The wife and I braved freezing temperatures last night to watch game three of the National League Divisional Series in a four and a half hour affair that left our extremities numb. 50,000 faithful at Coors Field were in attendance, an impressive number considering the cold. Some highlights:
The Rockies organization once again fucked up some form of the post-season. The game started at ten after eight. We arrived at the gates at ten 'till eight, happy we would be catching the first pitch. We waited outside Coors Field for forty five minutes in the cold. No announcements as to why tickets were not being taken. No signage explaining why there was a delay. Chants of "Let Us In," almost degenerate into an angry mob poised to rush the gates and get into the game. My sweet wife even mentioned to me how easy it would be to get away with kidney-punching Phillies fan in the mayhem.
By the time we get to our seats, it is the bottom of the second inning and the Rockies are up 2-1. Fucking Rockies organization. I almost do not enjoy my Rockies Dog and refreshing beer(s).
Our section is fun early on; good fans, good spirits and an overall good vibe. This situation changes as sobriety slips away and is replaced with stupidity. Once polite Phillies fans sitting a few sections below us become raging assholes and start picking fights. One of the fans is a fat white guy who has long dreadlocks. Insults are hurled his way. "Cut your hair, white Bob Marley, " and, "Got any weed?" and my personal favorite (because I said it), "Go home to your bottle of shampoo, hairbag."
The couple in the row below us are stoned out of their mind. Through out the game, the guy eats slices of salami he has smuggled into the game via his coat pocket. No Ziploc. No brown bag. Literally eating slices of salami from his coat pocket.
The girl below us dances like she is at a rave every time music comes on. Her balance is so off I remark to the wife, "That girl is going to take a spill." Within minutes of my comment, it happens. The crowd is on its feet after Carlos Gonzalez belts a solo shot to right field and the girl takes a head plant into the seats below her, flips over another row, lands on her head again and somehow manages to finish the maneuver with her ass in a seat four rows down. She looks confused, disoriented and possibly concussed. Her boyfriend expresses no concern and casually takes another slice of salami from his coat pocket.
We decide to head out in the bottom of the ninth as our infant son it at his grandparents and probably needs sleep. It kills us both considering Brad Lidge has been a nightmare closing ball games this season. By the time we arrive at the the car, the Rockies have lost 6-5, unable to cash in two walks.
Upon further reflection, I should have kidney-punched a Phillies fan to make my night more enjoyable. Especially the fat one with dreadlocks.
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.
Super Joe hangs 'em up. One of the most entertaining, humble and classiest guys to ever play the game, Joe Sakic could have scored at a nunnery in the dead of winter. He is guaranteed to be a first ballot hall of famer no matter what snow blowers try to do to him. During the span of his twenty year career he is eighth all time in points, has won two Stanley Cups and holds the NHL record for game-winning overtime playoff goals (8). In celebration of watching Joe play regularly since the Avs landed in Denver in '95, here is my favorite "Sakic" moment:
Buck Fifty has fast become my favorite site for Denver and Colorado history. Today's installment: The Ku Klux Klan in Colorado. In the 1920s; the Klan boasted nationwide membership in the millions and was not the backwoods, hillbilly joke that it is today. Regis University (my collegiate Alma mater) has a stone wall on the southwestern edge of campus declared a historical landmark (or so I was told) where students of the 1920s and 1930s fought off the Silent Empire on numerous occasions. In my day, said stone wall was used by students to park the pricey SUVs their parents bought them next to or to smoke cigarettes against on a warm autumn day. I was also unaware that the old Denver airport (Stapleton) bore the name of noted klansmen Ben Stapleton.
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.
At the entrance to Denver International Airport (DIA), a lone sculpture stands amidst the backdrop of high prairie and the distant Rocky Mountain front range; Mesteno (or as I like to call it, Demon Horse). The sculpture is a polarizing fixture as its bright red eyes eerily glow out over Pena Boulevard (at dawn or dusk, the effect is particularly creepy) and most Coloradans despise the sight of it. I like the sculpture and enjoy the satanic evilness of it. Besides, how could I openly bash a sculpture that killed its own creator? I do not taunt Demon Horse. For he may come alive with the magical powers of hellfire and gallop across the prarie to claim my soul. Or, at the very least, just fall on top of me and sever one of my arteries.
The aftermath of the nature's windy wrath has been rife with insurance adjusters, fence contractors, gutter repairmen and one unemployed handyman that was canvasing our neighborhood door-to-door who claimed he could reset our fence posts for "next to nothing" (I quickly learned that "next to nothing" in unemployed handyman talk comes out to be roughly $750). The insurance adjuster stopped by on Saturday morning to assess our property damage and surprisingly turned out to be a genial individual with a soul. Not only did he agree to our damage assessment to the house and fence, he gave us money to replace our hammock that looks more beat up than Tara Reid's midsection and some roof shingles that may or may not have been ruined via the storm. Minus our $1,000 deductible, insurance will cover nearly 100% of our property damage which was far more than we expected. This week I will be supervising gutter and fence contractors hammer away on the homestead in the chilly January air from the office window while I drink coffee in the warmth.
Early this morning the wife and I awoke to the hurricane force winds. In Colorado. In the winter. When champagne powder should be falling from the sky, young lovers should be skating a frozen pond with hot cups of Wassail and children should be giggling as they sled down soft twinkling hills of twilight gossamer. Instead, fences are being destroyed and coming out of the ground post-first, gutters are being shredded and left for dead and beloved backyard napping furniture is being cast asunder. Thankfully, our wind damage is minor compared to some in the neighborhood. For the record, I call a 35-foot tall pine tree blowing down on top of your fence "major."
For the first time in American history, a black man has been elected to the highest office in the land (and Colorado is a blue state now! Hooray?). Congratulations President-Elect Barack Obama; may your name and skin color piss off every Southern, backwoods redneck for the next four years. Obama has inherited a mess; the national debt, the mortgage bailout, the Iraq War, the Afghan War, education, health care, the lunatic fringe, etc. I do not like the idea of a welfare state, a national health care plan that I will never use but have to pay into irregardless and punishing companies for making too much money. Mix that in with the fact that I am a pessimistic bastard harboring a healthy distrust for politicians in general and now you understand my mindset. I am hopeful the Democrats will do the right thing for the next four years. If not, I look forward to waiting in line for toilet paper and vodka with all of you.
Flying on 9/11 may not be the smartest thing I have ever done (then again neither was this. Or this. Or this), but, as the rabid Carolina Hurricanes fan sitting next to me on the plane said yesterday "If we do not fly on 9/11 then the fucking terrorists win." Preach on, guy who loves Rod Brind Amour, preach on (note to Perez: 'Canes fan was a former Philadelphia Flyers fan which almost made me stop talking to him until I asked him why he stopped rooting for the Flyers. His response, "Because my wife and I have been living in Raleigh for the past seven years and, well, fuck the Flyers"). Sitting in the CLT, here are some highlights from my recent business trip to North Carolina:
North Carolina is green and lush. I mean really green and lush. I guess I am too used to the yellow-brown hue Colorado is covered in year-round. There are a plethora of pine tress in the greater Raleigh-Durham area, too. I was not aware the Carolinas were so friendly to the coniferous tree family.
Various topics discussed with our client that was not related to his website: Carolina Panthers football, the point spread on the UNC-Rutgers game, Indian hotel investors, hairy pussy, bald pussy, Viagra and wine.
Various topics discussed with our client related to his website that had nothing to do with design or development: their T1 connection.
Various topics discussed with our client related to his website that had to do with design or development: none.
