Absinthe House, Mountain Skating and Bluegrass

"Not all who yonder are lost"
-Yonder Mountain String Band

We fled Kansas. Barreling down 70 West, there was nothing to see for 8 hrs straight, but we were motivated and flew. I texted my brother's friend Charlie, who lives in Boulder, telling him we were coming asked if he had any recommendations as to where we should stay. He replied with what may be the best answer I've ever gotten. It read something like, "You guys can stay at my house. Once you get here I'll have dinner waiting, a handle we can drink, I'll pick up some bud and my brother will dd us to a pre-game and take us downtown so we can get fucked up." None of us expected such incredible hospitality and we were elated. Despite arriving at night and missing the epic Rockies reveal, our escape from Kansas was of utmost priority and made getting to Boulder that much more glorious. Not only did his family live on a badass, rustic old horse farm right outside of town, but as we pulled in, his mom was just then pulling a massive, sizzling plate of pork chops off the grill. After getting settled in and taking a tour of the property, we devoured the deliciously unexpected home cooked meal and prepared to hit the town. Charlie planned for us to pre-game with his local friends, so we headed to their place, picking up a case of PBR and extra liter of Wild Turkey 101 on the way, naturally. We jumped into the pregame as soon as we got there, taking full advantage of Colorado's great new legislation, and crushing all our bourbon and beer within minutes. The rest of the night was incredibly fun, but for brevity's sake I won't go into explicit detail. Aside from Charlie's blackout friend, Brandon who collapsed onto a coffee table while screaming of Charlie's fetish for pig pussy, it was more or less a typical night of bar hopping and dancing. I did get to meet and dance with Charlie's gorgeous blond friend, Lauren, which was a definite highlight. We had all hit that perfect drunk, except Ben, who at one point took a shot of vodka, somehow wandered into the bar's kitchen, vomited in a trash can, was politely asked to leave and then hilariously tried to take the trash with him on his way out.

I woke up in the morning disoriented and with that horrible mix of bourbon aftertaste and extreme cottonmouth. Aside from my wallet, all of my pockets were empty. No phone. Fuck. I at least had my wallet, though. Then I checked for my debit card. Gone. I realized in a moment of utter horror that I might be completely fucked. Trying to relax, I remembered they both may have been in my jacket, which I then realized was also nowhere to be found. Son of a bitch. Thousands of miles from home with neither any money nor a phone is not ideal. I said fuck it, my new mantra, and assured myself the jacket had to be somewhere and would turn up. Deciding to be happier about having met a beautiful girl than distraught about losing my stuff was pretty much all I could do to not short circuit. Charlie made us breakfast as we reminisced about the night and nursed our mutual pounding headaches. With all day to kill, we decided to rape our hangovers with a long hike. All the bars were still closed and I couldn't yet look for my jacket, so we drove up to the base of the Rockies and began to hike, with Charlie as our guide. Being a local, he knew the area and we blazed our own path up the snowy mountainside. We hiked and climbed all afternoon, precariously scrambling up icy boulders, and not turning back till we were all ravenously hungry. On the way down we invented a new sport called Mountain Skating. The objective was to run down the icy winding trail as quickly as possible, slide on straightaways, swing around skinny trees to help make pinpoint turns, and not die. Everyone loved it except Nate, who was bitterly rueing his decision to wear Sperry's and spent half the time on his ass.

We lounged the rest of the afternoon, prepared to search for the remains of my life, and got ready for the bluegrass show that was really the main reason we came to Boulder. Let the search begin. The last place we were the night before was a bar called Absinthe House and I recalled having danced most frantically there, so it was the first place I went to look. The manager exuded that typical Boulder pleasantness and was pretty understanding, telling me he'd been there himself a few times. But after rifling through a massive box of jackets, I had no luck. Not until checking every other bar we'd been to, did I officially lose hope. A watermelon sized lump formed in my throat as we called off the search and headed for the show. My last ditch effort was to ask Charlie to text Lauren and ask if she remembered anything, but since I'd just checked all the bars, I could only be pessimistic. Nate spotted me some pity cash and I sat gloomily inside the concert venue, nursing a beer and thinking over the big cluster fuck these losses would add to my already precarious life situation.

Then Charlie responded. Lauren remembered me leaving the jacket on a bannister at Absinthe House. With a glimmer of hope, I chugged my beer and sprinted out. After running the 5 or 6 blocks back and briefly getting lost, I arrived red faced and panting. As soon as I walked in the manager says "You were just here right? I think I found your jacket, it has a phone in it. Thank god you came back." Waves of relief washed over me as he explained he'd found it just a few minutes after I'd left. He led me to the back room and there it was. I immediately searched the pockets and found my phone but no card. Fuck it. My iPhone 5 would've been much harder to replace than my debit card. I couldn't have been more ecstatic. I profusely thanked the manager and he gave me a free vodka shot. The night was turning around. I sprinted again back to the venue, knowing the show would soon start, and bought myself another shot and beer. My nerves were fried and I had to revel in my victory. I found Nate and Ben and we celebrated some more. The elation from having found my phone, especially after being in such a hellish pit of despair, would fuel the rest of the night. The theater filled up, people lit up and we danced, whooped, hollered and foot stomped into the night.

