Starting Again
With the effort to resume my adventures in limiting the craziness of life, I have again started to prepare the body for the undertaking ahead. Next to me on my Sunday morning sojourns along the coastline is Fifty-Two Bottles adventurer Jason. In between his weekly beer, he and I do as we have done off and on for almost a year: a morning run. While the goals are different for these workouts, the mutual support remains.
As my body becomes a bit more appropriated for my goals, these particular posts about training will be short. That is, until, I am able to use my body as transportation without risking injury. In a few weeks time I will be prepped for the first of these tests. More on that later when it is closer at hand.
The Land of Flagstaff – Majestic and Magical
In doing my sibling duty, I was tapped to drive my sister back up to her college home of Flagstaff, Arizona. A small town rich with culture, history, and creatures.
For the duration of her stay at home, my sister never went a day without mentioning the joy she would take in seeing me at her new favorite establishment. The Museum Club.
Now to make things quite clear, let’s go over a few facts. I am not a country fan. The sight of me dancing is rare. Counting is not my strong talent, especially when my degrees in English are factored in. Two-Stepping was my demise.
Oh, and the idea that we were “Closing the place down!” – I go to bed at 11pm when I’ve had a ‘rager’ of a night.
Stumbling out of her truck into a balmy temperature of 18 degrees, the sound of country music served as my doomsday soundtrak whilst my shoes grinded the rocks into pockets of dirt in the parking lot.
My sister was skipping in a fit of glee.
Climbing up the steps and into the log cabin establishment I broke a sweat. I did notice that it was a historical landmark complete with a ledger to sign in at. However, glancing over the ledger and seeing profanity laced tirades of drunken idiocy, I realized that a signature here was no different than the prestige one can have by making out with someone of questionable moral fiber. It doesn’t count. NO POINTS.
The wooden dance floor featured a tree in the middle of it; a debate continues as to the if the tree is truly real. Surrounding the logged walls were what you would expect of a former taxidermy shop: antlers, mounted heads, full stuffed animals staged in attack mode, a mountain lion with a holiday Santa hat. Then my eyes adjusted to the individuals insight this establishment.
Wranglers and plaid everywhere. Boots echoed as they hit the ground and buckles glinting in the sparse lighting. Apparently I chose a good night. It was Dime Beer night. Yep, a beer for 10 cents. The choices: Pabst or Coors Light. My sole redeeming factor was purchasing a proper Crown Royal/Ginger Ale for $2.
“Is thaat Crown Royal Whiskey?”
“Um . . . Yeah.”
“Have ya ever mixed it with Red Bulll?”
“Nope.”
“Yur missin’ out pawhtna. Give me two of them Crowns and Red Bulll!”
This exchange with another patron at the bar lead me to promptly run back to my sliced tree trunk table. In time I grew more aware of the surroundings.
The bathroom urinal was similar to a bathtub. The DJ was in his 40s, with a pony tail, away from Mom’s basement for the night, and playing rap song sets in between rounds of Cotton Eyed Joe and other country hits. Both modern and classic.
I met a guy who looked like a ninja turtle and halted myself several times from calling him Leonardo. I attempted this two-step and kept losing count. I saw creepers leering at girls dancing alone on the wooden square. Girls flipping and nearly kicking their partner in the face. When Thriller came on, the place erupted as if Bon Jovi had just stepped on stage in New Jersey. Leonardo danced with a women no younger than 50; her daughters snapping photos of the escapades. A girl hurling the contents of her stomach all over the floor as she was 10 seconds too late of reaching the bathroom safely. All of this to the tunes of Carrie Underwood’s Before He Cheats and Crazy Bitch by Buckcherry.
The DJ sang them all while watching his first generation MacBook cycle through his playlist.
As the time hit closing I left bewildered. Other moments that had my mandible hanging during the night have since been suppressed by my mind. Most certainly for my own safety.
I woke up the next morning hoping that it was a dream. Or that I had passed out due to altitude sickness. Nope. The wounds are still healing.