I enjoyed a ridiculous meal at a five-star resort called Herons. I gorged myself on a tremendous meal of sea bass, hush puppies, numerous expensive glasses of wine and sweet potato pie.
How many times our client's partner urged me to "beat my children with a strap" upon telling him that my wife was pregnant: 3.
How many times our client's partner passed on the restaurant valet service even though it was free: 2.
The next time I will be to invited fly to Raleigh and "talk about the website": 6 months.
Kaye: Where are you working from today? Me: A coffee shop in Boulder. I am meeting with a vendor this morning and he chose this joint. Kaye: Nice. Me: I cannot wait to be an old man at a coffee shop. These codgers are sitting next to me and have been talking about the weather for the past hour. Kaye: With their newspapers and their sweater vests? Me: Well it is Boulder, so gray beards, flannel shirts... Kaye: ...and some LL Bean khaki pants? Me: Right. And instead of a regular newspaper they are reading an alternative paper. Something that bashes Republicans and the "establishment." Kaye: God. Old Boulder dudes. Me: They are not even cool old dudes wearing a Fedora, walking all slow and talking about losing their buddies during the WW-deuce. Kaye: Ha! They are just old Hippies. The worst kind of Hippy. Me: Yes. Because they are old enough to know that their peace-loving, cheeba-smoking rhetoric does not work anymore. Kaye: Totally. You know what looks good on a Hippy? Me: Blood? Kaye: No. Fire. Me: Even better.
My sister has been working as a county social worker for the past decade. Yesterday she was at the jail administering a training class for fellow county employees. While walking through the intake area, a young woman called out to her from the holding cell. The young woman asked my sister her name, where she went to high school and if I was her brother. After answering yes to all the young woman's queries, she blurts out, "Oh my god! I used to date your brother! Tell him I said hello!" Hello back at you, crazy drugged-up bitch I used to date in high school. Be sure to tell your Mom that she still owes me gas money for driving you to softball practice during the summer of 1994.
After running down an errant couch on I-25, the wife and I decided the time was nigh to purchase a new automobile. We first called our credit union to get pre-approved for a loan and were pleased to learn they offered their customers a free auto broker service. This was exactly what I wanted to hear as car salesman rank in character somewhere between necrophiliacs and Rent-A-Center employees to me. The wife and I were referred to a genial gentleman named Gordon. He called to inform of us of an auto inventory showcase they were having the next day at Bandimere Speedway and invited us to come down and test drive whatever he had. So we did. He introduced himself and then became scarce and the wife and I spent the rest of the morning speeding new and used whips around the hills near Morrison, Colorado. We fell in love with the 2008 Toyota RAV4, both for the V6 engine and the stellar Consumer Reports ratings (thanks EZ). After discussing the features we were looking for in an automobile with Gordon, he informed us that he would scour the Denver metro area for what we wanted. The next day he called to inform us that he procured a 2008 flint-colored, be-moonroofed Toyota RAV4 and that he was driving it up to the crib to let us take it for a spin. We loved the damn thing (of course) and two days and fifteen minutes of paperwork later, the wife and I had us a new ride.
I made my final voyage in the Ghost of War yesterday (a youngster in Castle Rock bought her for $500) first to Santiagos for a sack of breakfast burritos and than to the office. She was a steady machine that gave me scant trouble in ten years of hard driving (I work a clutch like a Mexican field hand works a burro). Godspeed, Ghost of War. May all your future rides be down the smoothest of couch-free roads.
Long time friends of the MB, Mark and Sara, ruined their lives over the weekend. It was a lovely affair that went down at Red Rocks Amphitheater and included Apache Wedding blessings, drinking and revelry, an R2D2 cake and a slide show of two fine-looking youngsters in love. I understand your reasoning for putting us at the Smashing Pumpkins table, Mark, but were we at least considered for The Clash table? I must know. Congratulations (again) from the wife and I. Enjoy England/Scotland/Ireland. Also, something for you to consider.
Alamosa, Colorado. Home of the Great Sand Dunes, a college where slightly above average suburban high school athletes go to die and now, free salmonella!
McDonalds sack 1, Brandon Marshall 0. Brandon Marshall joins the esteemed list of other Denver professional athletes who obtained an injury under strange circumstances (read: getting caught in a lie). Congratulations Brandon! You will now be held in the same esteem as Clint Barmes breaking his collarbone while carrying deer meat (read: being flipped off of a four wheeler) and Brian Griese tripping over his dog, falling down the stairs and spraining his ankle (read: taking a tumble while sloppy drunk). Look on the bright side: almost losing an arm is a better thing to be remembered for than talking about practice.
Mirror gets thrown from Colorado University dorm room window. Hijinks ensue.
Click here to see the reason why I am hooked on A&E's Intervention (pun intended). Naked meth whore's journals are eerily reminiscent of a former coworker of mine who was rumored to be on the pipe. She used to sketch magical spirals and write "NO" repeatedly in her notebooks during board meetings.
The Colorado Avalanche made some big moves before the trading deadline netting them Peter Forsberg, Adam Foote and Ruslan Salei. In other 1999 news, American Beauty wins the Oscar for Best Picture and folks are starting to get serious about this Y2K thing.
In just a few short hours World Series tickets will be going on sale. I will be attempting to score seats for games three, four and/or five. Being as tickets are only being sold online, season ticket holders get first dibs and only 18,000 seats will be available to the general public per game, chances are slim that I will be drunkenly heckling Coco Crisp for being benched from the nosebleeds. I claim partial responsibility for the Rox incredible run, so I think the baby Jesus owes me the blessing of tickets to one game (at least). If no tickets are procured, I will officially renounce the Christian messiah and go the god-hating way of Perez.
Update: The risen infant Christ has forsaken me. Ticket purchasing attempts were made on a Mac via Firefox, Safari and Netscape while simultaneously rolling the office PC test computer on IE, Firefox and Netscape. All to no avail. (Shaking fist at sky and screaming, "Evolution rules!")
Conspiracy theorists have long been masturbating to DIA for its seemingly clandestine activities. To date, the Freemasons, Illuminati, UFOs, underground military bases and reptilian aliens have all been linked to Denver International Airport. Prophetic messages are claimed to be seen in the art murals of Leo Tanguma that predict the impending apocalypse (conspiracy theorists apparently have never taken an art history course nor are familiar with Mexican muralista painters). Traveling in and out of DIA on countless occasions I have never seen any concentration camps full of reptilian aliens nor any Freemasons holding a virgin sacrifice in Concourse A, but I have seen some long goddamn lines at the Frontier check-in counter.
Congratulations to 2007 Miss Teen USA Hilary Cruz (from Colorado; represent). I trust your response during the question and answer segment was not anything like this.
Nameless Elevator Rider #1: I hate snow. We had an inch and half of it on the ground when I woke up this morning. Nameless Elevator Rider #2: We didn't get any snow at our house. Nameless Elevator Rider #1: (angrily) Well you don't live in Conifer. My Thought Bubble: Conifer. Eight thousand feet above sea level. In the Rocky Mountains. Where it snows at least eight months out of the year. You dumb bitch.
I am tired of your attitude, Winter. This is not the cabin scene from Dr. Zhivago. This is Colorado and we revel in living at high altitude. We are used to eight inches of snow falling one day and then melting by sundown the next. As it stands now, the mountain of plowed snow in the town home parking lot is just growing in size and I am dangerously close to losing the bet I made with the wife in regards as to when it will melt. Granted, it was a friendly wager but just once in this marriage I would like to be right.
