Best of the Butte

Years ago, being sick and tired of the same old, boring, obvious-who’s-going-to-win categories of the “Best of the Butte”, I submitted about 35 fresh, new potential categories to the CB News. They were free to use any or all of them in order to update the contest and hopefully eliminate some of the same ol’, same ol’ feel of the present format, which had gotten about as stale as the mothballs in your grandmother’s coat closet. I think they took about two of my suggestions, and otherwise continued with the same tired, recycled crap for yet another year. And another. And another. Personally, I stopped voting. It couldn’t be more mundane. I’d be willing to bet that this year, just like every other year, Tuck is the best bus driver. Camp 4 has the best cup of Joe, CoBo does the best board tunes, the Steep has the best bloody, and the Stash has the best pizza. At least they threw us a couple of bones with the new, “This town has too many…” (dudes), and “This town needs more…” (chicks). But I’m through offering suggestions that merely go unheeded by the man. Now, I have my own column, so I don’t really need to suggest shit, because I can write about it right here and now, and I can have my own, renegade, underground contest. Over fried fish and draft beer, I, with the witty aid of my girlfriend, have come up with entirely new and infinitely more relevant titles. The REAL Best of the Butte. Or the Worst of the Butte. Or the Mad Real of the Butte. Or whatever. So out with the old and in with the new. Because I don’t need to wait for the results to come in to know that a bowl of Count Chronula and two feet of fresh is the best hangover cure available.

Seeing that we’re a tourist town (for now, anyway), bars and restaurants make up a large part of both the commerce and social arenas. Half of the categories in the present “Best of the Butte” are steered towards eating and drinking. It would be senseless to ignore this most important sphere of life in the Butte, so I, myself, must start with the bars. But let’s stop beating around the bush and get right to the point, shall we? Biggest drunk. This listing may be broken down further into Best Drunk (the guy who’s always leaving $20s on the bar) and Worst Drunk (the guy that’s always puking on the floor). Let’s not leave the ladies out. Biggest slut. It’s important to note that I do not in any way think this to be a classification of ill repute, for these players serve a most important function in any society. There would be a lot fewer fights and a lot less crime if everyone around here (and everywhere else) was getting laid a little more regularly. There could not be a male version of this classification, of course, because we’re all winners already.

We know, too, that the sauce doesn’t only get swilled on one side of the bar. Drunkest Bartender. You want more? Worst tipper. Most functional drunk. Best drunk driver. Biggest perv. I was considering having a whole separate section for the sex stuff, but seeing that alcohol is such a lovely social lubricant, and that bars are really just modern brothels without the rooms, I’ll just lump it all together here. Best tits. Biggest dick. Guy/girl I most wanna bang. Hottest cougar/milf. Stealthiest cheater (the Tiger Woods award). Best blowjob. Most justifiable jailbait. There. Those should give you something to think about when you’re killing some time with a Beam and Coke next to one of those silver ballot boxes in the coming weeks, all horned up with no place to go.

On to the restaurants, which outnumber even the bars, but are really mostly just bars with that nonsensical element of food thrown into the mix. Worst food. Most desperate attempt to generate business. Worst service. Fewest calories per dollar. And, of course, How the hell are they still open?

Other Stuff? Most disillusioned realtor. Most overpriced piece of real estate. Most annoying dog. Most annoying child. Worst tattoo. Doomed couple. Best drug dealer. Best smoke shack. Worst attempt at being in the closet. Best use/abuse of the system. Worst facebooker. Best style. Worst style. Poorest personal hygiene. Gnarliest nose hairs. Most white trash yard. Next business to fail. And, inspired by my days in Aspen, when I would spend countless blissful hours reading the Aspen Daily News at the members only Caribou Club, of which I was most certainly not a member, surrounded by fine marble, classical music, sweet scents, and the softest towels, Best place to take a shit.

These suggestions should give you some food for thought when it comes time to sit down after work with a cold one and a pen and vote in our little local competition. Go ahead and cross off the present categories and insert these in their stead, with your responses, before you drop your completed ballot into the box. I’m sure Tuck won’t mind. He already knows he’s going to win.

Cheetah Cheetah Woods, y’all!

Times are tough. Work is scarce. Foreclosures loom around every corner. Skier numbers are down. The valley is divided over Snodgrass. It’s not snowing. Man, what a drag. But I’m not going to harp on these issues. I’m not even going to take the free shot afforded me at the moron who used to have “Snodgrass” in her name that wrote to Charlie Richmond (and the News) last week to thank him for “keeping Snodgrass Mountain beautiful”, even though she has never been here, has never seen the mountain, has no concept whatsoever of the economic forces at play in the north end of the Gunnison Valley, most likely doesn’t know how to spell “NEPA”, and is giving her fellow Texans a bad name. Nope. Too easy. That would be like cleaning up on the Middle School Jeopardy tournament, and easy though it would be, I’m not going to pick on the intellectually challenged. It just wouldn’t be fair.

No, I’m going to take the high road. When times get tough, instead of bickering with my neighbors about who’s right and who’s wrong, and what to do to solve the problems confronting us, I prefer to use an old, proven strategy that always makes me feel better. I make fun of fallen celebrities. And none has fallen more mightily in the last week that the once squeaky clean ambassador of inter-racial golf, Tiger Woods. It seems that Tiger has succumbed to that most irresistible of forbidden temptations, new pussy, which just goes to show you, no matter how hot the Swedish model is, someone, somewhere, is tired of fucking her.

It all makes me wonder if infidelity is merely human nature, and all the time we spend fighting it and condemning it could be put to better use, kind of like the time and money spent punishing people for smoking weed. I see it all around me. Local families falling apart, families I once held to be impervious to the simple vices that have, in the past, controlled my existence and more often than not pointed it down the path of self-destruction. I hate to see my friends fall victim to this dilemma, but when it happens to the superheroes of society, well, that just makes me feel a little better about myself, especially when it happens to the second most popular half-black man in America, a man that would make short work of the Robert Trent Jones course at Skyland, a course which consistently gives me fits. Ha! How’s that wild carnivorous animal name of yours working out now? It seems that even tigers have a sweet tooth, and are not above sticking their paws in the nookie jar. You could teach me a thing or two million on the links, but it seems we are both mere mortals in the relationship arena. I’m glad to know that your wood can still get you into trouble, and that your balls don’t always land on the green, but sometimes in the pink.

