Life Lessons I've Learned From Buck Hunter

People here in Ketchum don’t fuck around when they shoot their simulated wildlife.  These are no small-time Buck Hunter virgins.  Nope.  They hold national, if not international records for shooting animated elk, sheep, goats, deer, moose, antelope, caribou and assorted smaller wildlife.

Now I’m no novice to Buck Hunter.  I’ve been shooting video game wildlife since high school, when we used to sneak into the dive-bar cop hangout Cork N’ Bottle and drink cheap beer and shoot mountain goats.  And for years now I’ve wanted to dress up as the Buck Hunter chicks for Halloween. 

One time, while nursing an overpriced martini at a trendy bar where men wear designer jeans and women where, well, pretty much nothing, I complained, “I’d rather be drinking PBR and playing Buck Hunter right now.  In fact, I’d take PBR and Buck Hunter any day over this crap.”  And besides being a kick-ass drinking game, Buck Hunter teaches from valuable life lessons with its hot hunter chicks and plastic guns.

Don’t shoot the cows.  If you shoot the bitches your tour is over.  And to make it worse, the game informs not just you, but the entire gathered bar crowd of your inferiority and mediocrity at shooting simulated wildlife.  It scream, in big, bold letters, “YOU SHOT A COW!”  In other words, you dumb fuck.  Way to suck at this game.  Moral of the story, don’t fuck with women.  If you fuck with a woman, your tour is over.  And then the whole bar knows that you suck at the game.

If It’s Tourist Season Then Why Can’t We Shoot ‘Em?  Anyone who has lived in a resort town for more than one season has asked this question at least once.  There is nothing like the onslaught of white-tennis-shoe-wearing, khaki-short-sporting, camera-clicking, direction-asking, fanny-pack-donning, get-the-fuck-outta my bar/coffee shop/restaurant/ski slope/river section/wave break tourists to make one contemplate this question.  And a tourist in designer jeans with a wallet full of quarters who thinks that he is entitled, even allowed, to engage in this game, our game - don’t even get me started.  Which is why Sarah brought this up the other night.  She decided, “There should be a tourist shooting level.  And it should take place in Sun Valley.  And all the tourists should be wearing fanny packs.”  And we raised our glasses and toasted to that.

Drinking Is Key To Life.  I mean key to Buck Hunter.  Well, anyway.  Now I’m no expert.  And I don’t claim that this holds true for everyone.  But I’ve found that sober Buck Hunter is a lot more difficult than tipsy Buck Hunter.  And that tipsy Buck Hunter is a lot less fun and rowdy than drunk Buck Hunter.  And blackout Buck Hunter.  There are no words.

Don’t Think Just Shoot.  To really kick this game’s ass, you can’t think too hard.  You just have to pull the trigger and shoot some shit.  Oh, yeah, and don’t forget not to shoot the bitches.  Lesson learned here?  Go with your gut and don’t think too hard.  Important life advice.

Anger Is A Good Thing.  In moderation at least.  Think about it.  How are you supposed to blow holes in simulated wildlife if you’re sitting there gingerly clutching the gun and cringing each time a poor, little bucky-wucky goes down?  You’re not.  You have to get pissed.  You have to want to GET IT DONE. Some of my best games have happened when I was really ready to fuck some shit up.  And thankfully, animated wildlife served as a great outlet for this sentiment (Sarah – Bad Billys last summer).  But this is where moderation comes in.  You can’t get so pissed that, upon eliminating a cow and ending the tour, you slam the gun through the screen, pour your beer on that hot blond chick who turned you down and punch a hole through the bathroom door.  That’s no good.  And now the game is steaming and smoking and ruined for everyone.  Moderation is key.  Just like in life.

So there you have it.  The benefits of playing a game of Buck Hunter while drinking cheap beer.  There are life lessons are learned from this pursuit of happiness (and drunkenness).  What life lessons have you ever learned drinking a $300 bottle of champagne and sitting at a too-hip-to-handle, overpriced martini bar engaged in a pointless conversation about some pointless celebrity with a pointless man who has nothing better to do than stare at your tits and talk about himself in between checking his Crackberry for emails (or more likely for Facebook updates about himself)?  None.  But Buck Hunter.  Well Buck Hunter might just be the Socrates of our generation.

I Drink Gin

I drink gin.  I also drink microbrews and red wine, PBR and tequila.  But when I mean business I drink gin.  When I put my shit-kickers one and accessorize with my don’t-fuck-with-me face, I drink gin.  Tanqueray.  It smells like Christmas.  And I like the green bottle with the red seal that looks a bit like my family crest. 