Working from home affords some tremendous opportunities; like watching the incompetence of our home owner's association labor contractors unfold before my very eyes. Take this afternoon for example. Armed with shovels and picks, Indian Summer Landscaping was out in full force today with orders to chisel away at the layers of ice on the driveways and sidewalks. This work is essential as Colorado is expecting another big storm this Friday and it would be helpful to have unobstructed gutters and walkways so the snow/ice can melt faster. Instead, I watched as the laborers worked hard at dragging their shovels down the middle of the already plowed street, smoking cigarettes and sucking down Giant Big Gulps. I hope we get fifteen inches of snow and you assholes have to work through the weekend.
Here in Denver, we have not pulled an intact, fossilized woolly mammoth out of the permafrost yet but I did just witness a family of Eskimos clubbing a baby seal out in the town home common area. I awoke this morning to another big winter storm (now dubbed "The Storm That Should Not Be") and the third immense snow dumping in the past three weeks. We are currently sitting on about seven inches of fresh snow here in the northwestern suburbs and it does not appear to be stopping anytime soon.
Christmas came and went without much aplomb; spirits were imbibed, holiday cookies were devoured, presents were opened, kittens went bezerker rage on their stockings and cousins in from Baghdad with an affinity for strip clubs and Heineken's were entertained. The wife got me some new creative direction slippers to keep my feet warm while I command oversea subcontractors from afar and utilize new Apple products in the home office. It appears I will be getting screwed out of another work snow day tomorrow as the Kwanzaa Blizzard rolled into the metro area this afternoon to blanket the foot of snow not yet melted from the Hanukkah Blizzard.
One of the few things that sucks about working from home is you do not get a snow day unless the power goes out. I spent most of the Hanukkah Blizzard aftermath on the phone with my genial new boss going over job duties and procedures. Around lunch the wife and I went outside to dig my car out as the plow company packed a night's worth of snow in front of the community parking area. At dusk we strapped on our snowshoes and went for a trek around Lake Arbor Golf Course. It was a beautiful evening of breaking trail and assuaging cabin fever. Now we are hunkering down for a night of terrible 80s movies (Cocktail is on as I post this), a blasting furnace and Amaretto eggnogs.
Today, in the midst of Hanukkah Blizzard, I accepted a Creative Director position with a small design firm in Denver. I will be able to maintain the pants-free lifestyle I have grown accustomed over these past months, as my office will be in my home. I will occasionally venture out for a cup of coffee or a sandwich and maintain connectivity with the world via all form of modern technological accoutrement (cell phone, computer, IM, email, carrier pigeon). Other than that, society is officially dead to me. This career path is free of company-wide circle jerks with CEOs who receive Xmas cards from unemployed designers that lie about profits, revenues and layoffs. Once the roads are deemed safe by the governor again, I will be rolling up to the Apple Store to drop some coin on a new iMac and MacBook. Final unemployment statistics: 101 resumes sent and nine interviews all spanning three months, one week and one day.
Last night I took the wife up to Creekside Cellars for her 30th birthday. We sat in the wine cellar all up on the romance-ambiance tip as a marvelous spread of assorted meats, cheeses, olives and wines were laid before us. My old friend Tim runs the joint and we spent the evening killing glasses of wine and discussing the intricacies of wine production, basic chemistry, The Satanic Bible, high school shenanigans and String theory. The highlight of the evening came when Tim tapped a decade worth of wine barrels for us to sample with a turkey baster. If you are ever in downtown Evergreen, I recommend the place for a great night out (be sure to pick up a bottle of the 2003 Robusto. Trust me). If you play your cards right on a winter's night, you will even be able to play some drunken pond hockey on the lake afterwards.
Paparazzi shots of Britney's cash and prizes (very un-work safe). Five years ago this link might have melted my face, but now her nether regions are about as interesting to me as an introductory to statistics college course. Bonus: C-Section scars!
Snow reports for local ski areas. With an intense Arctic storm moving in, ski areas could be getting upwards of two feet of snow and I could be spending the next couple of days on the slopes reveling in soft, champagne powder while you jerks are stuck in a cubicle at work.
Selections from the notebooks of Max Roosevelt, 15-year-old socialist.
Big local news (so big in fact, they interrupted an episode of Judge Joe Brown for the press conference yesterday): Jake Plummer gets benched and Jay Cutler will start as the Broncos quarterback on Sunday. I am officially nicknaming Cutler "The Paperboy" because he bears striking resemblance to a chubby neighborhood kid that slings the daily news and not because he looks like the one-hit rap wonder of the early 90s.
Wikipedia for GG Allin. Specifically, the "Death" heading.
I am elated that the 2006 election is over. No more badly designed junk mail rife with drop-shadowed text. No more hobbits with disheveled hair telling me that Washington is controlled by special interests. No more corrupt, draft-dodging dairy farmers waxing philosophical while riding their trusted steed. Speaking of horses, it seemed that every Colorado politician was equine-heavy in their television spots this year. If not riding one, then petting one or ambling in an open meadow teeming with them. Complete the clique: throw skis and a twelve pack of Coors on the horse's back and put Red Rocks Amphitheater in the background; because Colorado horses care about Colorado values.
The election has given Democrats the majority rule in the House of Representatives, State governorships (including here in Colorado) and more than likely, the Senate. Not surprising since Republican-controlled Washington has done nothing but subvert democracy, manufacture scandal and generally cock things up since they took over in '02. I just read that Bush is now open to ideas or suggestions on Iraq from the Democrats. Here is one from an Independent voter that likes boobs: get our troops the hell out of there. It will be fun to watch the Democrats screw it up for a change. Anyone out there want to take bets on when Ann Coulter will write a book on the evil Democratic takeover?
The employment search has officially become stagnant. I just sent resume number 75 since Broz's Day of Liberation (September 12) and I am now seeing jobs that I applied to in early September re-post on the job sites I troll daily like a ravenous jackal. With the oncoming holiday season, it is a likely possibility that I will not have procured gainful employment until the Christian New Year. This reality is crushing as I have the Colorado Pass and may have to spend the winter work week on powder-filled ski slopes while avoiding the weekend warrior, latte-swilling transplant yuppie in an overpriced SUV jamming up the I-70 corridor and harboring the delusion that they can ski expert terrain and the term "yield to the downhill skier" does not apply to them. I do have a few freelance gigs in the hopper that should keep the lights on and the wife and I off of dog food for the time being. Unemployment has me contemplating many things; geographic relocation, getting my masters degree in eMAD, attempting to make a committed run at the freelance thing, writing the great American novel and designing a fetish site with Russian women in casts. Of course, somebody has already beaten me to the fetish site.
We get an average of two trick-or-treaters when Halloween is upon our town home complex. Last night we got one; a youngster dressed as Death who got himself a handful of snack-sized Skittles. Halloween is much changed since I donned a costume. Parents did not drive their kids to go trick-or-treating. If you wanted the big candy payoff, you earned it by braving the elements (it is always fifteen degrees colder on All Hallows Eve in Colorado) and walking until your feet bled. You would come home sniffling and collapse from exhaustion, not caring when your Dad stole the Snickers from your sack in the middle of the night. Town home and apartment complexes were like money in the bank for trick-or-treating back then. An orgy of corn syrup, chocolate, caramel and preservatives awaited for a kid who was willing to rip off "Trick or treat" in rapid-fire succession. I thought that with the burned out unit, we would at least get some middle-schoolers around here playing Ouija and worshiping the devil. Nothing. The Wife clicked the front porch light off at 10:15pm and died a little on the inside.
A snowstorm is dumping a blanket of thick wetness across the Denver metro area today. I'm sitting in the warmth that is a firing furnace and blown out slippers, sucking down a tall mug of coffee that could strip paint, gazing out out the back door and watching vintage Ricardo Montalban Chrysler commercials. It's a good day to be alive and unemployed.
