I have to put a few things out on the table before I go on here. First I love skiing with a passion whithout it I would die a painful agony of a death right after slipping from a marginally lucid existance to a sleepy, depressed, drooling, cheeto eating downward spiral. Second I like to shake my ass on the dance floor occasionally. It happens after a few drinks and a music mix of selections slightly harder than Zeplin and slight more dirty than Nine Inch Nails. (Hip hop in a pinch but I feel really fucking bad the next day) As it turns out I really don't want to see what you're workin' wit'.(Those in the know with be laughing here). Thirdly I'm drunk as shit right now at about 7,000 feet above sea level so please take that into concideration while reading.
After a day of ball busting, awe inspiring, peace in the middle east kind of skiing, I had the burden of going to a bar in the mountain village. Its a "hawain" themed bar named "laka nooki." Do you get it? "Laka Nookie"...."lack of nookie"...man that's good! Right! I'll pause here so everone reading can catch their breath from the humoristic blast to the senses you get when you understand the slight semantical difference between "lack of nookie" with the witty "laka nooki" I mean its like your saying, "lack of nookie" when you say the name. Oh man!...(end sarcasim here) I should have turned around once I looked at the name of the place. I mean the idea of pine apple flavored martinis, Kowabunga burgers, and lanai fries should have spun me on my heels back to the condo. But no, it was too damn cold out and I didn't bring a coat. Plus the group of folks I was with were fun and interesting. I had to enter.
So the first several cunks of time were great; filled with conversation of skiing and work, a vodka soda, more conversation, a vodka soda, more conversation smattered with some really decent people watching, a vodka soda, a vodka soda, a vodka soda. Hey I'm on vacation and I forgot that I was paying for my own booze. It was the altitiude damn it. Anyway, The place is packed with every kind of person you can image well let me be more persice(sp?), every kind of person you can imagine that would either live in Mammoth Lakes California or spend money to ski at Mammoth Mountain. This should clue you into the types of people we had on hand. We had the drunk touristas, the drunk locals with chips on their broad yet stupid shoulders, the wealthy douche bag males with their comb overs and regular sized condoms, the too old to wear that low cut top and tight jeans, "but my book club lady friends said it makes my tits look great" devorced mothers of 2.5 kids, and my favorit of all people to deal with; the (909) snow boarding, cage match watching, tattoo posing, dumb fucks, and fianally the wildly intellegent and socially responsible yet very poor spellers of a group of which I was a member. Let's just say I'm in heaven.
There was an area cleared of tables chairs and stools to be made into a dance floor. Its a respcetable size space and people are ready to begin the scene. The DJ (Douche bag Just out of county) on the other hand teases us with some quality NIN and some old Sisters of Mercy...but just a tease. He then lowers the boom on the unsuspecting crowd, that's right old school Michael Jackson. Hell you have have to dance to that right. I mean you have to shake your ass a little. Everyone can be seen boppin just a little if not out right breaking it down to the pedophiles beat. Hey the beat comes from before we knew so its OK. Some find it more appropiate(sp?) to bust into some saphoric bumping and grinding with some titty flashing to add flavor. Which is the one good thing that comes from the (909) I think we will all agree. So the night is looking up.
Then the "Muther Fucka"(not my words) behind the turn tables proceeds to bust out every reputable dance record released in the last 10 to 20 years. The only problem is he doesn't play the track we know and love to shake our collective drunk asses too. No. He ends up playing the track next to "The Track." Its like he was have to pay royalies or something. I'm not kidding when I say everyone on the dance floor would look at each other and say, "what the fuck ?" "Why is he playing this song?" Then he would tease us with a smash up of that crappy ass song and the song we all thought he was going to play. Only to be blasted by the sound of the needle being droped from height onto the open side of the turn tables. The concusion was something to behold. Was this guy really that bad? Yup he was that bad. I wish I was more versed in the annals of shitty music so I could run down the play list for my readers. But I don't even think Ryan Seacrest or Kassy Kassum have heard music this shitty. Kaytell records could not have put together a shitty-er collection on a 2 disc set or 1 cassette tape. The dance floor actually stopped bobbing four times at four consecutive music changes. I mean when you queit a room and make the two hammered chicks stop making out, look up and ask what is that guy doing, you know you have accomplished something special.
All I can say is thank God or Budha or whomever for Vodka soda.
Thankfully I can ski again tomorrow and cleans my audiotory pallet with an adventurous sorbet.(wow that sounds gay)
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