
In one of the more complicated surprise parties I've ever been to, Kerry had organized a break in and, using a ladder and skills honed on the mean streets, several of my friends had gotten into my house through my bathroom window (about seven feet off the ground) and stolen my clothes. Another friend had printed up masks of my face from a photo taken of me last Mardi Gras and a friend of a friend who I had never met was drafted as my "new neighbor."
How did they get access to the adjacent house? Another friend had signed a lease there without telling me and, on her first night there, graciously agreed to host a rowdy drunken party. Everyone in the Baton Rouge crew knows how much I like theme parties and they had thrown me the ultimate theme-birthday party: a Druz-themed party. For good measure, the cops even showed up.
Topping it all of was the gift everyone pitched in to get. Lacking money, I have put off purchasing a bed after moving to my new place in early November (my old bed was reclaimed by my landlady, who had given it to my while I lived in my last apartment). Consequently, I had been sleeping on my couch for about three months. While comfy, as couches go, it was getting old and my friends bought me a pillow-top queen mattress and box-springs. Not to mention a couple bottles of whiskey, which were immediately poured down my throat.
To recap, that means I now have not only a couch and bed in my house, but a (wobbly) kitchen table, a desk and a coffee table. I think that's more furniture than I've owned the rest of my life combined.
My friend Kerry picked me up and whisked me away to New Orleans. Knowing me well, she immediately took me to a casino and split $40 between us, which we quickly lost at the blackjack table. We went to dinner and she started asking what I wanted to do for my birthday. At this point I still had a slight suspicion some kind of surprise might be planned, but I played along and suggested we round up the troops and head to Duvic's, a Baton Rouge martini bar.
As I called everyone and they all unflinchingly said they would meet me at Duvic's, I resigned myself to an uneventful birthday at the bar, like any other night except that my drinks would be paid for.
Kerry and I drove home and she dropped me off at my house so that I could take a much needed shower. Almost as soon as I got home, I got a knock on my door and there was a girl I had never seen before asking for help, saying she had just moved into the long-vacant house next door to mine.
"Sorry to bother you but I'm moving in next door and I just have one more item to move. It's a mattress and it's too heavy for me to move myself, could you give me a hand?"
Of course I obliged and in the midst of our small talk she opened the door to her new apartment and a couple dozen of my friends, dressed as me with masks bearing my face flicked on the lights and yelled surprise. After jumping back about 10 feet and nearly soiling my self, I took in the scene and realized that my friends weren't just dressed like me, they were wearing my clothes. Those who didn't have my clothes wore khakis and snowboarding-looking clothes. It was equally touching and creepy.
In one of the more complicated surprise parties I've ever been to, Kerry had organized a break in and, using a ladder and skills honed on the mean streets, several of my friends had gotten into my house through my bathroom window (about seven feet off the ground) and stolen my clothes. Another friend had printed up masks of my face from a photo taken of me last Mardi Gras and a friend of a friend who I had never met was drafted as my "new neighbor."
How did they get access to the adjacent house? Another friend had signed a lease there without telling me and, on her first night there, graciously agreed to host a rowdy drunken party. Everyone in the Baton Rouge crew knows how much I like theme parties and they had thrown me the ultimate theme-birthday party: a Druz-themed party. For good measure, the cops even showed up.
Topping it all of was the gift everyone pitched in to get. Lacking money, I have put off purchasing a bed after moving to my new place in early November (my old bed was reclaimed by my landlady, who had given it to my while I lived in my last apartment). Consequently, I had been sleeping on my couch for about three months. While comfy, as couches go, it was getting old and my friends bought me a pillow-top queen mattress and box-springs. Not to mention a couple bottles of whiskey, which were immediately poured down my throat.
To recap, that means I now have not only a couch and bed in my house, but a (wobbly) kitchen table, a desk and a coffee table. I think that's more furniture than I've owned the rest of my life combined.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
Canada h...er, Ida-ho!