Today we left at dawn with a 12 hour drive ahead of us. Minus one debit card, Next stop, Vegas.

Oklahoma Joes and KU Hoes

We drove all night, barely surviving the black ice ridden West Virginia hell. Considering Ben's propensity to steer with his knees while texting with both hands, it was a miracle.

Not until we saw the St. Louis arch looming ahead did we stop for breakfast. After taking a few hours in St. Louis to eat and relax, we were off. We had driven through six states and gone a little over 800 miles in about 12 hours. Our sights were now set on Kansas City, the apparent BBQ capital of the world. I slept the whole way and awoke as we jolted to a stop. What looked like a standard, decrepit gas station apparently doubled as Oklahoma Joe's, the best bbq joint in the state. Rated number thirteen on Anthony Bourdain's top 13 places to eat before you die, the 45 minute wait was worth it. Nate is a particularly big rib enthusiast and devoured an entire rack, describing how he felt afterwards in his typical succinct fashion; "I feel like I have a pregnant pig fetus in my uterus right now."

The next stop was Lawrence, 45 minutes further down the road, where Kansas University is and where we planned for a night of heavy drinking. After booking a cheap hotel, our first stop was the liquor store where without a word, we went straight for the bourbon. It was 5 o'clock and we were all beat from just having gotten short bursts of shitty, neck raping car sleep. So I got a bucket of ice and we sipped our respective pints away in a quiet stupor. As our exhaustion began to subside, it was replaced by the glorious and powerful bourbon buzz. We knew it had taken hold after an irrational, full volume 15 minute screaming argument over Something I don't even know. We reconciled just as a jaunty bluegrass tune began to play, transforming any residual tension into a bourbon induced whooping and foot stomping frenzy. We stomped around a while till we woke Nate up, who had taken the brunt of the early morning drive. Ben called a cab and since the town was fairly dead, we told the driver to just take us to whichever bar was busiest. He dropped us at a pretty standard college bar called Louise's. We made our way in and bought a round, all while Ben yelled irrationally at my lack of cash. I ignored him and he eventually sauntered off. Except for a glimpse, we wouldn't see him the rest of the night.

As we sat judging the crowd, a random guy staggered over to our table rambling about Vegas, where we said we were headed. Excited by this knowledge and with convenient drunken enthusiasm, he ushered over some girls and bought us all Vegas Bombs. After which he stood swaying for a moment and eventually stumbled off, leaving the three girls with us. We were riding that bourbon fueled confidence high as we talked with the girls and bought a few more rounds. Then one of us let a rape joke slip out a little too casually, which was not received well. We reeled and made last ditch efforts as they made excuses and left, one after the other. Apparently girls aren't too receptive to rape humor, especially coming from two strangers in the furthest depths of a maniacal whiskey binge. Alas, we left. I struck up a conversation with a kid who helped me get my favorite green hangover medicine, the night's sole victory. Then we began a self imposed, hellishly cold, two hour death march back to the hotel, loudly bemoaning our nights failures and riling ourselves into an anti Kansas rage.

Today we are hauling ass out of this flat garbage state and beelining for Colorado, the Motherland.

Onward To Vegas

Too White to Fail

I'm shaking up my world. Powers of infinite possibility are anchored by a dread of the unknown. An unfamiliar mindset seeps deeper into my conscience, and the knots in my stomach tighten. I'm a broke, plan-less 23 year old going out West, on whim. I have $450 to my name and 95% of my Political Science degree, in which I have all but lost interest. I spent the past year on the brink of graduation, but opted to invest my time elsewhere and help build a website for my parents business. The opportunity was ripe, but as the website finally began to thrive, a strong sense of discontent took root in my soul. I enjoyed the comforts of home; familiar faces, home cooked meals and a casual work environment.  However, for some reason my life was disturbingly and inexplicably uncomfortable. My attitude toward work waned from it's initial enthusiasm to near complete apathy, and my thoughts drifted into the stereotypical, twenty-something doldrums. Then as fate would have it, a friend offered me the chance to tag along on his cross country drive to Palm Springs, where he'd recently gotten a job. Considering my academic status, I was skeptical and knew I ought to finish school.

Not until after the shockingly enthusiastic response to the trip idea by my folks did I fully grasp that this was the perfect time to say "fuck it". Both of them had gone West around the same age so I decided to chalk it up to an Eblen rite of a passage, forced conscious expansion. I already abhorred political science, most college students and the rat race in general, so why not take the opportunity to embark on an idyllic American adventure? I was in. We drew up some vague plans and convinced another friend to join, setting our departure date for December 26.

My companions are some old, high-school friends, Ben and Nate. Ben, the driver, is a tall, gangly redhead whose absurdity mixes well with a surprising intellect, a modern bohemian of sorts. Nate is the son of two doctors. His semi-sadistic, yet razor sharp wit blends hilariously with a penchant for high shelf liquor and the occasional, accidental rendezvous with doughy girls.

So now here we are, it's 1 am, in a blinding snowstorm, traveling leftwards across the map, and I have neither a return plane ticket nor a plan. All I know for sure is that anything and everything that happens to me will be updated here, no holds barred.