The Bodhizoffa is no more. Unlike most celebrity deaths, this one takes the wind out of my sails. I grew up on the Swayze. Outsiders. Red Dawn. Youngblood. Point Break. And his masterpiece opus; Roadhouse. I even sat through multiple viewings of Dirty Dancing because it taught me that a) spoiled bitches should get credit for carrying watermelons and b) nobody puts Baby in a corner. Nobody. 11:14 made me realize how much I missed the Swayze in cinema. Fucking cancer. Both my grandfathers and Patrick Swayze? I guess it is your way or the highway, cancer. I cannot help think that if cancer manifested itself in the form of a human fighting opponent the Swayze would have torn its throat out with his bare hands and thrown its lifeless body into a backwoods lake and then scream, "Cancer! Cancer! Fuck you!" Sounds about right to me.

Labels: death, disease, pop culture

Kaye: We met everyone before the trip at our friend's house in Highlands Ranch. The Exterra looked out of place around all the Audis and Beemers.
Me: Fucking Highlands Ranch. A girl I used to work with told me she grew up in Highlands Ranch. I told her, "No wonder why you are so boring." Living on streets named Wildcat Aspen Lane or Wild Mountain River Court or Bobcat Sunset Honeydew Boulevard.
Kaye: All the houses look the same, too.
Me: We went to my cousin's poker tournament down there awhile back. "Our house is the sage green house on the left side." Oh really? EVERY OTHER HOUSE WAS FUCKING SAGE GREEN. One house is brown, then ecru then sage green. Repeat until you want to rip your eyes out of your skull.
Kaye: Ha! It's the crazy homeowners associations down there. Our friend had to have a shade of gray approved before she painted her house.
Me: Jesus, is it 1938 Russia down there? All bleak and ubiquitous? Motherfuckers waiting in line for toilet paper?
Kaye: Nice.
Me: Actually, that is not fair. They are probably waiting in line for a Starbucks latte. Or some trendy plates from Crate and Barrel.

Labels: colorado, denver, im convos, kaye, rage

Me: Call me if you need anything while watching the boy.
Dad: You will be away somewhere where you cannot help me. So why the hell would I call you if you could not help me?
Me: Um, okay.
Dad: I will see you when you pick him up. Gotta go. Your mother just made us some sandwiches.

Labels: dad, the boy, tomfoolery

After reviewing this list, I would have to say 1984 was hands down the best year for movies. I can quote countless lines of dialogue from memory on most of those films. My dad really let me watch some inappropriate films during my impressionable years. He took me to see Ghostbusters, Gremlins, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom (the very first movie rated PG-13) and Police Academy in the theaters. Terminator, Red Dawn, Revenge of the Nerds, Nightmare On Elm Street and Sixteen Candles found their way to me via HBO with my dad's standard caveat, "Don't let your mother know I let you watch this." There was some excellent gratuitous nudity in those films; Police Academy, Purple Rain (Apollonia jumping into Lake Minnetonka), Revenge of the Nerds (full frontal), The Terminator (right before Sarah Connor's roommate gets "terminated") and Sixteen Candles (Caroline in the locker room shower). Sadly, there will probably never be a year of cinema packed full of winners like that again. Unless someone decides to resurrect Steve Guttenberg and Ralph Macchio's careers.

Labels: boobs, chicks, dad, glory days, movies, pop culture