Last night I watched the Avs home opener from a luxury suite at the Pepsi Center (the boys lost to the Stars 2-3 in OT). The old man, Jake, Nels and Aaron were also in attendance. My pops was responsible for the hook up as he procured the tickets through assorted work connections. The suite came equipped with a private bathroom, assorted domestic beers, food platters, period-by-period stat sheets and a computer with internet connection. Our luxurious time was surrounded by famous radio personalities with fake cans (Clear Channel suite next door), one drunk fan trying to start an "AVS RULE!" cheer (seats below us) and the now infamous silver bucket of happiness. The life of an unemployed artist is glamorous and fulfilling.
Five years ago I was merging onto the Boulder turnpike on my way into work when a news report came over the radio that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. The previous day, I was a pallbearer at my grandfather's funeral. By the time I walked into the office, both towers were toppled, the Pentagon was hit and "heroes" had taken over a flight bound for the White House and crashed it into rural Pennsylvania (another likely scenario is the plane was shot down by F-16s with cruise missiles and the hero story was disseminated to various media outlets to cover the Air Force's collective asses). My employer sent us all home shortly thereafter, as the tragedy became too overwhelming for anyone to focus on work. My parents called to check on my mental well-being and maybe just to hear a familiar voice. I spent the rest of the day as I imagine most other Americans did; dumbfounded, sad, angry, confused, emotionally drained and awash in bourbon. The months that followed the tragedy were a sickening whirlwind of paranoia, conspiracy and jingoism. The dust settled from the towers and the Bush Administration subverted democracy (or the illusion of democracy) for American's "safety." Left wing patriotic zealots clashed with right wing patriotic zealots and the brief moment of "togetherness" Americans felt was dashed away. Hatred and intolerance for Muslims boiled over. A military campaign to capture Osama Bin Laden was sent into Afghanistan and as of yet has not been successful. A war in Iraq was started under false pretenses. Those opposed to government policy were labeled "un-patriotic." Americans remain dependent on oil and the hard-line theocratic regimes that export oil. American soldiers are dying for an administration that does not seem care about them. What have Americans learned from the September 11 attacks? Difficult times reveal a leader's character or expose their character flaws? A selfish culture focused on money, possession and triviality is understandably not accepted and even hated by some? The September 11 attacks were a horrific tragedy, and no matter how many memorials we construct, how many we kill in the name of retribution and how many laws are passed "ensuring" our safety, it seems evident to me that we have not learned a goddamn thing.
The Chinese have opened the world's first anger bar. Patrons can smash glasses, rant and even hit specially trained employees all while sucking down Tsingtaos. Denver's version of the anger bar occurs every weekend during last call in LoDo. Drunken fools spill out into the streets simultaneously and start shit with each other because they were first in line for a $2 burrito being sold out of a cooler. Or because your fraternity is better than that other homo's fraternity. Or because you were looking at a guy's shivering slut girlfriend in a mini-skirt, tube top and high heels and it's thirteen degrees below zero outside.
Yesterday the future wife and I opted out of running the Bolder Boulder for the fourth straight year and instead went for a six-mile hike around Red Rocks Amphitheatre in Morrison, Colorado. The day was beautiful and it was good to wallow in our funk* outside for a change. Before we hit the trail, we ate breakfast burritos at the neighborhood coffee shop. I am proud to announce they held us together like steel for the duration. Click here to see photos from the trek.
* The future wife and I tend to not shower on the weekends unless we have a good reason. By the waning hours of Sunday (or in the case of holiday weekends, Monday) our home will smell like the monkey cages at the Denver Zoo.
The future wife and I got the hell out of town for an alpine sports adventure weekend in Summit County (click here for some hot Flickr action). After a six mile snowshoe hike on Friday, we celebrated St. Patrick's Day like an old-married couple; drinking two Kiltlifters and inhaling bacon-wrapped Filet Mignon at Pug Ryan's then falling asleep before ten thirty watching reruns of Murder She Wrote. On Saturday we skied Breckenridge expecting spring break and weekend crowds only to be surprised by a dead resort due to local weather professionals prematurely calling for an immense spring storm. It is back to work in a few hours unless the city shuts down due to a blizzard (it could happen again, you know).
Me: I bought some new skis last night. Monica: Oh, nice. Me: Notice the urban graphics that will illustrate how much of a non-conformist I am while skiing. Because that is important. Monica: Keeping it street on the slopes? Me: Right. Represent. Monica: Represent Arvada? Me: "I am riding for the water tower today, bitches." Monica: "This is for all the homeys that are working at the gas stations, getting their weed delivered to them that cannot enjoy the mountain today." Me: "This bump run is for my boys that drink too much beer, still live at home with their parents and work at Randy's Pizza; sorry you did not make it, playas."
Someone with property in the Colorado high country please help these girls out. They are looking for a place to crash over spring break holiday and appear to be responsible enough.
This was sent to me today. Take a guess which heading(s) apply to me.
Across the Colorado front range today, the winds are blowing like a high school girl full of Boones Farm wine in the backseat of a used Chevy Beretta. I am watching the strong winds bend light posts and trees as tumbleweeds, dirt and debris are being strewn across the landscape with intense ferocity from my office window. The building is rattling and swaying and it feels like the windows are seconds away from blowing out. I have got my camera ready in case some shit blows over and madness ensues.
Thailand is portraying imagery of bad teeth, tumors and death instead of verbal cues as warnings on cigarette packs.
"Cool Mom" Silvia Johnson (reacquaint yourself with the saga here and here) is moving to scenic Canon City, Colorado for the next 30 years. With that haircut I think she'll fit right in.
I did not know it was so easy to get Mormons to jump from moving cars. Any Latter Day Saints out there need a ride? (In all honesty, we probably would not make it to backing out of the driveway).
Arvada, Colorado tax dollars hard at work. Are you enjoying your fancy steak dinners on my dime, cocksuckers? Feel free to contact the AURA Board of Commissioners to discuss this matter with them directly. I also urge you to ask Mr. Urban how his daughter got the nickname "Spices" when she was in high school.
NC State runs a classy program. All I know is that if that Mexi-Cam business were pulled at Invesco Field At Mile High during a Denver Broncos home game, the stadium would probably be burnt to the ground.
A funny anecdote regarding the kissing cam: A few years ago I was in attendance at the Pepsi Center when the Colorado Avalanche took on the St. Louis Blues. In the second period, Joe Sakic fires a slap-shot that shatters the non-shatterproof glass behind the goalie. This causes a long delay in the game as the Pepsi Center crews work on cleaning the glass off the ice and installing a new panel. The Jumbo Tron begins entertaining the crowd with video clips, hockey highlights and the kissing cam. The segment drags on longer than normal due to the delay, and finally, it casts a parting shot of the St. Louis Blues bench; more specifically Keith Tkachuk and Barret Jackman. The players, engaged in a conversation, look up to see themselves on the Jumbo Tron kissing cam, smile and then lean into each other and kiss. For that brief moment in time, I actually liked Keith Tkachuk.
With Halloween a few weeks away, here are some helpful links on how to make a Doctor Octopus costume and a fake human head in a jar. Tomorrow the future wife and I are off to the pumpkin patch at Rock Creek Farm in Boulder County to partake in our annual tradition of collecting over-sized gourds and saying things like, "I like this one. It has a good shape and it looks like a squirrel has not chewed the fuck out of it."