I did enjoy the story about how your wife rescued you from your upright, mildly damaged Escalade by smashing the back windows with a golf club. That’s rich.  A 3 iron, I believe it was. Man, I can’t even hit a 3 iron. Maybe I could learn something about iron play from your wife, too. I bet that cute little Swedish meatball is damn scary when she’s waving that shit around like a maniac, screaming at your half-black ass in Scandinavian gibberish. I bet you got called out in the house, that bitch went richter, scratched your face up, and you decided to get the fuck out, shoes be damned. Being black, you had an Escalade, which you jumped right the fuck into and threw into drive. But that lily white, hockey playin’ wife of yours found the super-human strength so often exhibited by women scorned to grab a club out of your bag, catch up to you, and start fucking up your tint job, so you turned around to scream “WHAT THE FUCK?!?!”, and, also being Asian, ran right into a fire hydrant, then a tree. Then, you did what any man, regardless of race, would do when confronted with a pissed off, cheated on wife swinging a 3 iron – you played dead. This would explain the neighbors seeing you sprawled out on the lawn. While you were lying, there, though, you had an epiphany. You said, “I’m Tiger mother fucking WOODS, damn it!”, and summoning your superhero, on-the-green-in-under-regulation powers, you silenced the Viking goddess. Spider man would have spun a web. Superman would have thrown that ho into the next zip code, or perhaps just flown away. Batman would have used the magic bat-dildo in his utility belt. But you have super Tiger powers, and you defeated your enemy by throwing money at her. Crushing, smothering, life-sapping money, until she ultimately relented and surrendered, her will to fight smashed by a rock the size of a house, yet a rock that would make quite the lovely finger accessory.

Most of us regular schmucks don’t have that arrow in our quiver. We are forced to beg, and plead, and apologize, and use whatever charm and wit we may have left at our disposal. We can’t just drop the atomic cash bomb. But hey, that’s what you get when you’re an international sports icon. You get the uber-hotties. You get the Escalades. You get endorsements, and houses, and private planes, and a cell phone that is apparently no more secure than the one in my pocket. And you also get the entire fucking world looking in on your private life, following every twist and turn. You get greedy bitches selling their story, YOUR story, to “Us” magazine and putting your voicemails all over the internet. You get to renegotiate your pre-nup, as if the player you have under contract just caught 47 touchdown passes in the Superbowl and isn’t going to play for your team any more until he (she) gets PAID!

I’m sure that most of the time, it’s damn nice being a superhero. But at times like this, I’m glad I’m a schmuck. It’s comforting for schmucks everywhere to know that despite the fact that you can whack the living shit out of a golf ball, and place it just about wherever you like, sometimes, every now and then, just like the rest of us, your balls land in the deep rough.

Instaflush

Are you tired of stinking up the bathroom with your foul smelling ass babies? Is your significant other completely nauseated at the prospect of going in there to brush his or her teeth after you’ve rendered the air utterly noxious and completely unbreathable? Well have I got a tip for you.

Next time, try the instaflush! As soon as the last significant turdlet has dropped from your sphincter, flush away the smell before it is able to toxify the surrounding environs! Don’t let that shit stew permeate the entire atmosphere, get rid of it before it ever has a chance to cause a problem. Then, after instaflushing, simply continue your usual seated toilet routine. Feel free to read the paper, talk on the phone, or even facebook while breathing easy. When your ass ring has relaxed, just wipe and flush again, leaving a spotless bowl and a mountain fresh bathroom environment. Your spouse will thank you for it, no longer fearful to enter the water closet after you’ve finished your morning session. Throw out those dangerous matches and that horrible spray, you don’t need them any more! All you need is to make the instaflush a part of your morning routine. You’ll be amazed at the results.  Flushing twice is extra nice!  Don’t delay, try it today!

Dick Tag

Years ago, when I thought that Dallas would be a nice place to live, I worked at yet another pizza restaurant (pizza is a theme in my life).  I must say that despite the miserable heat and lack of outdoor recreation that is the big D, the staff with whom I worked was the most varied and entertaining cast of characters I have encountered during my life in the service industry.  If you’ve seen the movie “Waiting”, you have some idea of what may have gone on there, but I assure you, our crew far preceded and completely outdid the cast of the film.  I have often wondered since seeing “Waiting” why the writers missed their golden opportunity by making such a tame piece.  Maybe I’ll make the sequel.  If I do, I can assure you that it will be worth the price of admission.

At this pizza and beer chain, we had a manager named Janie.  Janie bestowed upon me one of the greatest and most sincere flatteries of my life when, one Halloween, she dressed up as me.  It helped that we were both sporting the exact same haircut at the time, a shaggy mop of curls.  She wore one of our uniform polo shirts adorned with my name tag, smeared with mayonnaise and mustard, wrapped her knee in an Ace bandage (I had just had one of my many knee surgeries during my stint there), and walked around saying things like, “Here’s your fucking pizza” and “Oh, you don’t like it?  Suck my dick.”  To have a workplace superior do something like that almost brought tears of joy to my eyes.  She got it.  Incidentally, that year I went as a bong, and won $150 in a costume contest.

Janie had a husband named Dave.  Dave was a rugby player.  I learned from him that rugby players love to drink.  They also love to be naked.  Rugby is a sport originated in far off lands, and we Americans, despite our misconceptions about being “liberal thinkers”, are much too modest when it comes to the human form.  We can shoot guns all day long and watch countless shows about crime and murder, but God forbid we see a tit.  Fucking hypocrisy.