Apologies for the extended delay in posting but for much of the past two weeks I've been in the San Francisco Bay Area where, as you know, they don't have the Internet. Within this trip home to see family and friends was another trip I had planned with JoeJa and Steve-0h Please Don't Call Me a Stewardess Again. Between all these trips I flew on eight different airplanes with four different airlines in the space of nine days and spent plenty of quality time at the airport. I learned one valuable lesson: In this time of international terrorism and coded alert levels, where everyone on a flight to the white bread Northwest eyes the lone Arab passenger suspiciously, it is a matter not only of convenience and comfort - but security, also - that airplane booze be free.
There's a lot to be jittery about in the air these days and I see free liquor as more of a necessity than a luxury. Do the airlines charge you to use the bathroom? Then why should our mental health take a back seat to the health of our back seat?
I know, a few bad apples get sauced and take a dump on a food cart, but for the occasional heathen to impinge on law abiding passengers' cocktail hours is downright unAmerican.
This also could be a dire safety matter. Imagine the scenario: a passenger sporting a crew cut, mustache, camouflage union suit and wad of chew is glaring at a Sikh he thinks is an Arab. The Sikh man, as nervous as the rest of the passengers, is fidgeting and reaches into his jacket. Mr. Mustache, sober and on edge, figures he must be going for a box cutter. You see, free cocktails may even prevent hate crimes.
So, Horizon Airlines, a toast to you for taking a stand for free booze and against hate. Our country is safer for it.
In between all of this flying and grousing about the above earth-shattering topics, I did actually visit with people and participate in various merriments. The first week was mostly hanging out with family and friends and watching in horror as my mother drove her new Prius hybrid wholly set on maximizing her mileage with no concern for other drivers, stop signs or small children (blog to come later on the disturbing phenomenon of Irritating Hybrid Driver Syndrome).
Then began the great Canada saga. JoeJa, Steve and I had planned a three-day snowboard/drinking trip to Kelowna, British Columbia. We all left Saturday morning - Steve and I on early morning flights and Joe, because he's a big douche, on a later flight - and I met up with Steve at the Seattle-Tacoma airport. While we were waiting to get on the plane, Steve got a call from Joe. Boise airport was completely fogged in and they weren't letting anyone take off (note: the early morning flight made it out of Boise as Joe was getting his beauty sleep).
Ad libbing, Steve and I decided that we would instead hop on a flight to Sun Valley, Idaho, a two and a half hour drive for Joe. In the meantime, we had about three hour wait for our flight, so Steve and I hit the airport bar at 9 a.m. Hard. We wobbled onto our Horizon flight to claim the free drinks that glorious airline offers and stepped off the plane in beautiful Sun Valley just as our designated driver, Joe, pulled into the airport parking lot and whisked us away to our swank slopeside Best Western (not that slopeside matters when you're too hungover to ski, but that comes later).
From there we embarked on an epic night, battling single digit temperatures with cold weather kryptonite: gin. Over dinner we conversed about the relative merits of gin, lamenting it's replacement in many drinks, such as martinis and tonic mixers, with vodka. It was a perfect night to bring the once glorious drink, one that helped the British build their empire and later helped Snoop Dogg stay up 'till 6 in the mo'ning, regain its rightful place in drinking culture. A gin gimlet, gin martini, gin and juice, gin and tonic (x2) and several whiskys later (I needed to mix it up) we decided it was time for a break and we hit the hot tub and took an ill-advised drunken swim in the hotel pool before getting booted by a crabby maintenance man who clearly hates fun.
It was a good reason to get back to work. We met up with one of Steve's co-workers, who was sober and no doubt appalled at the state we were in. But she humored us and had a few drinks before we closed out the bar and walked back to the hotel with the temperature a crisp 1.