You may rememberSilvia Johnson, the pride of Arvada's parenting community. After learning life altering lessons from her previous legal misadventures (read: giving teenage boys free dope and sucking them off), Silvia filled an SUV with adolescent children and gave the wheel to a young, unlicensed driver. Hijinks ensued.
A recipe for backcountry disaster: sleep deprivation, painkillers, alcohol, an abscessed tooth and moonlight four-wheeling.
This weekend there was a brawl at the Olive Garden that is within walking distance from of house.
The Denver Broncos were the only NFL team to go undefeated in the 2005 Pre-Season which led to fans throwing around terms like "Solid all around" and "Championship contenders" before the season started. Enter this past Sunday. Now fans are throwing around terms like "It was too hot" and "It is just one game." Getting beat by the Kicking Mule and last year's NFL doormat is no way to start the season.
The United Keetoowah Band of Cherokee Indians says that Ward Churchill's (Colorado Univeristy Ethics Studies professor who compared World Trade Center victims to Nazi bureaucrat Adolf Eichmann) tribal membership is fraudulent. Is it me or does he look like Andy Warhol and Lou Reed's love child?
Today Colorado was hit by a late season snowstorm. I am refusing to acknowledge this storm as a blizzard even though all the news stations are. The future wife was out running errands this morning and she reported that the roads were not bad (half of the stores she went to were open and the other half were closed; including the local coffee shop which meant that Daddy did not get his Sunday morning latte). I drove across town this afternoon to play in a hockey game and the roads were wet but mostly clear. The rink was closed due to the storm. Can you believe that shit? A hockey rink closed due to the snow? Sacrilege. This is not a blizzard. March 2003, now that was a blizzard. I was snowed in for two days and the power was out. Open up the coffee shops and the hockey rinks you goddamn tourists.
I took a brief hiatus from the MB to travel to Glenwood Springs and get engaged. I apologize that the site has been as barren as an old Hebrew woman's womb and I was unable to satisfy your lust for links about high school girls fighting and Whitney Houston entering rehab for the second time. On with the magical engagement story.
The now future wife was under the impression we would be enjoying a relaxing three-day holiday in Glenwood Springs, Colorado. She was unaware that I had been plotting for months to drop the engagement hammer on her during the trip. Thanks to my ninja-like discipline, I managed to keep the entire engagement process a secret and accomplished the following tasks without her knowledge:
Shopping, purchasing and hiding the ring.
Asking her parents for their blessing.
Keeping the many individuals involved in Operation Engagement Hammer quiet and maintaining radio silence.
Operation Engagement Hammer began on March 23 as we set out for Glenwood early in the morning. Being as I was a nervous wreck and only had gotten a total of two hours sleep the night before I had to stop for a large colon-destroying latte to keep me going.
We made it to Glenwood in two and half hours and arrived at the historic Hotel Colorado, a place that has hosted the likes of Teddy Roosevelt, William Howard Taft, Al Capone and Patrick Swayze. Our check in time was at four o'clock, so we decided to hit the head and then hit one of the many snowshoe trails surrounding Sunlight Mountain (11 miles outside of Glenwood proper).
The weather was miserable; it was spitting rain, snow and hail and the sky was overcast. By the time we hit the trail head, I was a nervous wreck and the weather was set to ruin a component of Operation Engagement Hammer. I checked my pocket where the ring was for the umpteenth time and then I started freaking myself out. Did I remember to put the ring in the box before we left the house? Did I ever take the ring out of the box? Did I put on deodorant this morning?
Operation Engagement Hammer had to succeed. I have never been this happy with anyone. I knew from the beginning that my now future wife was the one. She understands that I am a perverted, beer-swilling bastard that enjoys pornography, hockey, books about war and depressing, soul-crushing documentaries on HBO about crack addicts in love (thanks for the referral on that one, Gary) and she is alright with it. In fact, in spite of all that, she still makes me muffins and is sweet to me.
The trail grew strenuous and the ring began weakening me like Frodo Baggins in Modor. After awhile, the clouds broke and the sun came out. I started looking for a good spot to implement the final phase of Operation Engagement Hammer. A voice that sounded like R. Lee Ermey started screaming in my head: "Quit playing grab-ass and do it now, soldier."
As I started questioning my sanity (my inner-monologue was shouting at me like an angry drill sergeant and I felt that was reason enough to evaluate things) the now future wife found the spot for me. "Look Matty! Look how beautiful the view is!" I look out to the where she was pointing and she was right. The view was amazing.
The sun was now unobstructed by clouds and the wind had stopped blowing. The moment of truth had arrived. I dropped to my knee, fumbled in my pocket and said, "Will you marry me?" The now future wife stood there, dumbstruck. She did not see it coming. Operation Engagement Hammer had achieved total surprise. It took her a few minutes of convincing that I was serious. "You can say yes anytime, honey," I said. The realization of the moment finally hit her and she started jumping around. "Yes, Matty! Yes!"
I do not remember much from the rest of the hike except for a wonderful feeling of euphoria. I know that she is the one I will be spending the rest of my life with and the fact this does not scare me nor keep me awake at nights is the reason why it is right. By the time we made it back to the car, the now future wife was more excited than a kid off of her Ritalin on Christmas morning. We spent the rest of our week in Glenwood relaxing in the hot springs, getting massages, visiting Doc Holliday's grave, walking hand-in-hand and generally being all stupid in love.
On our last night in Glenwood, I had a wonderful dream of her and I, many years from now, our eyesight failing, wearing adult diapers and bragging to each other about our new plastic hips and bowel movements but still very much in love.
During the two and half hour car ride home, I grinned ear-to-ear as she planned most of our wedding. Goddman, I love that girl.
Arvada, Colorado is the place where I grew up, attended school, played little league baseball, rode my bike to the swimming pool during the summer and went to Cub Scout meetings. It is also the place where I developed a penchant for whiskey, made a living on girls with low self-esteem and watched alcohol-fueled punks fight almost every weekend. It is the same place where Silvia Johnson, self-proclaimed "cool mom," just got busted for providing teenagers with drugs, booze and sexual favors.
According to Men's Fitness Magazine, Houston is the most overweight city in the United States and Seattle is the healthiest. Colorado has two cities listed in the top five for the most fit: Colorado Springs (3) and Denver (5). We represent from a mile-high, America. On the other end of the spectrum is Texas, which has three cities ranking in the top ten for the most fat: Houston (1), Dallas (6) and San Antonio (10). It is called proper diet and exercise, you fucking whales. Stop eating so much Carl's Jr., get off your cousins and take a run around the neighborhood or something.
Today in Colorado, the wind is as strong as a three-hundred pound bull dyke high on angel dust being chased by the police. Jake has volunteered his comments section for your best blowing metaphors. My lady's Dad (an engineer working on the Rocky Flats Closure Project) informed us that the site is on lock down and all work has been suspended indefinitely due to dangerous gusts that have shattered windows and made a general mess of things.
In the midst of the NHL lockout, the Altitude Sports Network (carrier of Colorado Avalanche) has resorted to showing classic NHL games. Last night I watched Patrick Roy face a career high number of shots in a 2-2 tie versus the Toronto Maple Leafs in 1997. I think I have hit rock bottom. Next, I may be seen on an episode of Cops running down the street wearing nothing but a throwback Colorado Rockies jersey, drunk off Canadian Mist whiskey, fresh from smacking my lady around screaming, "It was not Claude's fault! Draper was skating with his fucking head down!"