Anyway, Dave clued me in to a little game that he and his rugby mates likes to play.  It’s called Dick Tag.  It can only be played by men.  I’m not quite sure who starts out being it, but the title of “it” is transferred by way of touching one’s naked penis onto the bare skin of another player.  This is where the creative aspect of the game comes into play.  It’s not like some guy is running around the bar with his dick in his hand, trying to whack other people with it.  The game is much more subtle than that.  You might be lining up a shot at the 8 ball, steadying your left hand on the rail of the pool table, when suddenly, a cock flops out on top of it.  Tag.  You’re it.  The game ends when the dick that’s “it” touches a woman.  That man then loses the game, and suffers great social scorn and humiliation as a result, and is also responsible for buying drinks for the entire team at the next match, just to ensure that if you think you’re too cool to play dick tag, and you don’t mind losing, you will be penalized financially, as well.  That’s usually not a problem, though, because I have come to learn that most rugby players really just don’t give a fuck.

I have told the story of dick tag many a night since my time in the fake D.  I had never actually PLAYED the game, though, seeing as though I’m no rugby man, and I rather prefer my dick to be in the physical company of the fairer sex.  That all changed a few weeks ago, when I found myself in Aspen at an early season hockey tournament.  Our team was a motley crew of drunks, some of age, some not, and of varying skill levels.  I was added to the roster at the last minute, and thought that it would be a nice opportunity to get my skating legs back with an October weekend of games.  What I did not realize at the time I accepted the offer to play, though, was that the weekend was less about the hockey and more about the bender.  Our team sucked.  God damn it, they partied, though.  Half of our team was legally drunk every time we set skate on the ice.  Compounding the problem was the fact that the entire tournament was sponsored by a brewery, and we received a case of beer for every game we played.  We didn’t have to drink any of this at the rink, though, because there was always a keg ice-side.  Five stars of awesomeness?  Yes.  Conducive to good hockey?  Most certainly not.

Back at the rented team house on Saturday, after one crappy game and before the next, I happened to tell the story of dick tag.  Everyone laughed.  They always do.  Then someone said, “Oh my God, you didn’t just tell Scott that story, did you?”  Scott, it should be noted, had already assumed the role of raunchiest guy on the team, kind of like Mo Wanchuck in Slapshot.  I didn’t know him prior to that weekend.  People were concerned, though, that the concept of dick tag should not be exposed to him, as it was akin to matches in the hands of a pyromaniac.  Oops.  Enjoy, Aspen.

Sure enough, Sunday was rife with stories of the night before, a night in which I had elected to not participate.  Random Aspenites were vicitmized by Scott’s flacid junk as it flew about various bars and was unceremoniously dismissed from illegally poached hot tubs well into the early morning.  It made for quite the coffee talk.  I was proud that I was able to indirectly introduce so many unwitting folks to the subtleties of the game.  I was also glad that I had not been directly involved in the hijinks.  Discretion and valor, indeed.

We played our last game of the weekend just as poorly as the previous three, then returned to the compound to pack up our belongings.  A few of us sat around the dining room table, enjoying what was left of the team weed stash.  As I put the glass pipe to my mouth and flicked the lighter, I felt something strange on my right upper arm.  I turned to see one of the younger, drunker, and better players on our team stuffing his cock back into his pants.  Fucking shit.  Dick tagged.  And late in the game, too.  My mind raced as it dealt with both the realization that I had just been tagged, as well as the burden of being “it”.  How could I transfer this most undesirable quandary into which I had just been thrust, and to whom?  People were leaving, and my options grew more limited with each passing second.  I was NOT going home as the dick tag loser, of this I was sure.  But what to do, what to do?

Just then, in walked Marty, who had spent the night with his wife and kids who had come into town to watch some hockey and hang out with dad.  He had been playing the role of husband and father for a good 18 hours at that point, and I knew just what he needed.

“Hey, man, you wanna hit this?”, I asked him, full well knowing the upcoming response.

“Oh yeah.  Thanks!”

I got up from my spot at the table, leaving the pipe and lighter there, and pulled out my chair for him.  Thank God there was still some fresh green in the bowl, making it much more enticing for him to sit down and make himself comfortable.  He bellied up to the table, taking a nice, long drag from the glass pipe, and savored the sweet smoke that wafted from his mouth.  Then the bomb dropped.  His tranquil bliss was shattered by the weight of my helmet as it fell on his forearm.

“Dick tag, BEEEOTCH!  Hahahahahahahaha!”

Success!  Everyone left in the room fell about the place.  I had learned much from the trap in which I was caught, and used it to my advantage.  I stuck around just long enough to see the disdain sink in as Marty dealt with the predicament from which I had just emerged, keeping my exposed arms above my waist as I gathered the last of my things and headed out to the car.  My burden, though brief, had been heavy, and was now thankfully lifted.  I bid the team adieu, thanking them for a weekend of good camaraderie and shitty hockey, put the ‘Stang in gear, and got the fuck out of there, wondering how Marty was going to deal with HIS burden.  Sucka.  I hope he bangs his wife soon so I can put my arms down next time I see him.

Got wood?

The weather has turned, and the jeans and hoodies are being pulled from the depths of the closet once again.   It’s offseason, and the locals’ thoughts turn to two things – the upcoming snow season and staying warm during the upcoming snow season.  The most valuable piece of ammunition in this battle is the trusty wood stove, and those lucky enough to have one are getting ready to use it frequently.  The trophy home owners in a resort town pay plenty to have cords of wood delivered (or they flip the switch on their ridiculous wanna-be gas fireplaces with the cute little concrete pretend logs), but this is not an option for most year round residents.  I see it as downright laziness to pay someone else to deliver wood when one lives in the middle of a National Forest.  It’s like having sand delivered in the desert.  Instead, I rather relish the chore, for nothing makes me feel like more of a true Coloradan than the readying of the fuel that will warm my bones on the most frigid of winter nights.

