Humans of the Lodge (feat. Julian Edelman)
As I’ve mentioned in previous blogs, I’m in Utah for the next couple of weeks. However, whereas all my friends here ski, I do not.
Consequently, I have 6 or so hours during their ski days where I’m free to post up in the lodge, watch some sports, and eat enough chili to feed a family of 5.
You see, what I lack in balance/hip flexibility, I more than make up for with my ability to bend an elbow, slug a cold one, and shoot the shit with the locals.
And shoot that shit I did this past week.
I had a bevy of interesting, enlightening, and frightening conversations with my fellow lodgers whilst my friends were on the mountains.
And as I was recounting some of my bar encounters one day, our pal Keaton chimed in, “Why don’t you do a blog called Humans of the Lodge.”
She was, of course, referring to the popular Facebook series “Humans of New York,” in which an unnamed, unseen man engages a New Yorker on the street, takes their photo, and shares whatever interesting personal story they have to tell.
Unfortunately, because I don’t like wading through a sea of both garbage people and actual garbage, I try to avoid NY as much as humanely possible.
So rather than having to share a bunch of bleak posts about a guy who moved to a rat-infested shithole of a city to become a famous actor, only to end up sharing a janitor’s closet with 5 roommates, I get to tell the tales of drunk rich people avoiding their families. Way more fun.
Also unlike the Human of NY guy, I don’t have photos of my fellow bar flies because I’m not trying to dox anyone and how tf could I covertly take one?
What I do have is their stories and random stock photos I found on the Internet. Here are a few of them.
The Southern Charmer
Guy weirdly looked sort of like this dude from an ad for a now-defunct beer
The first day of my lodge adventure, I’m posted up at a small mountainside bar. Well at least I tried to be. The bar was packed and I couldn’t find a way to get a beer, let alone a seat.
That’s when I heard a Southern drawl say, “Hey buddy, I think this fella wants a beer.”
A man, about 55 years of age was sat in front of me, and had been for some time. He noticed me eagerly trying to get the bartender’s attention and finally interceded.
As fate would have it, just moments later a seat opened up and I was sat directly next to this man.
Grateful for the assist, I began some polite conversation with him — where’s he from, what he’s doing here, etc.
As it turns out, he’s from Nashville. I shared that I was from Boston and we commiserated on how both Massachusetts and Utah have snow in the wintertime. It was a Wimbledon-esque back and forth.
(Sidenote: like 90% of the conversations I’ve had here revolve around snow and the quantity thereof).
As the conversation began petering out, I turned my attention to the 12 wings I was going to eat entirely by myself.
But then, suddenly, he re-engaged me.
To this moment, I’m not sure how the convo pivoted in this direction, but I found myself listening to this stranger discuss his, ahem, bedroom activities with his wife.
Mind you, I was not initiating or reciprocating this conversation at all. I was mostly just saying “haha that’s crazy” in a very confused tone. But on he went.
He lamented getting older and nodded at me knowingly, as if I could share this woe. Granted, I have the facial hair and weathered, beaten down face of a middle aged man so the confusion was understandable.
His central gripe was that he and his wife didn’t do the things that younger couples do anymore. I thought he meant like hiking or traveling, but nope, he was talking about doing it in the snow or at an active open house.
Those are two real examples he gave me, from his real life. They were not hypothetical, I repeat, not hypothetical, and neither seems particularly appealing or commonplace in any phase of life.
After far too many minutes of this convo, my friends arrived and I got up to leave. I turned and said my parting words to a man who, though he spoke a bit too freely, was a very nice guy overall. He left with me a few recommendations for Nashville, namely, “any place where you feel like you might get stabbed is where you want to go.”
I weirdly believe him.
Scumbag on Skis
This was more or less him
A couple hours later, my friends and I had finished our meal at the lodge from the previous tale. All but one of them were returning to the slopes, so I returned to the bar with the straggler who stayed behind.
I nodded to the Southern Charmer who was still at the bar somehow.
After taking a shot called “Titty Milk,” which made me feel bad for all newborns, we were soon joined by a few more of our friends. Anddddd…one other guy.
One look at this man and I could see he was at least 15 beers deep. He still had his helmet on at the bar, which seemed a wise choice given his present condition. With glassy, distant eyes and slurred speech, he began making conversation with my roommate/ok to good friend Slick.
Basically the entire conversation, like every conversation out here, consisted of how deep the pow was out there. Normal enough, except he phrased it rather crassly as “the pow is titties deep out there.” Haven’t heard the word titties this much since 5th grade.
