I wish I could describe in vivid detail the events of last Thursday night. Suffice it to say that it involved all of the following:
- Copious consumption of canned dive bar beer
- A significant monetary contribution to the most glorious jukebox in all the land
- Dancing/having my hair petted repeatedly by a strange girl who insisted I was from Sweden
- Being picked up and nearly hurled over a fence into oncoming traffic as a result of a heated debate regarding Nooks
- A kidnapping attempt under the pretense of filet mignon
- T-shirts showcasing two unicorns having relations under a rainbow
- A search and rescue mission for a dog, who was standing on the corner the entire time, but refused to return home until we retrieved the car and drove him 8.5 feet back to the house
- Burritos
At some point during these events, my friend and I decided that a trip to the north was in order so we could play in the snow.
Remarkably, despite our inebriated state, we recalled our plan and even followed through with it. Bundled in our best attempt at snow attire, we embarked on a journey to Flagstaff yesterday.
The trip, in its initital stages, was going rather well. However, about two hours in and a mere 30 miles outside of our destination, it abruptly dawned on us that we had simply assumed that snow would be not only present, but plentiful. Perhaps because we had been so certain of this on Thursday night after a few PBRs, we failed to question it by checking the weather report. Our growing concern was amplified as we began to notice the considerable lack of snow along the highway.
Being the resourceful individual that I occasionally am, I asked my friend to look up the number to a bookstore in Flagstaff that I had visited once twelve years ago and happened to remember. I spent the next five minutes questioning a very confused Bookman's employee about the status of snow in her general vicinity. She ultimately informed me that there may be some leftover snow, but being that it was more than four weeks old, blackened, and hardened into ice, playing in it would prove difficult.
Irritated by her unwillingness to produce snow, I made my friend find the number to Starbucks instead. They would never deny me snow.
The Starbucks employee was equally confused by the purpose of my call, but ultimately more helpful. She suggested that we drive past Flagstaff to the Snowbowl (skiing/snowboarding mountain, for those unfamiliar with the area), where she promised that snow would be fresh and abundant.
When we arrived at Snowbowl, we scurried excitedly towards the snow. Once there though, we were suddenly met with confusion over the purpose of this trip.
Me: So what were you planning to do once you found snow?
Friend: Well, I sort of imagined that I would just roll around in it.
Me: It's really hard. Do you want me to hold your purse so you can roll around?
Friend: No, I'm second guessing my plan now. What was your plan?
Me: General frolicking. Maybe a snowman.
We both contemplated this momentarily and made a feeble attempt at frolicking by sort of jumping around for several seconds while displeased snowboarders whooshed past us. My friend's ill-advised attempt at creating a snowball sans gloves was the final straw.
Friend: Fuck snow.
Me: Indeed. New plan: whiskey in the lodge.
After paying $8.50 for a single teaspoon of whiskey in the lodge, we decided to head back to town and wander around. We visited a haunted hotel and a few record and book stores before making our way to the Pay and Take.
What is the Pay and Take, you might ask. Well, the Pay and Take is essentially a convenience store posing as a bar. You walk in, select your drink of choice from a freezer case filled with beers I've never heard of, pay a guy named Dave for your beer, pour it yourself, drink it, then bus your own table. Dave's role is simply to take your money and to make fun of you for breaking the door. In short, the whole place is just a hipster conspiracy. It affords them the opportunity to gloat over their knowledge of exotic microbrews, while also upholding their stingent code of appearing not to give a shit about anything. If a hipster were to openly exhibit anything but complete apathy toward the pouring of a customer's beer, the supreme deity of whatever obscure Eastern religion he claims to practice would most certainly smite him. We can't have that happening to Dave.*
Fortunately, something happened on the drive home that made this whole ordeal completely worthwhile. While merging onto the highway, we spotted a giant Bald Eagle just feet away from us. Sadly, it appeared that it may have possibly been hurt. I intended to turn around and provide aid to the wounded creature until my friend announced her hesitancy to cooperate with this plan, stating that Bald Eagles can kill people.
For many years, I have believed that my preferred method of dying would be shark attack. I'm now forced to reconsider. "Did you hear what happened to Liz?"...."Yeah, a Bald Eagle got her." It just has a ring of grandiosity to it. So please, oh please, supreme deity of Dave's Eastern religion, when my time comes, let there be a Bald Eagle involved.
Moral of the story: snow is better in theory than in practice, Bald Eagles can kill people, and hipsters have better things to do than pour your beer.
*I'm only kidding. I actually really liked Dave. I feel very confident that, had he been aware of my inadequate beer pouring skills beforehand, he would have even poured my beer for me.