Hard wood is always preferable for burning, but it can fetch around $400 a cord in these parts, a sum that places it well out of reach of most locals, myself included.  Soft wood, namely Aspen and Pine, is scoffed at by the wood purveyors, but it’s plentiful, it’s free, and beggars can’t be choosers.  I have a few secret stashes of cut and seasoned 4 foot rounds, and when the sunny days grow chilly and the snow starts to fly a few times a week, I start making the trips and loading up the truck.  It is at these times that the 2″ add-a-leafs on my rear springs are worth their weight in gold, or at least wood.  After four or five trips, depending on the leftovers from last year, it’s time to break out the chainsaw and test my skill at eyeballing 16 inches.  Chainsawing to me is fun, because no one wants to mess with you when you’re running one.  The same goes for swinging the maul and splitting those rounds into burnable sections.  I like to imagine that the rounds are the heads of ex-girlfriends or other life annoyances, and I bring the maul down with psychotic force, splitting the rounds in two while simultaneously pretending to win the biggest stuffed animal at the fair for my sweetheart by ringing the bell atop the he-man sledgehammer game.  Sometimes I let fly with a choice obscenity or two, just to keep the neighbors worried, imagining the fragments of skull and brain scattering about my driveway.  Indeed, splitting wood is anger management at its finest, and when the list of viable outdoor activities begins to wane while you’re waiting for the next season to start, the aggression can build up to dangerous levels.  Even the stacking serves to placate a certain side of me, namely, the obsessive-compulsive side (thanks, mom).  Each piece of wood must fit perfectly on top of the one below it, until an intricate wall of wood is built, a wall that is impervious to wind and snow and minor seismic events.  Like a serial killer with his disembodied victims, every little bone has its place, and must be stacked accordingly.  I stand back and admire my handiwork, pleased, before returning to the killing field of the driveway for some further axe wielding.  Some dread this October chore.  I rather enjoy the gathering, cutting, splitting, and stacking, though.  It keeps me sane.  Mostly.

And if you’re wondering how to clean the glass door on your woodstove, try wetting a piece of newspaper and dipping it in the ash in the stove.  Then, simply scrub the soot off of the inside of the glass.  It works like a charm, and there’s always plenty of paper and ash handy in the immediate vicinity of the cleaning task at hand.  You’ll be surprised at how well you can see your next raging fire while cuddling up with your sweetie, hoping that one day her head isn’t the one on the chopping block.

Mmmm, warm.

The nicest letter anyone has ever written about me

(Douchebag)

(123 Self-important Way)

Beverly Hills, California, 90210

August 25, 2009

Dear (owner of the one restaurant),

We grew up in  the Western Edge of Denver and have been regular all season visitors to Crested Butte for more than forty years.  We’ve owned land in Meridian Lake Meadows for the past six years on which we will begin building our permanent residence next spring.  Since you opened the doors of (the one restaurant) and (the other restaurant) we have been huge fans and regular patrons of both.

Near the end of every August, I accompany my father-in-law, brothers-in-law, and other relatives to Crested Butte for a “guys’ only” fishing and golf outing.  It has become our tradition on the first evening in town to eat at (the one restaurant) and then head down to (the other restaurant) for after-dinner beverages.  We’ve had the good fortune to become acquainted with your manager, Faye.  She would remember us as (jokingly) the “Irish Mafia”.  Typically, I bring ten to fourteen family members to your outlets on these evenings.  I always call ahead to determine how long the wait will be for seating a group our size.  We don’t mind the wait because we know we’ll enjoy some of the best pies anywhere.

Last Thursday, August 20th, I called at 7:30 PM and spoke with a male that answered the phone.  I did not get his name.  When asked how long it would be for ten of us to be seated, he replied, “Come on over now, there isn’t any wait.”  So, we all walked over there from our cabin on 4th and Sopris.  We arrived at 7:45 PM.  Unfortunately, we were greeted by one of the biggest ASSHOLES – emphasis on ASS – I have had the displeasure of encountering in a very long time.  He was standing inside the entrance with a clipboard taking names for seating.  He was about 5′10″ or so, with wavy brown hair.  Our exchange went as follows:

Me:  Hi.  I called over a few minutes ago.  I’m the guy with ten people and was told there currently isn’t a wait for seating.

Asshole:  (Bruskly)  Well, you DIDN’T talk to ME!

Me:  (Taken aback by his rudeness)  Who answers your phone?

Asshole:  How should I know?

Me:  I spoke with a guy who answered your phone and told me there wasn’t a wait if we came over now.

Asshole:  It wasn’t ME!

Me:  Well, who would be answering your phone, then?

Asshole:  I told you, I don’t know who would answer the phone!  You can wait an hour or you can head down the road!

(At this point, my in-laws were ready to take asshole outside for an attitude adjustment)

Me:  Where’s your manager?

Asshole:  Over there!  Behind the bar!

I then spoke with Faye and told her of our predicament.  She remembered our group from prior years and said, very apologetically, that there really was a long wait and we could order drinks until she could get enough tables ready.  My in-laws, and I were so angry with the asshole at the door that they didn’t want to stay.  Faye pleaded with me to come back another night and she would help us get seating.  I told her we’d try again on Saturday night.  I also told her that the guy at the door was a complete jerk.  She said, “Yeah, I know.  He gives me a hard time, too.”  I suggested she get rid of him at the earliest opportunity.  She did mention that it was probably one of the delivery guys who answered the phone.  I went over to the asshole to ask his name.  But, he turned and trotted upstairs.  I didn’t want to chase him all over your restaurant and risk causing a scene, so we just left and went to another restaurant in town.

I know you need someone at the door to take names on a busy night, but, an asshole like that can cost you a ton of business – especially, if it was the first visit for a potential patron.  I can tell you with no uncertainty, if he was employed at one of my wife’s food & beverage outlets, he wouldn’t have lasted thirty seconds.

On Saturday night, I couldn’t convince the group to return to (the one restaurant) because they didn’t want to encounter the asshole again.  But, I was able to talk them into ordering (food) for delivery.  We ordered (a specific quantity) and the bill, with gratuity, came to $250.