The next day, wrecked, we hobbled over to a restaurant for lunch. Our waiter came over, recited the specials and then said, "And can I interest you in a pitcher of beer?" This immediately triggered my stomach demons and I had to run to the bathroom where I puked up all of the water I had drank that morning and that I desperately needed in my system (see pic on JoeJa's phlog). Needless to say, we didn't make it to the mountain that morning.
There's more, but that's most of the good stuff, and if you've made it this far, you deserve a medal.
There's a lot to be jittery about in the air these days and I see free liquor as more of a necessity than a luxury. Do the airlines charge you to use the bathroom? Then why should our mental health take a back seat to the health of our back seat?
I know, a few bad apples get sauced and take a dump on a food cart, but for the occasional heathen to impinge on law abiding passengers' cocktail hours is downright unAmerican.
This also could be a dire safety matter. Imagine the scenario: a passenger sporting a crew cut, mustache, camouflage union suit and wad of chew is glaring at a Sikh he thinks is an Arab. The Sikh man, as nervous as the rest of the passengers, is fidgeting and reaches into his jacket. Mr. Mustache, sober and on edge, figures he must be going for a box cutter. You see, free cocktails may even prevent hate crimes.
So, Horizon Airlines, a toast to you for taking a stand for free booze and against hate. Our country is safer for it.
In between all of this flying and grousing about the above earth-shattering topics, I did actually visit with people and participate in various merriments. The first week was mostly hanging out with family and friends and watching in horror as my mother drove her new Prius hybrid wholly set on maximizing her mileage with no concern for other drivers, stop signs or small children (blog to come later on the disturbing phenomenon of Irritating Hybrid Driver Syndrome).
Then began the great Canada saga. JoeJa, Steve and I had planned a three-day snowboard/drinking trip to Kelowna, British Columbia. We all left Saturday morning - Steve and I on early morning flights and Joe, because he's a big douche, on a later flight - and I met up with Steve at the Seattle-Tacoma airport. While we were waiting to get on the plane, Steve got a call from Joe. Boise airport was completely fogged in and they weren't letting anyone take off (note: the early morning flight made it out of Boise as Joe was getting his beauty sleep).
Ad libbing, Steve and I decided that we would instead hop on a flight to Sun Valley, Idaho, a two and a half hour drive for Joe. In the meantime, we had about three hour wait for our flight, so Steve and I hit the airport bar at 9 a.m. Hard. We wobbled onto our Horizon flight to claim the free drinks that glorious airline offers and stepped off the plane in beautiful Sun Valley just as our designated driver, Joe, pulled into the airport parking lot and whisked us away to our swank slopeside Best Western (not that slopeside matters when you're too hungover to ski, but that comes later).
From there we embarked on an epic night, battling single digit temperatures with cold weather kryptonite: gin. Over dinner we conversed about the relative merits of gin, lamenting it's replacement in many drinks, such as martinis and tonic mixers, with vodka. It was a perfect night to bring the once glorious drink, one that helped the British build their empire and later helped Snoop Dogg stay up 'till 6 in the mo'ning, regain its rightful place in drinking culture. A gin gimlet, gin martini, gin and juice, gin and tonic (x2) and several whiskys later (I needed to mix it up) we decided it was time for a break and we hit the hot tub and took an ill-advised drunken swim in the hotel pool before getting booted by a crabby maintenance man who clearly hates fun.
It was a good reason to get back to work. We met up with one of Steve's co-workers, who was sober and no doubt appalled at the state we were in. But she humored us and had a few drinks before we closed out the bar and walked back to the hotel with the temperature a crisp 1.
The next day, wrecked, we hobbled over to a restaurant for lunch. Our waiter came over, recited the specials and then said, "And can I interest you in a pitcher of beer?" This immediately triggered my stomach demons and I had to run to the bathroom where I puked up all of the water I had drank that morning and that I desperately needed in my system (see pic on JoeJa's phlog). Needless to say, we didn't make it to the mountain that morning.
There's more, but that's most of the good stuff, and if you've made it this far, you deserve a medal.
