The majority of my ancestors settled in Denver in the early 20th Century. My mother's Italian relatives took refuge in the various brownstones of North Denver and my great-grandfather, an illiterate fruit peddler, was one of the founding members of Potenza Hall (an Italian lodge that is still standing today amidst a landscape of Rite Aids and Taco Bells). My father's Slavic ancestors settled in the Globeville area; a hard neighborhood know for its rail yards, smelting and meat packing industries. My dad grew up in this community in a small house amongst Slavic kin who liked to drink, cuss, smoke and hate anyone who was not Slavic (my great uncle is still getting his "Gran Torino" on in a Globeville neighborhood that is now predominately Hispanic). The Western Slavonic Lodge was founded around the same time my great-grandmother arrived in Denver from what is now modern-day Russia. I think these lodges are indicative of the mindset of immigrants at the time. It was a place to gather with fellow countrymen, drink, offer support and learn about the idea known as "America." Being "American" was important to all of my ancestors that settled in Denver. My great-grandfather, for example, when asked by his children to teach them Italian would reply, "We are in America, and in America you speak English." I often ponder what happened to this mindset; where people identified themselves as American first and their ethnic background second. Perhaps it withered away as class systems divided. Or maybe it disappeared with our manufacturing base when we decided culturally that it was better to consume goods rather than produce them. Perhaps it vanished when people accepted that being friendly was merely waving hello to your nameless neighbor at Starbucks. It could be all these things, or it could just be that a fucking McDonalds became more important to us than a community center.

Labels: america, colorado, denver, family, history, nostalgia

I have heard that Mickey Rourke's portrayal of Randy "The Ram" Robinson in the Wrestler was incredible but not enough to net him a best actor Oscar (Sean Penn won it last night for his performance in Milk). I am guessing his Spirit Award acceptance speech had something to do with it. Wow. Mickey Rourke may be my new hero. He sort of reminds me of myself after a half bottle of bourbon; rude, obnoxious and dropping f-bombs as if he were cleaning a latrine on an aircraft carrier. My favorite parts of his speech are his references to "banging chicks in the ass" and repeatedly calling Marisa Tomei "Melissa."

Labels: movies, pop culture

This past weekend the wife and I celebrated our final Valentine's Day sans children. Next year, we will be up to our elbows in shitty diapers, crying babies and "dress-up" clothes covered in baby vomit (or so I am told). We were told by many to savor our final Valentine's Day out which we semi-scoffed at because we have never really been "Valentine's Day people." I am of the opinion that greeting card companies have inflated Valentine's Day's importance and think overpriced flowers, chocolates and/or stuffed trinkets sent to a lover are fleeting (if not ridiculous). I tend to buy the wife flowers on a semi-frequent basis and remind her I love her everyday and she, in turn, keeps me happy by accepting whatever career path I may be on that particular week and consistently makes me cookies, banana bread and blueberry muffins. So when Valentine's Day rolls around, we tend to do what we did this past Saturday; grab a steak early in the afternoon with the blue-hairs and catch a matinee at the local movie theater. Nothing says "I love you" like Clint Eastwood slinging some racism ala the late Grandpa Broz.

Labels: babies, family, movies, pop culture, valentines day, wife

I do not feel sorry for A-Rod (I think he is serving punishment enough for having coital relations with the Crypt Keeper) and am indifferent over this professional baseball steroid issue. I could care less if a guy is injecting himself with elephant hormones and the back fat of an aborted pig fetus. Pick up a goddamn bat and hit that baseball to China. Nobody (except maybe Wil and DJ) watch baseball to see guys hit singles and bunt in winning runs. Professional baseball should embrace steroid abuse. Not only should players be allowed to do steroids, they should be allowed to use aluminum bats, too. Who will be brave enough to play third base when a juiced meathead three times the size of Mark McGwire digs in at the dish? Let pitchers inject performance enhancing drugs until their fastball is touching 110 mph and their arm vaporizes on the mound. That is something I would pay money to see. Most baseball purists argue that the steroid era has sullied the sanctity of the game and has ruined professional baseball's image. To them I say Pete Rose, Marge Schott, John Rocker and the Black Sox Scandal. Does taking performance enhancing drugs make you a cheater? Probably. But fans like me will only take steroid abuse seriously when professional baseball starts to taking it seriously.

Labels: dj, pop culture, sports, wil

Last night, after a home-cooked Italian feast courtesy of my mother, we settled on my parent's couch to catch the 2009 Grammy Awards. Some highlights:

• I now remember why I have not watched a Grammy Awards show since 2005. Its called Coldplay.
• Enough with the onstage collaborations. Seriously. I doubt anyone in America has been dripping in anticipation for a Paul McCartney and Foo Fighters jam session. There is a reason why two Beatles are dead; God does not want the surviving members to play their songs anymore.
• I cannot count how many times Dean Martin must have turned over in his grave after seeing this. Being as his next of kin were in the audience watching, I believe they were legally within their rights to kill one (if not all) of the performers that took a shit on Dino's memory and then wiped their asses with it. Except maybe MIA's unborn child. That kid is innocent. My rage spares the unborn.
• Jennifer Hudson: Look, I understand your family was murdered just a short while ago, but could you have at least sent your assistant out to find a dress that did not look like you you just ate a plate of crab legs at a seafood restaurant?
• Alison Krauss and Robert Plant recorded music together? I thought Robert Plant was dead. At least he has been dead to me after the Honeydrippers fiasco.
• Is there anything left for Kanye West to not bitch about? Even the Commish is with me on this one.
• Stevie Wonder. Sigh. You just make me sad.

Labels: music, pop culture, rage

Gay Joe: www.trueacceptance.com.
Me: I am sure some ex-girlfriends of mine use that service.
Gay Joe: I am going to make a profile: "Tranny suffering from post-coital Pseudobulbar palsy with anger management issues seeking same in Denver."
Me: Wow. That would be awesome if you found someone.
Gay Joe: Ha! "You have 228 new messages."
Me: That site would have been a dream come true for me in college since I tended to veer towards messed up chicks back then. They had daddy issues; either he touched them too much or did not touch them enough. I essentially dated strippers before they hit the pole, Joey. Before they completely died on the inside.
Gay Joe: It is a good idea to date them before said inner-death; it is something I like to call "pre-hookering." In my tribe, that is pretty much everyone by age 18, so I had it easy.
Me: Pun intended.
Gay Joe: Exactly.

Labels: gay joe, im convos, strippers, whores