It all starts when the Boulder police department is called in to break up a large block party due to rampant underage drinking (a party in which the City of Boulder gave permits for). Party-goers become angry because their Constitutional right to free assembly has been violated. This is not the moment to think rationally. The time is nigh for angry mob justice. Tip over a car and light it on fire. Throw missiles at authority figures and drunken revelers. Get tazed, tear gassed and shot with rubber bullets. The next day, after being bailed out of jail by your parents, read a dissertation on the evening news about excessive police brutality.
Lately it seems like a fraternity in Colorado is more like a funeral home (CU and CSU). I think there should be a class in college called Drinking 101 that teaches kids the subtle nuances of alcohol consumption. Here a few topics that should to be on the syllabus:
When you have lost feeling in your extremities and are blacking out, it is time to put the bottle of schnapps down.
If you are a young, attractive female you should not drink nor hang out at a frat house. These places are havens for date rape, alcohol poisoning and disease. It would be much cleaner and safer to drink in a construction site port-o-potty with a used dildo.
Under no circumstances should you participate in any shenanigans with somebody that has passed out; this especially includes placing your testicles on somebody's face and taking a picture. It is called karma and she is a cruel bitch.
I am a public urinating menace. My patented move in high school was the "piss walk" where I would whip it out, amble side-saddle and relieve myself on the move. I am all about multi-tasking. And taking leaks on trees, bushes, lawn ornaments, car doors, truck tires, off of balconies, off of bridges, off the top of houseboats, in lakes, in rivers, in goldfish ponds and in shampoo bottles. Unfortunately various authority figures do not share the same affinity as me for public urination. One evening outside of Fiddlers Green Amphitheatre for example, my friends and I were draining Fosters oil cans in the parking lot in an effort to enter the concert venue intoxicated (who we were seeing that evening escapes me as most of the concerts I attended in my 20s all blur together in a glorious miasma of noise pollution and overly-priced, watered-down domestic beer). As we walk to our seats, I decide to take a piss on a nearby chain link fence behind some pine trees (the line for the men's room had a long a line). As I begin relieving myself a sawed off rent-a-cop emerges from the shadows and tells me in his best authoritative voice, "Zip it up, punk." I taunt him as I continue urinating saying, "I would probably have a Napoleon complex too if I did not graduate from the police academy." Thankfully, he did not have a registered firearm.
Designer #1: I remember you telling me that you and your girlfriend are runners. Are you running any upcoming races? Me: We are running the Bolder Boulder on Memorial Day. Designer #2: Oh, I think I have heard of that. Designer #3: How cool! Me: It is a fun race. At the end you get to run around Folsom Field. Designer #2: That's where CU plays their home football games, right? Me: Yes. They added a feature this year where a group of college football recruits will be sexually assaulting a drunk and incapacitated 18 year-old girl on the fifty yard line. Designer #1: Oh ... 10 seconds of silence ... So, did everyone enjoy the keynote speaker this morning?
During my lunch hour I was driving like the Bandit and blew past a Jeffco Sheriff going 20 over the posted speed limit. I heard sirens, looked in the rear view mirror, and the bottom dropped out of my stomach like a Rollie Fingers slider as police lights were practically up my tail pipe. I pulled over and the Jeffco Sheriff walked over to the Ghost of War and motioned for me to roll down the window.
"What seems to be the problem, sir?" I said, trying my best to sound like an innocent little girl holding a bunny rabbit and a stick of cotton candy. "You were going pretty fast back there. I am going to need your license and registration." "Oh. Okay." I replied, and began fumbling around in my glove box.
He gazed into my eyes and I sensed his bullshit detector jumping like Irish people in a House of Pain video. Without saying a word, he sauntered back to his vehicle and left me assuming that he would return with a speeding ticket and some KY Jelly in order to ass-fuck the fine out of me. Instead, he gave me a warning, handed me back my information, slipped me his card and sent me on my way. Good times, Deputy Pierce, good times.
CH just emailed me this link with the message "My wife thought this was funny." I will tell you what is funny, CH; girls who wear Colorado State thong panties.
The radio just announced an AMBER Alert informing listeners to be on the lookout for an abducted child and said child's abductor; a Latino male, mid to late twenties, wearing jeans and a Denver Bronco shirt and driving a truck. That is not helpful information considering nearly one third of Colorado are Latino males in their mid to late twenties wearing Denver Bronco shirts and driving trucks. That poor kid is doomed unless the authorities get lucky. Here is to hoping they do.
Crazy Bitches And The Guy Who Did Not Get His Penis Cut Off By Them
Christian Slater has a hot wife who happens to be a tornado of crazy. I have had numerous experiences with juicy psycho girls (thankfully, I completed my tour of the crazy bitch circuit in college) and here are two of the best:
During my freshman year of college I was dating a girl I will call Skank Bait. Skank Bait and I dated for a few weeks, during which time, she asked me if I would be her date to the autumn formal dance. Not only do I hate formal dances, I hated most of the kids I went to college with (they were children of privilege who looked down upon crusty, blue collar kids like me who took advantage of the free tuition benefit given to children of the university's employees). I had yet to have familiar relations with Skank Bait, so I assumed my attendance at this event would be the deal closer. Skank Bait invited a male friend of hers from Colorado State to be a date for her roommate. Skank Bait failed to inform me and her roommate that she was currently involved in a serious relationship with said male friend from Colorado State. Only the voices in her head and her psychiatrist know why she invited us both to the formal (my guess is it was an inability to trust brought on by emotionally abusive parents which caused her hurt people before they hurt her, but I digress). Skank Bait's roommate and I quickly sized up the affair, so we got drunk at the bar and ignored Skank Bait and her male friend from Colorado State most of the evening. Skank Bait's roommate and I decided to leave. Skank Bait sees us getting on the elevator, runs over to me, grabs my wrist and starts raising her voice and making a scene in the lobby of the hotel. I remove her filthy meat hook from my forearm and she screams, "Don't you ever fucking touch me!" At this point, male friend from Colorado State enters the fray getting in my face and saying, "Get your hands off of my girlfriend!" He proceeds to put up his dukes in preparation for fisticuffs. I laugh at him as the elevator doors close. The highlight of the evening comes on the walk back to the car as Skank Bait's roommate and I smoke cigarettes with a pack of drag queens on the 16th Street Mall that tell me I look "decent" in a tie. I never talk to Skank Bait again and Skank Bait's roommate gets a single dorm room shortly thereafter.
During my senior year of college I ran into a girl I will call Dishrag Whore while shopping at the local mall. I had been fond of Dishrag Whore's fantastic body ever since I ogled it for an entire semester during a statistics class, so we exchanged numbers and decided to meet for drinks sometime. The next night Dishrag Whore calls me and we met up for beers at a local watering hole. Things end up going extremely well and the night ends with us hitting skins in a sweaty heap of meaningless joy atop her bed. Post-coitus, Dishrag Whore breaks down and cries for reasons known only to the voices in her head and her psychiatrist (my guess is our sexual encounter triggered a latent memory buried deep within her subconscious regarding sexual abuse at the hands of a friend or family member, but I digress). I never see Dishrag Whore again, but for the next two months, she calls me to discuss the following topics:
Why she liked to drink a pint of vodka over the course of a day.
If I knew of any good places she could score some blow.
Why she would have sex with Jesus if he were alive today.
If I would be interested in a three-way with her and her fat friend.
Friday.It is my birthday so I take the day off. I wake up, make some scrambled eggs and bacon and watch Clash of the Titans on the digital cable. My sort of lady and I play nine holes of golf. My sort of lady gives me clothes and candles that smell like pumpkin musk. We crack a Michelob Ultra and toast to my 28th year. After killing three Michelob Ultras each, My sort of lady and I realize that Michelob Ultras go down very smooth. My sort of lady departs to get ready for birthday festivities at Old Chicago. Kaye, Aaron and Johnny Ballgame stop by to check out the town home improvements. We leave for the pub where I drink the night away with family and friends, consuming only two shots (thanks to Monica and an old high school friend Rachel). For the first time in three years of birthday celebrations, I do not wind up face down in some skeezy parking lot in downtown Denver dry heaving on a tree.
