SnowGhost Music

If you were a serious mathematician, capable of counting well beyond the fingers on both of your hands, you could count the number of SnowGhost blogs and discover that there have been 20 blogs so far. That would make this blog the 21st, and in blog years, that means it’s time to buy the blog a few shots. After consulting with the lab-coat wearing mathematicians we keep on staff for help in all of our counting situations, we decided that 21 shots would be appropriate. And being a blog, we’ve decided to keep track of everything to the best of our ability as we get celebratory. So grab your shot glass and let’s raid mom’s liquor cabinet and crank up dad’s stereo! (Note to readers: no one at SnowGhost condones abusive drinking, liquor shelf raids, or unauthorized fancy equipment usage, so what follows is in no way a reflection of our modest and humble, law-abiding nature. If you are under 21, you must seek parental permission to continue.)

For our first and second shots, we respect our elders and take a nip of grandma’s Early Times whiskey. We feel nostalgic and decide to enjoy a middle-school mix tape (recorded with quality in mind on a Maxell XL II 90) and relish in the sweet transitions between Gish-era Pumpkins and the token Neil Young song. Shots three and four reflect our respect of pirates and jungle punch. We set sail with the Captain, squelch the scurvy, and borrow a friend’s R.E.M. CD that was seen hanging out with high school kids. Life’s Rich Pageant indeed! And while we secretly think Johnny Marr is pretty fucking cool, we take our sister’s Meat is Murder CD and rub it against a magnet in a menacing fashion. This is because after two shots of Mount Gay, which we are not but Morrissey surely is, we think that magnets will erase CDs just like they erased our Welcome Back Kotter best of tape in a tragic late-eighties VHS placement mishap.

Either it’s the rum or the bitter memory, but we’ve got a tear in our eye. The lab-coats suggest more whiskey to milk the emotions, and we sloppily oblige by throwing back a few high-school-sized shots of Jim Beam. A little wave of nausea accompanies a little Wave of Mutilation, and we are tempted to take out someone’s car and raise a little hell. But those fucking lab-coats have outsmarted us yet again and have hidden not only the keys, but the vehicles as well. Instead we do a little rebel yellin’. Whooooo! Shots are awesome! The Pixies will never break up and we hear that recordable CDs are in our near future! More shots, right? Nine and Ten. We’re pretty much halfway there, and Joey Santiago sounds like a Mexican name, or at least Hispanic, and Black Francis sings in Spanish all the time, so let’s do some Cuervo Gold and fuck the salt and limes!

Holy shit, we think the hair on our chest has doubled, and we definitely could have used a chaser, but we’re okay with a little vomit burp here and there. And we’re definitely okay with putting on Ritual de lo Habitual and a little half-assed moshing. And speaking of shit, it hits the fan when we find a Helmet CD and down our 11th shot, which is some kind of vodka in a plastic bottle. We mosh until we knock over a speaker. Then we decide to mellow out with a little cognac and someone suggests Pink Floyd. But we say fuck Pink Floyd, and we’re not afraid to be the only people that hate them. And fuck cognac, we think it’s bottled snobbery. Let’s finish off the shitty vodka with shots 12 and 13 and gravitate towards college-level drinking and musical tastes!

We hear that collegians enjoy Jagermeister. We find it in the freezer, and it totally tastes like college. Someone, probably a fraternity member, tries to sneak on a little Dave Matthews Band, but Ted arrives just in time to destroy the CD and replace it with a band that none of us have heard of, which totally makes it rad. We’re happy friendly drunks, so the frat guy can stay until he gives us shot number 15, which is something with the word gold in it, and it has gold shit floating around inside of the sketchy-looking bottle. It tastes like frat house, and it’s in our incredibly upset stomachs for all of two seconds before we are upchucking like a bulemic. The frat boy is forced out of the party, just as a second wave of nausea forces out what’s left in our stomach.

After a brief clean up in the bathroom, the lab-coats give us the go ahead for the final stretch. We feel like having some white Russians because we love the Big Lebowski so much, but rules are rules and we decide on Kettel One. It’s so smooth and non-goldshit tasting that we try two, just as we swear that there are two Ted’s telling us to listen to some crap he just put on. The vodka comes on like truth serum, and we tell Ted that we don’t care how criminally complex the layers produced by some highly-regarded French-Canadian instrumental band is, we want some fucking words and sad drunk shit to listen too. We settle on Either/Or, and we all get bummed out about suicides and heroin and why only good musicians die. We accidentally pour out some Glenlivet on purpose to honor our fallen heroes. We down shots eighteen and nineteen in consecutive gulps, and it’s at this point that the room spins like some awful amusement park ride and we become fallen heroes ourselves.

It’s at this point that we have trouble speaking, much less walking or thinking. We feel like two more shots will probably kill us, but that would at least keep us from having what will surely be the worst hangover of 2008 tomorrow. With the assistance of the lab-coats, shots are poured and placed in front of us. Across from us is the Tibetan guy who was out drank by Marion in the bar scene in Indiana Jones. Apparently he is still upset by it. He pounds his two shots and is able to turn his glasses over and smile brightly with his two remaining teeth, which of course probably means he only has one. In an attempt to out class the mighty Tibetan, we drink both shots at once, noticing that they taste a lot like water. And in another attempt at further class, we slide off of the barstool and make sleep-inducing contact with something cold and tough. It is highly likely that we will never know what hit us.