I am confident that when I return – and I will return to (the one restaurant) and (the other restaurant) on my next trip to Crested Butte – that the asshole will be long gone.  I can only hope the asshole finds employment somewhere in a dark room where he doesn’t have to deal with people.

Thank you for your attention to this problem.

Sincerely,

(Douchebag)

cc:  (Associates, presumably in-laws, of Douchebag, who live on a street, I’m sorry, a “court”, that is named after them)

Bravo!  Amazing, truly.  I just can’t stop reading this letter, because it warms my heart and makes me smile so profoundly that I have posted a copy in my house for my friends and guests to enjoy.  It has even gone so far as to surpass in quality my previous favorite letter, one written by a malcontent neighbor complaining to the HOA about my “live sex show” hot tub parties every weekend, “complete with moaning and screaming.”  I didn’t think that one would ever fall to number two, but you did it, Douchebag.  You hold top honors.  And now, I shall respond.

On the night you came into (the one restaurant), I was indeed playing the role of host, taking a night off from my usual delivery duties.  I enjoy the face time afforded by the host position, what with greeting the tourists and keeping them happy during what is sure to be a long wait should they decide to stay.  I remember our exchange quite vividly.  Late August is still high season here in the mountains, and we were packed to the gills with hungry patrons.  I had a full page of names on my clipboard, names associated with people who were all waiting happily, patiently, drinking or conversing with each other to pass the time.  All was well, and all were happy, something that I take pride in being able to accomplish, as no one likes to wait for dinner in this immediate gratification society of ours.

And then you came charging through the door.  You cut right through the crowd, came up to me, and hit me with your “immediate seating” bullshit.  I remember that you and some of the others in your party were wearing matching polo shirts.  How quaint.  I told you that I had not answered the phone, and had no possible way of seating a party of 10, as we were on an hour and a half wait.  You could see quite well that the restaurant was balls to the wall busy.  Then you started getting belligerent, claiming that you were told that you could sit down right away.  You demanded to know who answered our phone.  I told you that I didn’t know who answered the phone, but no one that was working there could have possibly said that seating for a party of 10 could happen immediately.  I suggested that you perhaps called the wrong restaurant.  Mistakes do happen, you know, especially in a town where all the phone prefixes are the same.  “No,” you replied, “I know this place!  I know where I called!”  I handled you as best I could, because really, there was nothing I could do.  I suggested that if you would like to put your name on the list, you could hang out at the bar, or leave me your phone number if you wanted to go down the street and shop for some more matching shirts.  But no, that wasn’t good enough, because you had been told that you could be seated RIGHT NOW, so you stormed off to the bar to discuss it with Faye, who told you the exact same fucking thing that I told you, while I returned to seating the patient people who were playing by the rules.

And Douchebag, should you think that my version of the events of that evening are the least bit slanted or spun, as yours are, I would like you to know that your display was witnessed by another couple who were on the waiting list.  It was so offensive to them that they felt the need to come up to me and ask me what your problem was, and if I had to deal with douchebags like you on a regular basis.  It was their hypothesis that you had called no one, but had merely thought that you were going to bully your way into a table ahead of everyone else, once you had intimidated whatever high school girl hostess you figured would be taking names at the door.  I agreed with this as a possible motive, but again suggested that you had called the wrong restaurant, one that was not busy, and had in fact been told that your party could be seated.  Perhaps you should not be so sure of yourself.  I’m certain you had a rough day on the links, though, and you were reliving that triple bogey on 17 that really fucked it all up for you, and your mind was simply not in the right place at that time.  In any event, no one else on the list had any problems that night, and they waited patiently, and were all seated just as soon as I could get them a table.  At least we enjoyed laughing at you after you left, Douchebag.

Now, on to the technicalities of your letter:

One does not grow up “in” the edge of Denver, but “on” the edge of Denver.  I wonder if that means the affluent suburbs.  I know shit ain’t cheap in Beverly Hills, that’s for sure.  I hear the golf is top notch, though.

Lucky me, you own land in my neighborhood.  Please see my previous blog post entitled “Second Homo-ners”.  I didn’t realize when I wrote it that it would have such a prophetic quality.  Suffice to say, I can’t wait to see your lovely abode or hear the bitching you will be doing about me and my friends when our lawnmowers are improperly parked.  Maybe I can get a job with the contractor who will be constructing your new “permanent residence”.  Wouldn’t that be ironic?  At least I wouldn’t have to deal with people while I’m upper-decking your new toilets.

I just hate misused apostrophes.  While your grammar and spelling is mostly good, you blew it with “guys’ only”.  Why the fuck can’t anyone figure out how to use a god damned apostrophe in this country?

Thank god you threw in “(jokingly)” before “the Irish Mafia”.  Fuck, I wouldn’t want to be beaten with corned beef and potatoes during the “attitude adjustment” I was spared.   And as I remember it, you were most likely in your sixties, an estimate that pans out with your 40 years of claimed visitation to this area.  That would logically make your brothers-in-law and your father-in-law 50 to 70ish, right?  And these were the ones that were going to administer the “attitude adjustment”?  Cracka please.  It sounds like a Saturday Night Live skit.

I’m 6′2″, weigh 185 pounds, and have a 31″ reach.  Don’t understate my stats.  Maybe my personality was somewhat reserved that night, since I was trying to be nice to you, and I therefore seemed smaller.  I won’t make that mistake again.

If you saw me holding a clipboard taking names, then maybe you should have taken that to be your first clue that there was to be no immediate seating.  The other 50 people standing in and around the entrance to the restaurant should have been your second clue.

I like your use of the word “bruskly”, and will give you points for that, although I don’t think it’s going to help your cause.  I prefer the traditional British spelling, “brusquely”, and considering the way you spun that whole encounter to make yourself seem like the poor customer that was terribly wronged by the mean host that wouldn’t seat his party of 10 immediately, despite the fact that there was no seating to be had and the hour and a half wait for everyone else that evening, your points are hereby deducted.