Saturday. My sort of lady and I drive to Redstone (20 miles outside of Glenwood Springs) to attend the wedding of a childhood friend she has not talked to in six months. I soon find out why my sort of lady does not talk to aforementioned friend (the term bourgeois princess comes to mind.) Together, we know a total of three people at the wedding. We sit at our table and drink ourselves half blind. I begin to spin yarns to the gullible and uppity wedding guests. My best story begins when someone at the table asks me, "How long have you and your wife been together?" I reply "Six long years," and then proceed to tell them how we met on the frozen sea ice of Antarctica where we were both studying botany and the psychoactive effects of blue-green algae on the human brain. I am sure to include my harrowing smack addiction and how my wife supported me through the dark times when I brought home filthy drug addicts to fuck and spike the vein with in our basement. I conclude the story with, "I am going to get a drink, anybody want one?" (I told you I am good at weddings.) My sort of lady and I dance. On the drive back to Denver, my sort of lady falls asleep somewhere near Glenwood Springs. She wakes up when I nudge her pulling into our town home complex. She stretches and proclaims, "That drive was so short." I drove three hours in solitude.
Sunday. My sort of lady and I go for an early morning run as a pre-emptive strike against the assault our digestive tracts will face during the birthday celebration at my parents house. We arrive at my folks shortly after one in the afternoon and are presented with heaping plates of food. On the menu is stuffed shells (shell pasta filled with ricotta cheese and covered in homemade spaghetti sauce) and peach pie. My sisters get me candles that smell like vanilla musk, a candle holder (I begin to think the women in my life called forth a candle conspiracy for my 28th year) and a gift certificate to Old Navy. My parents float me duckets and two books: Ortho's Home Improvement Encyclopedia and Techniques of the Great Masters of Art. We then head back to my sort of lady's house and I fix her screen door and hang some mirrors on her walls. I play in a late hockey game and receive my first ever game misconduct penalty (Mark recounts the event here). Much like Claude Lemieux after boarding Kris Draper in 1996 and destroying his face, I stand by the hit.
I have completed my home improvements for the summer and I have to say the place looks sexy as hell. My town home now dominates all other town homes. I know I promised awhile back I would post pictures from my recent backpacking trip and this time, I really mean it when I say they will be up later this week. I realize I am more of a cock tease than a panty-clad high school junior in the backseat of a 1984 Honda Accord, but I promise you will see my chiseled, mountain man ass climbing narrow, winding trails behind the backdrop of of Colorado fourteeners very soon.
Weddings are usually a source of happiness as two people commit and celebrate their love in a timeless ceremony amongst family and friends. They are also a great place to get rip-roaring drunk and fuck some shit up. While I never bit a man's finger off or smeared cake on a child, I do recall (vaguely) one wedding I attended six years back:
The ceremony is in North Denver and I ride shotgun to it with my cousin, Monica. Both of our mothers asked us to show up early and help set up chairs. We arrive 20 minutes late because we had to stop for cigarettes.
Monica and I sit in the back of the church during the ceremony. We make crass comments about a family member's hairpiece that gives him the appearance of a young Ringo Starr. Joking in a British accent I say things like, "Hey Paul, it's time to get married." Monica giggles like a dirty schoolgirl.
The ceremony ends and Monica and I realize the reception is at the Boettcher Mansion (near Golden, Colorado) nearly an hour away. We stop off at a local liquor where nobody speaks English before we begin the trek.
In the car we consume alcohol as quickly as possible. We smoke many cigarettes.
We arrive at the reception hall drunk. I sign the guestbook "Matt." I have neither a gift nor a card for the couple. Nels and my sisters have saved us seats at a table. We proceed to the bar.
The greatest combination of words in the English language: open bar.
After dinner, our table is trashed and loud. Family and friends shush us. Nels and I decide to get a round of anisette shots for the table for the toast. We drink all the shots on the way back to the table and wind up going back for more.
The anisette shots are downed at the table before the toast even begins. Then we remember they bring around champagne for the toast. Instead of waiting for the caterers to pour us the bubbly, Monica acquires a bottle for our table and after taking the first pull proclaims, "No more for me. I have to drive home."
The garter belt ceremony begins. Nels, my sister's date Mike and I stand in the pit of bachelors. The garter is flung and gets caught in the chandelier. Nels and I decide to hoist Mike up to the chandelier to grab the garter. Our sense of balance is skewed thanks to the alcohol we have consumed and Mike nearly falls on his face as we lift him. Mike braces himself against the chandelier, grabs the garter and jumps down. The chandelier swings wildly for about five minutes. My grandmother looks scared.
I see a hot girl and ask my Mom if I am related to her. She says no. I ask hot girl to dance. At this point I have spilled liquor all over the front of my shirt and smell like a brewery but she says yes anyway. As we dance I sing the song being played loudly in her ear. When the dance is over she informs me she is leaving and gives me her phone number. As she walks away I blurt out, "You look hot, and I am not just saying because I am drunk." (Days after the wedding I forget the number is in my pants pocket and it gets ruined in the wash).
Reception ends late. Nels and I talk the bartender in giving us some beers for the road. We smuggle them out in our dress pant pockets.
Monica ends up chauffeuring most of our drunken table home. We get stopped at a sobriety checkpoint. Luckily, Monica is now sober and passes with flying colors. I sit in the backseat staring blankly at her walking a straight line with an open beer in my hand and the remnants of a twelve pack at my feet. Much later I realize that if I were asked out of the backseat we would have all spent the night in county lock-up.
I just returned home from a visually exquisite, physically exhausting backpacking trip in the Sangre De Cristo Wilderness. I tagged along with Nels, his wife and their two dogs. I have pictures but I am too wiped out to retrieve my digital camera from the bag and plug it into the computer to share them with you. You will see me, with my mountain man beard and all my backpacking glory later this week. Many humorous anecdotes and witticisms were exchanged as we toiled along remote mountain trails, but in my opinion, the best came from me (of course) when discussing anal sex: "It is a game of inches."
An interesting footnote: On the way home we took a minor detour to see Bishop Castle. In case you are unfamiliar with Colorado lore, for the past 30 years eccentric Jim Bishop has been building a castle, all by himself. We had to see it to believe it. As I bore witness to over 30 years of one man's work (and enjoying the anti-government mantras written on sandwich-board signs dotting the castle landscape) I could say only one thing: "Interesting. Hey, are you guys ready to go?"
Today in Colorado, it is fucking hot. Like Africa hot. Like flames of hell hot. People are finding all sorts of ways to keep cool. I log onto my computer after dropping a deuce in the corporate washroom and I have this IM message flashing on my screen:
Jake: A 28-ounce Mountain Dew Livewire Slurpee, my friend. It is a high that never lets you down.
Friday. Work late to complete a corporate Flash presentation that nobody will pay attention to. After work, I play in a coed softball game where my team wins 26-4 and the opposing team's third baseman catches a ground ball with her face and breaks her nose. Immediately following the game a torrential downpour ensues and I sprint to my car leaving my glove on the field. I roll to Tyler's house and play College Football with the Slushy Gutter Crew. At one point in the evening Tyler pours me either a glass of bourbon, scotch, or whiskey. I drink it and proceed to kick his ass with Virginia Tech 30-14. On the way home I realize that I left my mitt on the softball field.
