Happy Holidaze From Telluride

It’s our first night out in Telluride. Wait, are you not supposed to go out drinking on Christmas Eve and Christmas? I don’t see why not. El Dilector and I begin our trek to the Galloping Goose shuttle stop. “I want to go to the oxygen bar,” he says. “As long as they also have drinks.”

I can get behind that. Oxygen is good and all but it doesn’t pack the buzz that a vodka press does.

On the shuttle bus, we see two British girls who are down to party. “I have a feeling they’re loosey-goosey,” El D says. I think he partially believes this and partially says the phrase “loosey-goosey” to make me laugh. That and the word “sheesh” will get me every time. It makes him sound like an old lady.

We arrive at New Sheridan and claim a table and some drinks. El Dilector explains that he bought his friend a Snuggie for Christmas. “It’s a pink Snuggie—it’s a new design,” he says with obvious pride. I wonder how his friend feels about this "gift."

On my way to the bathroom, I am accosted by a guy with—let’s be honest—a little bit of a crazy look in his eyes. “DO I KNOW YOU?!” he’s screaming. Damn, I almost made it into the ladies’ room.

“No, I don’t think you do,” I say patiently. The crazy eyes are kind of scary, and he’s actually bobbing and weaving on his feet from his alcohol intake.

“NO GIRL WITH BIG BROWN EYES LIKE THAT COMES INTO THIS BAR WITHOUT ME KNOWING!” he yells gleefully. “YOU’RE GORGEOUS!”

While I’m flattered, he’s freaking me out. Big time. “Can I go to the bathroom now? Maybe I’ll see you at the bar?”

“OH, YOU WILL. YOU WILL, BIG BROWN EYES,” he says. Thankfully, he lets go of my sleeve and I’m able to escape into the bathroom.

When I return, a space has opened up at the bar so we head over without delay. I love bellying up to the bar. I believe this is where all the action lies. El Dilector is looking around at the other patrons. “I don’t see many guys in here with scarves on,” he says. “Are scarves out?”

Hey look! The British girls from the shuttle bus are here. Surprise, surprise. Considering there are about three places to drink, it’s not really a surprise at all. El Dilector has just dubbed them the town floozies. Another word that never fails to entertain me.

Oh God. It’s Crazy Eyes. And El D has gone outside to smoke, leaving an opening for him. He starts blathering again. He’s completely forgotten how he chased me to the bathroom. He’s actually introducing himself again. I’m nodding and making snarky responses. Things like, “Oh. Nice to meet you—AGAIN.”

He’s sort of annoyed with my attitude, apparently. He starts giving me shit about Texas. It’s completely valid to hate on Texas and/or Texans if you’re from Colorado and you're living in paradise (aka Telluride), but try and make some sense with your hate. He keeps repeating this phrase: “Terrible Texas is like Killer Colorado.” When I ask him to explain it, he gets flustered as if the answer should be obvious.

El D returns and Crazy Eyes turns to him. “Terrible Texas is like Killer Colorado.”

El Dilector gives him a blank stare and then meets my eyes. I try and tell him without saying anything to get rid of this guy. “What does that mean?” El D asks.

“I don’t know,” Crazy Eyes replies. Even he doesn’t know. Good Lord. Next, please!

We ask the bartender to take photos. El Dilector reviews the latest snap with a critical eye.

“Not bad.  I look a little…Mexican.” This kills me. I nearly fall off my bar stool.

We overhear the bartender finishing a conversation with one of his co-workers. I don’t know what numbers one and two were, but I do hear this: “…Third of all, it’s fucking Christmas.”

By the witching hour, my pissed off locals count is at two, but I’m not sure who the second guy is and what I did to piss him off. There have been some shots involved, and this means I’m losing my recall ability as well as the ability to make sense of my notes. I believe El D is feeling it too, as he gazes across the bar and says: “Isn’t that blonde my type?”

“I don’t see a blonde.”

“Brunette.  Whatever.”

“She has no idea what a fucking nightmare you are,” I tell him, and order another blueberry vodka press.

There’s an older gentleman at the bar watching me. “Are you writing a novel?” he says.

“No, I already did that.  Now I just write down things drunks say.”

We move on to the Llama, where we meet another local who buys us more shots. One of them is a waterfall shot. This is a really dumb idea in my drunken opinion, because you must pour one shot into another glass and then the whole thing pours into your mouth. Or, as I watch another local attempt it, it pours all over your shirt. I opt to combine the shots and just take it as one. See? Who says alcohol impairs your decision-making ability? That one was a good one.

As the bar closes, El D and I are forced into the bitter cold. We cannot really figure out how to get home. So basically we stand around screaming at the top of our lungs: “HOW DO YOU PEOPLE LIVE LIKE THIS?” Eventually, I walk home and El D finds a cab. If you can believe it, he actually helps someone else into and out of the cab.

Merry Christmas, people. Merry Christmas.

-Shakira 01.23.11