Slick kept trying to change the subject, but the man inevitably reverted back to snow. In fairness, that’s about as complex a subject as it seems his brain could grasp at the time. However, he then ALSO abruptly pivoted the conversation towards sex — a common theme amongst this bar’s patrons.
Only this scumbag wasn’t detailing his own exploits. He was talking about how on the lengthy ride up to the mountain, he threw some porn on the ol’ phone. I’m more of a Rascal Flatts man myself, but hey whatever gets you through the road trip.
He said he was watching it to “pick up a few tips.” This revelation, while disturbing, peaked my interest for two reasons.
Because this man seemed to have the misguided confidence that a woman would desire him sexually
Because he appeared to be at this mountain alone
The first point is a preposterous miscalculation of his circumstances, but the second one is intriguing.
In one scenario, this man did drive to the mountain solo and was watching porn while operating a vehicle in the snow. If this is the case, how? Did he have the phone propped up on the dash? Was he glancing down at it like he was texting and just getting the highlights? Did he have navigation up and was just watching the video in the small corner screen? Or does he have a great imagination and was just going off the sound and crafting a scene in his head? Many logistical questions to be sorted there.
In scenario two, the somehow even grosser scenario, he did drive to the mountain with someone. This means that some poor bastard(s) were either privy to him playing ‘find the cocktail wiener in the snow pants’ while they drove his perverted ass to a mountain, OR, they were his helpless prisoners as he swerved around the road watching a Peter North mixed tape, while they prayed that he would crash and end their suffering.
Just an odd, scummy piece of shit of a person.
My Après Adventure
On Saturday, we pivoted from a smaller mountain to one of great stature and wealth. It was there that I had one of the most fun days of my life.
After working in the lodge for most of the day (watching and losing money on Southern Mississippi basketball), I ventured to the upper part of the hotel via a tram that gave me PTSD of playing 007: Nightfire on PS2 and getting sniped off that thing into a crevasse.
Immediately I realized, this place was SWANKY. Standing there in my TB12 sweats, neon blue New Balances (for the arch support), and a Bruins headband that serves no purpose on someone with short hair who wasn’t exercising, I felt inferior.
These feelings only increased once I entered the large luxury tent serving as the ultimate après destination.
Inside was a club environment, complete with champagne bottle service, tons of rich girls wearing the furs of what I have to assume were endangered species and female fedoras that I wanted to frisbee off the mountain, and a middle-aged European DJ who looked like he was the don of Swedish House Mafia.
I wasn’t initially thrilled with the setting. It was a bunch of snooty skiers in very expensive clothing, drinking $200 bottles of champagne that I know for a fact retail for about a fifth of that. None of these people had to scrap and struggle their way through two private schools like I did.
What’s more is I’m generally not a huge fan of loud noises, crowds, or any place where I can’t sit down and post up.
But then, I heard it: “Yo that’s fucking Edelman.”
Like one of Pavlov’s dogs my head shot up from the Bud Light I was staring at to avoid making human eye contact, and saw, plain as day, the best slot receiver of his generation.
After having watched him play countless times over the last decade and a half AND lived in the same city as him, Julian frickin Edelman was suddenly here, in front of me, in the middle of Utah.
That sounds like a weird dream I would have.
“Yeah it was fucked. I was standing in a tent on a mountain in Utah listening to German house music and crushing Bud Lights with Edelman.”
Flabbergasted, I chugged both of the beers I presently had in my possession (always have a drink on deck), and rushed to the bar, directly past the private area where he was hanging out.
I walked over to overhear Jules professing his love of convenience stores to two of my fellow non-famouses as I stood there, awe-struck, and creepily staring at a man I looked up to (metaphorically, I’m weirdly taller than him).
As he turned to go back to his cool party and awesome life, I stopped him, reached out a hand, and said, “Jules, thanks for all you did for Pats nation. Mind if I get a quick selfie?” He responded, “You better get one.” Love when your heroes turn out to be nice, normal dudes.
What follows is a photo I would like on an easel in front of my open casket.
I thanked him before stumbling to the bar in a daze, not even caring that I was about to pay $117 for 4 standard drinks.
The rest of the day was spent partying, having jovial conversations with other big guys struggling to navigate through the crowd, and occasionally following Edelman to the bathroom. Even took a piss next to him — first time in my life that I’ve been mad at the presence of a privacy guard between urinals.
I left that tent tipsy, giddy, and determined to give up on my dreams and become a finance bro so I can afford to do shit like that forever.
Ya gotta love lodge life.
