Recently, I was devastated to discover an Aspen untruth of criminal proportions. I’ve lived in this town for five years now, all the while believing we get a steady 300 inches of snow annually. Ask any Bartender, Ski Instructor, or Lift Op how much snow Aspen receives each year and they’ll spit out “300 inches” as if it had been burned onto their forehead with a cattle prod.

You’re probably thinking to yourself, “What’s this fool talking about? We do get 300 inches of snow a year. We really do.” This is a common belief thanks to some deceptive marketing. It’s even written on the Aspen Skiing Company’s website under “Aspen Mountain Stats and Facts.”

Well, well, well…not so fast, my friends. It’s seems we’ve all been duped. This week, I got a piece of mail from the City of Aspen providing information regarding snow removal. On the back of this mailer was a grid of revealing data. It seems Aspen’s actual snow totals fall far short of our braggadocios 300 inches. In fact, over the last 71 years the average snowfall is only 152.02 inches per year. That’s right, half!

How did the marketers at Aspen/Snowmass come up with 300 inches? Did they throw a measuring stick into the highest snowdrift atop Aspen Mountain and round up 50 inches?

I have a sneaking suspicion the despicable web of lies was spun in some such fashion:

INT. ASPEN MARKETING OFFICE – DAY
A former Aspen/Snowmass MARKETING DIRECTOR is seated in an Italian leather chair, elbows resting atop his mahogany desk. He doodles on a notepad with a pen carved from elephant tusk. Seated facing him, in a chair perched significantly lower so that one must look up to the Marketing Director, is a METEOROLOGIST, a thick stack of climate data on his lap.

MARKETING DIRECTOR: Give me the scoop, Doc.

METEOROLOGIST: Okay, sir. After compiling decades of data our numbers show that, on average, Aspen receives 150 inches of snowfall per year, give or take an inch.

MARKETING DIRECTOR: That’s all? You sure it’s not more along the lines of, say, 300 inches?

METEOROLOGIST: There’s really no margin of error here. These are accurate measurements. So, I think it’d be safe to print 150 inches on your promotional material.

MARKETING DIRECTOR: Doc, I’m going to brainstorm for a minute, because that’s what I do. I’m a creative guy, and I think I’m onto something, so just bear with me. Is it possible that at some point in time, and I’m talking anytime within the last ten million years, there may have been a few decades when Aspen received an average of 300 inches of snow per year?

METEOROLOGIST: Well, I suppose it’s possible, but…

MARKETING DIRECTOR: Thanks for your time, Doc. Let’s call it an even 300. I think you know the way out.

Frankly, I’m sickened. I’ve been brought up to trust the marketing industry. Don’t these fine men and women have our best interest in mind? Isn’t their sole purpose to educate the general public on the factual components of what ever it is they are selling? These are ethical people, right? They wouldn’t skew the data just to sell more of something, would they? Oh, the horror.

Well, screw it. If others are allowed to concoct facts from thin air to bolster their image, I’m going to do the same.

INT. MY APARTMENT – NIGHT
KEITH and his WIFE sit on a dusty couch watching Grey’s Anatomy. They only converse during commercials.

KEITH: Honey, aren’t you glad you didn’t marry some short, puny dude?

WIFE: I guess, but I wouldn’t go as far as to say you’re tall, or muscular for that matter.

KEITH: I’m 6’ 4”.

WIFE: No, you’re not.

KEITH: Yes, I am.

WIFE: Really, you’re more like 5’ 11”, maybe 6’ on a good day.

KEITH: Believe what you want. I’m 6’ 4”, 225-pounds of solid muscle. You were really lucky to snag me.

WIFE: You’re a buck-sixty soaking wet.

KEITH: Whatever.

The ego boosting fabrications won’t stop with my wife. I’ll lay a heavy dose on my friends, as well.

INT. COFFEEE SHOP – MORNING
KEITH and a FRIEND sit at a small table, sipping coffee. They stare up at the television hanging from the ceiling. ESPN’s Sports Center, the sound muted. Both men struggle to read the hearing impaired captions that scroll across the top of the screen. It gets tiring, trying to keep up with all those words. Their attention wanders elsewhere.

FRIEND: I was thinking about climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro next summer. You interested?

KEITH: Not really.

FRIEND: Why? It’d be an amazing experience.

KEITH: I’d probably be bored.

FRIEND: Bored? How do you figure?

KEITH: Once you bag Everest, all other mountains are anticlimactic.

FRIEND: What are you talking about? You’ve never climbed Everest.

KEITH: How do you know?

FRIEND: I’ve been your friend since high school. I know.

KEITH: Trust me. You weren’t there. I was.

FRIEND: Okay, sure.

KEITH: If you don’t believe me, go to Google images. Do a search for “Everest summit” and you’ll see a guy in a red mountaineering suit with an oxygen mask. That’s me.

FRIEND: You’ve lost your fucking mind.

KEITH: Whatever.

This is a fun exercise. I’m feeling better about myself already. All right, enough with this piece. I have to get back to writing my novel, which, I am certain, will be awarded the Pulitzer Prize in due time. (The Pulitzer, I might add, will become a mere footnote once I lock down a Nobel, which will likely be awarded to me sometime before 2042).