Why you were willing to hear exactly what I told you when it came from a girl behind the bar with big tits is beyond me.  Wait a minute, no it’s not.  That’s still no excuse, Douchebag.

I don’t want it to sound like I was running away from you by “trotting upstairs”.  What I was undoubtedly doing was going to clear a table to seat a party that had been waiting patiently.  Thanks for not causing a scene.  That would have embarrassed you even further, and I would have been forced to humiliate you publicly over your sandy vag.

Your wife owns food and beverage outlets?  Outlets?  Like Costco?  Or McDonalds?  Were you sure to ask her how she deals with unreasonable douchebags at her outlets when you got home from your “guys’ only” outing?

God I wish I would have been delivering that Saturday night when you finally ordered your food.  That would have been RICH!  And thanks for telling us how much you spent.  We’re all very impressed.

Of course, after I stopped laughing at your letter, I did some research.  I learned that on that night, a man had indeed called (the other restaurant) and asked my friend, who answered the phone, how long the wait was for a party of 10.  My friend replied that there was no wait, and to come right over.  He then prepared a table for 10 guests, but lo and behold, the party of 10 never arrived.  Why do you suppose that is?  Maybe because you got (the one restaurant) and (the other restaurant) confused, since you admittedly frequent both, and you called the wrong fucking restaurant, Douchebag.

Although I am truly flattered at being called “asshole” 12 times in one missive, I would suggest asking for a thesaurus this Christmas.  And I’m not going anywhere.  I like it here.  I’ve lived here year round for 11 years, and I have a lot of friends, both locals and tourists alike.  Shit, I even made some brand NEW tourist friends that night after your ridiculous antics.  We laughed about you for the rest of the evening, and even exchanged phone numbers so that we could get together the next time they came to the Butte.  They were nice, and patient, I might add.  They thoroughly enjoyed their meal that night, and left in high spirits.  You would do well to learn from them, Douchebag.

Clown show

I’ve been without television for a few months now. I canceled my service this past spring in an attempt to reduce my overhead in these economically troubling times, rationalizing that I don’t really watch or need tv in my life during the summer months anyway, and to be honest, I haven’t missed that crap once. The only thing I really like to watch is sports, and I also decided that watching professional sporting events over which I have no control was causing me large amounts of undue stress and taking untold years off my life expectancy. This being said, you can find me at the Talk every Sunday, cursing and screaming while I watch my Eagles, but other than those 16 (and hopefully closer to 20) games, I don’t need all those channels of nothingness. The thing is largely useless except for viewing the aforementioned football contests and the magical babysitting services that it affords. Thankfully, I need not the latter. I always laughed at the hippies with the “Kill your TV” shirts, and now I’m one of them. Go figure.

Be these facts what they may, I still sometimes think in terms of television programs, specifically, potential programs that I see taking shape in my head. I entertain fantasies of developing the next “Seinfeld”, or “Family Guy”, or “Jerry Springer”. I think I have a pretty good pilot going right now, as a matter of fact. I thought I would run it by a small studio audience, namely, you, to see whether or not my vision is viable pablum to be eagerly consumed by the masses. Here’s how it would go:

The show is set in a small Colorado ski town. The characters that live there are a colorful lot, full of individual eccentricities. Their lives are joined by geographic proximity and a common love for all things outdoor recreational, yet there exists a constantly churning grist mill of a-fightin’ and a-fuedin’ over differing opinions. The owners of the ski area want to expand. The independently wealthy hippies are opposed. The mining company wants to dig. The one time mining town wants nothing to do with its economic roots. Ranching versus real estate. Internal combustion versus carbohydrate consumption. Heaven on earth, and a little slice of paradise, but no one can seem to get along. Can you just hear the laugh track? I can.

In this quaint little mountain village, there exists a Land Trust, the mission of which it is to preserve open space. On the Land Trust are quite the varied array of persons and personalities, including old hippies, an ex-mayor, lawyers, and, get this, real estate developers! Now these people just can’t seem to get along, and the real estate developers decide that the best way to conserve open space is by developing and selling it. The old hippies want none of this hypocrisy, and they make a lot of noise, so the real estate developers have a super secret back room vote and kick the hippies off the board. Just for good measure, the developers go so far as to kick a lawyer off the board that’s trying to do his own development on the old town dump. The community is left in shambles, because they’re all contributing 1% of everything they buy that’s not from amazon.com to fund the whole “develop open space” plan. Now what do they do? Continue to pay for conservation through development? Or back the outsted board members and shop online? Funny, isn’t it?

One of the central characters on the show is the town’s mayor. A likable guy, he just can’t seem to avoid controversy. The owners of the local ski area are pushing through with their plans for expansion, plans they claim will bring a renewed economic vitality to the area. The mayor is against this idea. He and the town council even wrote a letter to the Forest Service claiming that opposition to increased lift serviced skiing in their ski town was the widely held position of their constituents, which may or may not be true. While publicly challenging this proposed expansion, it comes to light that Mr. Mayor and one of the anti-expansion council members, who was recently fired by the ski area for publicly opposing their plans, are actually employed by a group of mysterious, unnamed individuals that want to resuscitate an old, now defunct backcountry ski business, albeit using snowmobiles and snowcats and chainsaws and other blights upon nature. This particular expansion is favored by the mayor and the town council member, no doubt due to their positions as employees, even though past employment had already proven to be no indicator of future expansion support. But wait, it gets funnier. The mayor and the town council pass an ordinance prohibiting any building in the town’s watershed, a measure designed to make a proposed mine in the area difficult to realize. At least the town is (mostly) united on this front. Then, right before the (good) gas and diesel and oil burning backcountry ski operation is getting set to fire up the snowcats, it comes to light that they have illegally installed a wastewater system in their lodge, which is right in the town’s watershed, which was protected by the mayor and the town council. Ha! Are you lol-ing yet?