I am nursing a Tanqueray and tonic in a dying hole-in-the-wall on a rainy Monday night.  It could be anywhere but it’s here.  A jazz quartet is picking out Thelonious Monk’s ‘Round Midnight.  The warm, wet smell of summer rain slinks down the stairs.  A lady in a bottle green dress, sliding down the stairs to remind the dark drinkers that the world outside is alive. 

The drummer looks like he’s about to fall asleep.  Or pass out.  Or kick the bucket.  I’m uncertain which.  The redhead down the bar sits up straight and stares ahead.  She’s calculated and self-conscious.  She’s picking the ice out of her highball glass and crunching it uncertainly.  They say that’s bad for your teeth.  She seems normal enough but she’s got that crazy rider look in her green eyes.  She’s dark.

Dark-complexioned, a man sitting in the corner is smokes a Parliament.  “Drug addict cigarettes,” I remember.  His lids are half closed doors with children eyes peaking around the corner watching the parent’s party.  The smoke unfurls around him like a burlesque dancer in a cabaret show.  She reaches around the two-day stubble on his neck and traces a line from ears to chin. 

The redhead gets up and leaves.  Parliament follows.  I drink gin.  

Dive Bars Defined: Hey Sweet Tits Can I Buy You A Drink?

Since I mentioned seedy, hole-in-the-wall dive bars previously I feel compelled to further define said establishments.  Once upon a time, someone is Aspen defined the eatery Little Annies as a dive bar.  I laughed in their face.  Literally.  If you are not familiar with the establishment please look it up.  It may not be Spago, but it certainly is not a dive bar. 

A dive bar must be a place that you would never, under any circumstances, feel comfortable taking your children.  The floor must be so sticky with spilled beer, human fluids and decades-old dirt that no toddler should crawl upon it.  The booths must be so unstable that one dare not place a car seat atop it.  The bathroom graffiti must be so vulgar that you would be ashamed to allow you seven year-old to read it. 

A dive bar must be a place so libertarian (at least) and anarchical (at best) that all rules of decorum, religion and government are flagrantly ignored.  Cussing like a sailor in the presence of the elderly is permitted (but not in front of the kids because remember, there are none).  Spitting inside is tolerated.  Drinking on the Lord’s Day is admired (Sunday Funday).  Smoking is allowed despite, or perhaps in spite of, laws against it. 

A dive bar must have cheap drink specials.  These may include but are by no means limited to Ladies Night, Margarita Madness, $2 drafts, $2 shots, all-you-can-drink pitchers, Insert Favorite Sports Team Here Fans Drink When Insert Start Player Here Scores and my personal favorite – Dollar Night. This may be $1 well drinks, $1 beers, $1 shots or $1 anything.  But the concept is simple. For $20 I should be able to kill myself with booze.

A dive bar must have at least one full-fledged bar fight a week.  And by bar fight I mean fists flying, bottles breaking, stools overturning and windows shattering.  Extra dive bar points are awarded if the cops come, if chicks are involved and if Chuck Norris mysteriously shows up to roundhouse kick his way through the door.

A dive bar must have at least three down-and-outs bellied up to the bar at any given moment.  Depending on the demographic composition of the region and the geographic area of the country, these might be laid off steel workers, black lung infected coal miners, downtrodden cotton farmers, off-season cowboys or illegal immigrants.  Also depending on demographic composition and geographic region, said patrons must be hunched over a bottle of Jim, Jack, Johnnie or Jose, a shot class and a can of Bud, PBR, Coors, Natty or Modelo. 

A dive bar must have at least one questionable character who addresses any good looking woman (and by good looking I mean she has tits the hang above her belly button, a ass that stays above her knees and all her teeth) as, “Hey sweets tits can I buy you a drink?"

She's Just Not That Into You

Between three men I have been in a relationship for almost eight years.  This is most of my adult life.  I suppose this makes me a relatively uninformed and unreliable source of dating world observation.  Furthermore, most of these observations have already been made ten million times, by ten million women, over the past ten million years.  But here are a few new (or at least recycled) words from someone who is new to these phenomena and new to this brave new world called dating.