Saturday. I attend my company picnic and run the corporate Flash presentation I put in long hours over. Surprisingly, people pay attention, laugh and tell me good job. After the presentation the picnic continues at a nearby park with a luau theme and a pig roasting. I eat heaping platefuls of swine and mingle with coworkers. Jake, Gay Joe and I make fun of some pasty kid trying to play football. We call him "Mary" and giggle like the dickheads we are. Joe tells us about his homosexual encounters the previous evening. Hula dancers many years past their prime shake their asses for our amusement. I volunteer to dance with them, throwing my inhibitions into the wind like Kevin Bacon in Footloose. I perform a dance with pom-poms and hip gyrations. I win the grand prize in the company raffle (a $200 gift certificate to the Flagstaff House). After the picnic, I attend a lesbian wedding with Monica, Kaye, Aaron, Nels and Kerry. We quickly become the obnoxious drunk table at the reception. A plant is passed around and the recipient of said plant gives a toast. A diverse blend of people wishes the couple well including a militant lesbian with an attitude problem and a sexual predator with disheveled hair holding a kid that liked to hit people in the face. I share my toast with the happy couple, lifting my glass and saying, "Here's to eating pussy." They laugh hysterically. I love the lesbians and wish them the best. We roll to Monica's crib for a nightcap. I discover Kaye does not like playing drinking games with me. Monica informs me she picked up my softball glove up after our game. This makes me happy.
Sunday. I wake up at noon with a screaming hangover. I pour a glass of water and take ibuprofen. I watch Panic Room on digital cable. I drink a glass of water. I make a trip to Home Depot to buy some sandpaper and steel wool. I drink a glass of water. I strip paint for four hours. I drink three glasses of water. My Mom calls and invites me to dinner. I drink a glass of water. I drive to my parents house and eat spaghetti and garlic bread for dinner. We discuss home improvement. I go home to play a game of College Football. Colorado State beats Wyoming 21-3. Nels picks me up for our hockey game. I tally a hat trick and an assist. I drink seven glasses of water. Mark throws a shoe at Nels's face. I come home and take a shower. I go to sleep. If anyone asks me what I did this weekend, I will say, "Nothing."
Four fans are suing the rock band Creed for putting on a bad concert. Front man and cocksucker Scott Stapp was reportedly too intoxicated to sing. I understand how frustrating a concert can be when the band sucks. I have seen Stone Temple Pilots twice and they were terrible each time. In the summer of 1997, I saw them at Red Rocks and Scott Weiland had shot up smack just before the set, sang three songs and then spent the rest of the time talking about Indians eating peyote. In 2001, I saw them at the Family Values Tour where a sober Scott Weiland sat on a velvet couch and played their new songs acoustic while my date was lying on the Pepsi Center bathroom floor vomiting because she had drank too much with her heart medication. Needless to say, I do not feel sympathy for these fans because 1) they actually like Creed and 2) they should be used to being disappointed because Creed sucks.
Friday. She Who Will Not Be Named and I ordered some pizza and played Dynasty Warriors 4 until the wee hours of the morning.
Saturday. I watch the Colorado Avalanche beat the Minnesota Wild and played badminton in the park (note to cousin Jenny in Minnesota: after the Avs beat your boys like rented mules, I expect my free case of Pete's Wicked Ale and bottle of Bushmills to be delivered in person).
Sunday. I played in a tiring, demanding hockey game (we only had six skaters) and upon Jake's recommendation, watched The Salton Sea. It was an excellent film, and its good to see Val Kilmer back in his I am a bad ass and can play in diverse roles like Jim Morrison and Doc Holliday form as opposed to his I am just doing this for the money by starring in the Saint and Red Planet form.
Friday was the Colorado Rockies home opener, and attendance is an annual tradition amongst my circle of degenerates, er, friends. Once a year, we brave the concrete jungles of lower downtown Denver and binge drink like it was a Kennedy mixer. In the fuzzy haze that was Colorado Rockies Opening Day 2003, here is a list of events that may or may not have occurred:
I consumed six beers and a hamburger before the game began. During the game I consumed three beers, one foot long hot dog, a bag of peanuts and a tub of nachos.
At one point in the game, the intoxicated gentleman sitting in front of me (who was rocking a rat tail) got up and hollered, "Fuck you Walker! You fucking suck!" to right fielder Larry Walker. Larry Walker has a career .316 batting average and has won seven Gold Gloves.
It was discovered by Nels and I during Colorado Rockies Opening Day 2002 that Hooters does not serve hard liquor. That fact, however, did not stop us from attempting to order a Jack and Coke at Hooters this year.
I can throw a baseball 60 miles per hour while heavily intoxicated.
Magnetic schedules make excellent missiles to hurl at the opposing team's outfielders.
An ex-stripper showed half of the bar her breast implants during post Colorado Rockies Opening Day 2003 revelries at Swankys. We happened to be sitting next to her at the bar when this occurred. One member of our party claims to have been instrumental in talking her into the flash.
Within our immediate group two fights almost broke out. Reason for fight number one: One party comments on how amazing it was to supposedly talk an ex-stripper out of her shirt. Another party (me) comments on how easy it is to talk any ex-stripper out of her shirt. Reason for fight number two: One party comments half-jokingly that Nebraska would lose to Colorado State in football if they played this year, thus desecrating Nebraska football and its entire history and tradition. Another party, who happens to be a Nebraska fan, was heard yelling, "Don't judge Big Red, motherfucker." Unfortunately, one party of our group was involved in both potential skirmishes.
Today Colorado is getting a light dusting of snow (a subtle amount added upon the foot or so of blizzard remaining from last week). This means that Coloradans will be saying annoying shit like, "We need the snow" when engaging in small talk. We are in the midst of a drought you see, and water levels are low due to the past few mild winters and lackluster spring runoffs. Colorado water levels are also low because of states like California. The Colorado River basin provides water to over twenty five million people, sixteen million living in California alone. I say we dam up the rivers and horde our crisp, refreshing, life-giving Rocky Mountain juice. If Californians want some water, let them boil the ocean. In conclusion, fuck you, California.
Colorado is buried from the biggest snow storm to hit the state in 20 years. Work has been canceled for the past two days. I have killed time reading, watching television, playing Tenchu: Wrath of Heaven and redesigning a website. Last night, I was in the midst of posting new material to the MB, and my power went out (thank you, expensive surge protector). Sitting in the dark for a few hours, I realized two things:
I need to save working files on my computer more often.
Trapped in your house during a blizzard would be the best time to have diarrhea.
This morning I woke up, made a delicious plate of eggs and bacon and dug myself out. I started with my patio, which had been buried the night before (I shoveled this area off three times the day before). Next, I cleared the snow from behind my garage so I could back my car out. Finally, I made a path from my front door to the walkway. My neighborhood is a winter wonderland and it is still snowing.
Last night, in midst of an early winter storm, it took me three and a half hours to drive home from Boulder. This drive, mind you, is normally 20 minutes. Apparently, Boulder uses an environmentally friendly alternative to road salt that does nothing to ice when the temperature is below a certain level. The roads out of Boulder were like a hockey rink. During this period of time, I was a seething cauldron of anger. When I got home I wrote this. Enjoy.
The Catholic Church may provide a consequence free environment for pedophiles but it condemns tea bagging. I cannot believe kids get in so much trouble for this nowadays. In the locker room during my high school sporting career, tea bagging was nothing compared to guys pissing on you in the shower or sneaking up behind you and covering your face with a protective cup dripping in ball sweat (a.k.a. the Gas Mask).