There’s other funny stuff, too. The staff of the town jail all get thrown in jail. Real estate developments flounder in states of incompletion. The new school is too small.  Or maybe too big.  The ice rink is either covered with snow or melting. Everyone that’s making money is a greedy capitalist, and everyone that isn’t is a trustafarian. Community bike programs are continually implemented, and the community bikes continually go missing. Bears eat the garbage, and as it turns out, garbage doesn’t kill bears, the Department of Wildlife kills bears. The hikers hate the bikers hate the horses hate the throttle jockeys, but then, amazingly, when it snows two feet, everyone is high-fiving each other in the lift lines with exclamations of “Sick turns, bra!” It’s all just one big hilarious dysfunctional community that somehow manages to get along, day by day, season by season, bitching and moaning and fighting until the next epic day of communal outdoor adventure.

I’d consider getting my tv service reinstated to watch that shit show. I think it’s all pretty fuckin’ funny. Don’t you?

Rosemary fallout

After I wrote the “Plastic Chef” blog (see below), it was picked up by the local paper.  They stuffed it in the back (young children never read section B)  and preceded it with a complementary paragraph that warned readers not to get too upset, and to see the humor in it.   They also plugged my unedited blog content.  I was grateful for this.  It was clear to me that the powers that be at our local news publication shared my opinion on the asinine nature of the chosen secret ingredient, although they could never admit such publicly.  Additionally, I was most delighted at the form of censorship that the editor chose to employ, namely, the asterisk technique.  “Dick” became “d***”, and “fucking” became “f******”, leaving no doubt in the reader’s mind my actual word choice.  I like to think that I employ profanity effectively, and don’t throw f-bombs about willy nilly like cheap beads at a Mardi Gras parade.  The only thing that was actually altered was “retarded”, which became “backward”.  This did not please me, but considering I got away with “d***” and “f******”, I acquiesced.

The response I got from this diatribe was overwhelmingly favorable.  What really made me smile was the local chefs that came up to me on the street and told me how much they agreed with my position.  Some of these chefs were even involved in the actual competition.  To know that they shared my opinion validated everything that I had written.  In fact, with the exception of two girls that work at the facility where the competition was held, who took my disapproval of the secret ingredient as a personal attack on their event, which it was not, every single person that had something to say had something favorable to say.  Hey, it was a good piece.  My readers have good taste.  But I’m smart enough to know that I have a penchant for pissing off a certain slice of the populous.  And I knew that whomever had chosen rosemary as the secret ingredient was most likely steaming in their Depends.  So I waited.  Then, in the following week’s paper, this dropped:

“Dear Editor:

(Huck Knuckler) was obviously writing his article named “plastic chef” as a 42 year old pizza delivery man.  He did not even attend the record breaking Chefs competition that raised over $20,000 for the Center for the Arts.  His focus on his personal disdain for the secret ingredient, Rosemary, rather than the overall benefits of the event indicate a lack of community support and an immature culinary acumen.”

In order to protect the guilty party from the scorn and ridicule of my readers, who can be quite the nasty lot, I will withhold the name of the author of this editorial jab.  For the sake of this writing, I will simply call her “Kuntly”.

Oh, Kuntly.  Where to start with you?  Let me first say that I am 100% in favor of differing opinions, and the expression of such.  You have every right to voice your displeasure with my observations.  With that I have no problem.  But what else did you do?  You took a cheap shot, and an inaccurate one at that.  Instead of leaving this little editorial temper tantrum at your disagreement with my widely shared sentiments, you decided to reduce yourself to mudslinging by attempting to berate my (incorrect) age and one of the many jobs that I hold.  That’s a shame.  I don’t like to take it down to that level.  I much prefer rational discourse.  But hey, if this is where you want to fight, then I can sling with the best of them.  Anyway, my fans expect a response.  And who am I to dare disappoint them?

Firstly, as for your correct assertion that I did not attend the “Chefs on the Edge” competition, if you had read my original article a little more closely, you might have observed that I very much wanted to attend, but due to economic constraints was forced to work instead.  I was sad that I couldn’t go.  I was happy that the event was such a success.  I never attacked the event itself, only the moronic choice for a secret ingredient.  It should also be noted that I have no “personal disdain” for rosemary.  I find it to be splendid on some red bliss potatoes with fresh green beans, all sauteed up in a little extra virgin olive oil.    I am overjoyed that the Center for the Arts pulled in such a hefty sum.  I love the arts.  I fancy myself something of an artist.  I like to play music and write prose.  You should check out my blog some time.  Apparently you engage in selective reading, though.  Too bad.

Speaking of writing, I suggest you purchase a dictionary for yourself.  While perusing the A’s, you will undoubtedly come across the word “acumen”.  You will then discover that “acumen” means “keen insight” or “shrewdness”.  How one can have immature keen insight or immature shrewdness is beyond my explanation.  You’re not a writer, though.  You’re a chef.  Or something.

I did some research on you, Kuntly.  I discovered that you own and operate a catering service.  I went to the location of said business to see who you are.  I figured that you had to be very young and exceptionally beautiful if you were going to be pulling the age card to your attempted advantage.  But when I arrived, I had to ask if it was really you, because the person looking at me was much more haggard and worn than the picture you proudly display on your website, a picture obviously taken many years prior.  I just hate deceptive advertising.

I asked if you knew who I was.  You said that you did not.  Funny, since you seemed to know so much about me when you were throwing insults around.  It made me wonder what you think of the other people in this town who do what they must in order to survive in the place that they love, people with college degrees who elected to eschew the cubicles and corner offices in favor of waiting tables, or driving buses, or cleaning condos, or shoveling snow, so that they may exist in paradise.  I think we’re pretty smart.  You seem to think we’re a collective disappointment.  I’m glad you’re not my mother.  My mother knows I’m happy.