You have to admire the persistence of the male species in his attempts to sequester female attention.  I can only ascertain that they see it as a grandiose romantic gesture rather than begging, whining or stalking.  Guys listen up.  Despite what the movies tell you, his isn’t romantic.  I digress here for a moment to argue that movies know no gender lines.  Conventional wisdom holds that only women, in their overly emotional states full of budding neuroses and easy tears, succumb to the fairy tale fodder of Hollywood.  The penis is just as susceptible.  The testosterone slinking around the local bar (or library, or grocery store, or cubicle, or classroom, or gym, or pool, or yoga studio, or chairlift, or gas station, or drugstore, or restaurant, or bachelorette party, or class reunion, or grandmother’s 80^th birthday party, or church, or temple, or synagogue, or country club, or mall, or boutique store, or Christmas party, or New Year’s Ever bash, or office party, or Tupperware party, or sex toy party, or gay pride parade, or night club, or beach, or amusement park, or need I continue) has gone all soft and romantic.  They have forgotten how to properly demean and sexually harass women.  Where is a good old-fashioned ass slap when you need it?  Now don’t get me wrong the meat market at the local watering hole is certainly alive and kicking.  All I argue is that men are trying too hard to woo women.  There is a certain point – reached much faster than most males seem to understand – when persistence ceases to be romantic and progress to annoying and then to restraining-order-grade stalking.  Which brings me to my first point of advice.

1. Take a hint.  Don’t make us resort to being rude.  If she just doesn’t seem that into you please take the hint.  If she checks her watch, Blackberry or iPhone more than once every three minutes during dinner, she’s just not that into you.  If she answers, “Mmm hmm,” to a question that required at least some sort or articulated opinion, she’s just not that into you.  If you’ve received variations of texts, phone calls, emails or BBMs that read, “Rain check on dinner?  Soooo sorry.  My Mom/best friend/ex-boyfriend/grandmother/dog needs my help! Emergency!  Xoxo!”  Guess what?  She’s just not that into you.  And the kicker is - this really happened, I shit you not - if you lie down in/pass out in her bed in an I’ve-been-drinking-in-the-sun-all-day stupor and ask to have sex with her and she politely declines, she’s just not that into you.  If you wrap your arms seductively around her waist (most women view this sloppy drunk move as vaguely pathetic and akin to a two-year old grabbing his mother’s leg) and she less-politely removes them, she’s just not that into you. If you try slobbering on her face in an attempt to relive the earlier make-out session and relight her supposed passion and she much less politely pushes your face away, she’s just not that into you.  If you suggest that the two of you might, “Just fuck.  Have some hot rowdy sex.  Have some fun,” and give the seductive waist grab another try and she pulls away while making that I-just-threw-up-in-my-mouth-and-swallowed-it-back-down face, she’s just not that into you.  If she informs you that she just wants to shower and go to bed and you suggest that it become a group activity and she walks out, she’s just not that into you.  If you ask for a goodnight kiss and she says, “Only when you’re standing outside my front door,” she’s just not that into you.  And then she must resort to being rude.  “Look I am not going to have sex with you.  I have not going to hook up with you at all.  I don’t even really want to be within ten feet of your penis right now.  I don’t want to shower with you and I don’t want you in my bed.”  Point taken, you must now slink out, tail between legs.  This embarrassing situation could have been easily avoided had you taken the fucking hint. 

2.  Pathetically fake compliments don’t work.  The compliments have all been used and abused.  Yes I know my eyelashes are really long.  No they are not fake.  Yes I know I have large lips.  No that doesn’t mean I look like Angelina Jolie.  And no likening me to her when we look so blatantly unalike does not flatter me.  Yes I know that my ass is nice.  So are a lot of other booties.  Yes I know I have a nice smile.  How many other women did you tell that to tonight?  As one of my favorite Silver Screen good girls once spat at one of my favorite Silver Screen bad boys, “Listing my qualities on your fingers is not going to get you anywhere with me.”  (Don’t judge me.  I know it didn’t win an Oscar but my best friend Elyssa and I can quote every line).

3.  Fancy dinners are a waste of money.  If you want to pay for sex I hear some very nice women are working the corner tonight.  They are a lot cheaper and more efficient than a five star dining extravaganza.  Taking me out to a grotesquely expensive dinner that could pay my rent for the month (I’d rather just have the rent check without the small talk) and feed a family of four will not guarantee my naked body in you bed.  It is even less likely to guarantee your naked body in my bed.  The hip quotient of the restaurant will not help your cause.  I am more impressed by seedy, hole-in-the-wall dive bars on Colfax Ave (please see future post for further discussion on dive bars) than the hottest, hippest, newest mastication establishment.  You have a brain. Use it to come up with something more creative. 

Three simple rules.  Please heed them.  Please don’t make me resort to rude behavior.  It’s unflattering and not very post-feminist.  I don’t want to have to stop returning your phone calls.  I don’t want to ignore the 19^th text message you send me at 1:27 AM on a Tuesday.  I don’t want to tell you to “get the fuck out of my bed.”  But you leave me no choice.