Dear Bum Diary,
LAST UPDATED:
FEBRUARY 17TH
By Dalton Feldhut
Light rain sprinkled against the windows of my roommate’s little sister’s Lexus as we found ourselves careening our way up the mountainside. This week’s misadventure, like countless others, comes impromptu and in full effect.
As I’m sure at least a few dutiful readers of the Diary are aware, I’ve rarely been complicit in upholding the automobile-centric lifestyle of the modern man. If I’m being honest, the eco-conscious section of my mind doesn’t speak to me nearly as loudly as the “oh my fuck you’re going to die” section. The concern mostly stems from my fear of exploding, being crushed, flipping, catching a tire to the windshield – you know, the whole shabang. Yet, on this fateful Wednesday morning, I found myself sledding the icy black slopes of the windy path to Big Bear, California with my roommates for one reason and one reason only; Christopher needed a snow day.
I’d like to believe it was my insatiable desire to be a good friend that put me in the backseat throne of crippling anxiety and impending doom, but reality leads me to believe that my love for mountainous terrain was a prominent guest in the feature, if not a regular star role. However, I’d be remiss if I failed to mention how the cookie really crumbled; how things ended up being lovely.
As I passed the quaint homes, mega resorts, and everything in between, I couldn’t help but wonder what our real destination was. “I want snow” only takes you so far, especially when there isn’t much left for us late larrys (or early eddies, for what it's worth). February — despite the drivel that google ai spewed at us — was clearly not the “perfect time to find some fresh powder for playtime,” as the only snow left on the mountain was being locked away from us novice sledders, with the key being forty five dollars per person. Those bastards. It’s like they knew we couldn’t cut it.
In the meantime, we figured purchasing power was our only method of rebelling against the greedy Jack Frost, as we gnawed on cheap burritos through gritted teeth from an establishment that tends to serve more average joes than Escalade drivers. With our stomachs full and spirits middling, we continued our trek through the forest. With miles and miles of winding road coiling behind us, and not much Bear left to explore, hopes for a winter wonderland were dwindling.
Yet, in our doldrums, we saw her. A sight for sore eyes to say the least: long and slender with an icy stare that could make Duke Dennis quake in his Ricks. I’m referring, of course, to the approximately eight-foot stretch of dirty snow that my roommates and I happened upon as we were kicking our feet at the forest floor in disappointment. Dirt be damned; hours have been lost, lifetimes lived. This patch would do just fine.
We frolicked and scampered in our little patch, building mini snow gentlemen and stamping snow-dirt balls together to throw at one another. We may have walked away with immune systems a little less than intact, but our childlike joy stood tall. I found it quite a bit easier to relax on the journey down the mountain. Call it post-snow euphoria or call it an intimate encounter with a “Bubble Bath Keef-Covered Slugger,” inner peace was achieved on my end. Chris got his snow day, and Tay lead the way.
I would usually take this time to say that the rest of the week was uneventful per usual, but that would make me a filthy liar. You’ll be glad to know that this week’s episode of Christopher Somehow Gets Dalton to Do Some Random Shit is a double feature!
On this chilly Saturday evening, we find our costars in the midst of a “Cannaclub/Sexperts” Party. This evening was sprung upon me after Chris informed me that a coworker of mine ran into him and invited us to make an appearance. Unsurprisingly, I found myself a little more than weary to attend, as I can’t say mingling with the inebriated youth is my ideal Saturday night. However, in his Christopher way, Mr. Bum Diary convinced yours truly to give it a shot.
And a shot we gave. A fair few, in fact. Buzzball and Hennessy were the nectar of choice, the latter being a gracious gift from the one and only, Mr. JP ”to-the-izzum,” a coworker of mine. The alcohol in my system let the inhibitions fade a bit for me to have a pleasant enough time, as did the “stuff” we bought from the suspiciously fragrant table in the corner.
As a vaguely chemical-smelling smoke filled the air and a frat DJ played some of the worst mixes I have ever heard, we worked our way through the crowd to say hello to a few of my coworkers. Typical drunk conversation ensued. A spilled bottle, broken bong, and a discussion over our top three films later, Chris and I found our elderly bodies were a bit worse for wear and headed out. Our presence was felt, no matter how short it may have been; I made sure the Hennessy bottle was well aware of that.
I conclude this week’s letter in a bit of a haze, as I wind down from the exploits of our evening. One Marlboro too many, I suppose. With a full shift in only a few hours, give or take, I figure rest is for the birds. My 2k character is only 27 points off of LeBron’s scoring record, and these threes aren’t going to shoot themselves.
From the Logo!
Dalton Feldhut