The question lingered, though.  How could you, a self proclaimed culinary artiste, be so upset with my calling out what was obviously a lame decision?  Every cook and chef I know agreed with me.  Why didn’t you?  And then, today, it all came together, for today is the day that I discovered the key piece to this mystery, rather like the last chapter of the formulaic Hardy Boys mysteries I read as a youth.  The perpetrator had been discovered.  It was you, Kuntly.  YOU are the one who chose rosemary as the secret ingredient!  It was YOUR decision!  And you would have gotten away with it if it weren’t for those meddling kids (pizza delivery guy) and their dog (associates on the inside)!  No wonder you took it so personally!  I dare say that you exposed yourself.  This became quite evident after the information I received today.  That’s why you felt the need to get personal, because to you, it WAS personal.

Look, Kuntly, don’t sweat it.  You fucked up.  It’s not a big deal.  Hey, I fuck up all the time.  I just try to learn from my mistakes and move on.  Life’s a bitch like that.  The event was a rousing success.  I got some great material out of this whole culinary caper, and for that I am thankful.  I hold no grudges.  Not many, anyway.  I’ll tell you what: just to smooth things over between us, in honor of you, the next time I make ramen noodles, I’m going to put some fresh rosemary up on that shit.  Mmmm…I bet that will be just delish!

Working Dog

My girlfriend has a Yorkie Poo, a five pound Yorkshire Terrier/Poodle mix.  His name is Deogie.  He’s very well behaved, unobtrusive, and likes to accompany us on our restaurant deck and patio drinking tours, sitting quietly while we enjoy our libations. Sometimes we smuggle him in a bag or her bike basket. Usually it’s not a problem. When it is, I simply tell the officious staff member that he is a working dog, and that I need him there with me. When asked in what capacity, exactly, he is working, I respond, “Well, you see, I am an alcoholic. This dog has been specially trained to monitor my ethyl alcohol consumption by barking loudly should I consume enough of the stuff to reach the point of intoxication, thereby rendering me an obnoxious asshole who will most certainly offend and run off all of your clientele within earshot, causing me embarrassment and possible jail time, and this establishment lost profits. The presence of this highly trained animal serves to ensure that neither of these unpleasant scenarios come to pass. Should he commence to barking loudly, I will know that it is time to pay my tab and take leave of this watering hole. In the meantime, please bring us two more beers.”

Little Doggie never barks, and there are no further problems with his presence.  What a good boy.

Plastic Chef

Last night was the eve of the local Iron Chef competition. The event planners call it “Chefs on the Edge”, though, either because they want it to sound more extreme, or, more likely, Takeshi Kaga threatened to come over here from Kitchen Stadium and administer a serious haute cuisine beatdown with his nunchaku wielding lawyers if the local yokels infringed on his trademark.  Regardless, the battle this year featured a territorial angle, with the 3 competing chefs (cheves?) representing 3 different area municipalities.  Fire hydrant pissing rights were at stake, to be sure.  I was looking forward to attending, but was forced by economic necessity to deliver pizza instead.

Despite my absence, I was keeping in touch with my associates at the event via the miracle of text messaging.  I had a friend competing in this culinary battle royale, and very much wanted to send gay porn to his phone during the frenzied one hour preparation time, just to throw in a little twist for him.  I was also most curious as to the disclosure of the secret ingredient, the one unknown that would force each kitchen player to adjust his or her game so as to highlight and play upon the delicate flavor and subtle nuances of this shared, common item.  The secret ingredient can make or break a chef.  It is here that one’s skills are given the opportunity to truly shine.  What would it be?  I felt sure, given the local flavor of the event, that it would be an item indigenous to our high mountain locale, especially with the wet spring we had this year, the ever growing tasty wildlife populations, and the abundance of fabulous fruits and vegetables at the farmers’ market each week.  Considering myself somewhat competent in the kitchen (I like to put Sriracha and veggies on my ramen noodles), my mind bristled with possibilities.  What was it?  Sumptuous, juicy, local tomatoes or peaches?  Wild area mushrooms?  Elk?  Trout?  Bear?  (I’m not sure what those DOW agents do with the bears that they have to “relocate”, but I’m sure they would be just lovely wrapped in bacon with a little Gorgonzola horseradish on top.)  As I drove around in a truck reeking of hot, greasy pepperoni, a fairly effective bear trap in and of itself, I awaited the text that would answer my question and set me about my own personal one hour preparation, albeit a safer, mental one, one with no chance of missing fingertips ending up in the judges’ souffle.

Then it came.  Just to be a dick, my audience member associate sent 6 separate messages, each one postponing the actual revelation just a bit longer.

“The secret ingredient is…”

“Drum roll…”

“Drum roll…”

“Fresh rosemary”

“Seriously”

“Seriously, an herb”

To be honest, the last two messages didn’t postpone anything.  They were sent as a courtesy, because he knew that I wouldn’t believe him.  This was a big event.  The chefs that were playing to win are all very well respected.  I think it fair to say that the audience wanted to see what each one could do with a secret ingredient that challenged them.  I do not consider an herb to be worthy of this status.  I guess that parsley and salt didn’t make the cut.  Not a protein, not a vegetable, nor a fruit, nor a grain, nor a cheese, but an herb.  Just to make sure that I’m not completely insane, I googled the list of every single secret ingredient used in the entire Iron Chef series.  Suffice to say, the catalogue was huge and widely varied, but there was nary an herb on there.  Why would that be, do you suppose?  Maybe it’s because herbs are not used as primary ingredients, but instead as seasonings to flavor and enhance these ingredients.  I wonder what dish really blew the judges away.  Was it the rosemary beef?  The rosemary chicken?  The rosemary fish?  The rosemary pasta?  The rosemary potatoes?  Or perhaps the rosemary ice cream with rosemary sauce and rosemary kumquats?  Rosemary.  A fucking herb that can be used just about anywhere on just about anything.  Not local.  Not representative.  What a let down.  Crested Butte is once again cast as the retarded little brother.  We try real hard, and sometimes we come real close, but just when we’re about to really impress you with what we can accomplish, we open our big, fat mouth and blurt out, “ROSEMARY!”

I wonder if the judges will ever eat the stuff again.