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."

Labels: colorado, im convos, mons, sports

The future wife and I have been wallowing in our own filth and muscular atrophy (Read: on vacation). When presented with the choice of showering, posting to the MB or watching three-star movies on cable television for the past three days, we have been going for the latter. Here is an incomplete list of the Christmas booty I tallied this year:

• New golf bag.
  
• Dark brown Donnie Brasco leather jacket (see second gangster from the left directly above Bruno Kirby).
  
• Assorted sweaters not of the seasonal print and Cosby design variety.
• Assorted button down shirts of the striped, metrosexual variety.
• Colorado Avalanche hooded sweatshirt that will magically fix the team's goaltending woes and teach Patrice Brisebois how to play defense.
• The books Freakonomics, Teacher Man, Angels and Demons, Slapstick, His Excellency and Idiots At Work.

I will not be posting any 2005 retrospectives that include major news events, major life changing events, places I traveled to, New Years resolutions and any other end of the year bullshit cliches that populate most blogs. I will be spending the upcoming New Year holiday playing in an ice hockey tournament and toasting warm Canadian Hunter with a hirsute family member, his wife, Mister and Misses Chili Dog, Monica, her pretty boyfriend Matt and my beautiful future wife.

Labels: chili dog, kaye, mons, nels, wife, xmas

Me: Cory Feldman is itching to be in a rock opera.
Monica: When all else fails, try the rock opera.
Me: I got news for Corey Feldman. There is only one man that can pull of the rock opera and his name is Meat Loaf.
Monica: Well, you cannot blame him for trying.
Me: Oh yes I can. A rock opera is nothing to be trifled with. It takes equal parts falsetto voice, sequined jumpsuits, frilly man-blouses and rhinestone unitards.
Monica: And Corey Feldman does not fit that bill?
Me: No, my friend. He most certainly does not.
Monica: Certainly you jest, but did you see his frilly attire on the Surreal Life while getting hitched?
Me: No.
Monica: He wore a pirate shirt and man tights, Matty.
Me: Interesting.
Monica: Now, I realize you cannot fuck with the rock opera formula. I am just saying, for a fancy boy, Feldman fits the bill.
Me: You may have swayed me. One thing troubles me, however; can Feldman sing?
Monica: Does it really matter?
Me: That settles it then. The time is nigh to write a rock opera for Corey Feldman. I will call it A Celebration of Corey. It will be the story of his life set to musical score: his childhood, Stand By Me (accompanied by a tear-jerking on-stage reunion with Wil Wheaton), his days on smack, The Lost Boys, the suppressed memories of Jacko molesting him, his marriage to stalkers and then, for the grand finale we will call Corey Oblivion, a duet with Mr. Corey Haim.
Monica: Yes!
Me: Now all I have to do is learn how write a music.

Labels: im convos, mons, pop culture

Monica: The Gay card.
Me: That is funny.
Monica: "I would like to pay for it with my Platinum Rainbow, please."
Me: For the homosexual that likes to advertise their sexuality with every purchase.
Monica: That is a really good tag line.
Me: Thanks. "I will take a pack of menthols and a box of Good 'N Plentys. And yes, I am a homosexual."

Labels: im convos, mons

Me: I am going to post this.
Monica: Yikes. Anna Nicole is a train wreck. That is almost too bad to post. The Joe Namath fall from grace, now that was funny. Posting this would be like kicking a three-legged dog or getting footage of Courtney Love stoned and flashing her junk. Been there, done that.
Me: Good point. But the posting well is dry. I would apply this same logic if I ever needed a slump buster and was forced to pick up trash like her at a strip club. Inner monologue would go something like this: "Sure, she is a disaster. I mean she works at a titty bar, a place where drug addicts, perverts and sex abuse victims work and hang out. But damn, I am in a serious dry spell here. I will just give her a handful of painkillers. Maybe then she will not cry after sex. Much."
Monica: Fair enough. I just do not understand the allure is all. Of course, I do not have a penis either.
Me: Sometimes it is just as simple as "Hey, look at those fun bags!"

Labels: drugs, im convos, mons, pop culture, sports, strippers

My weekend was filled with disturbing programming flashing across the television. On Friday night Monica brought over her fella and some Chinese food over and we all watched Monster. I thought Charlize Theron engaging in lesbianism would soften the disturbing nature of the film (even if said lesbianism was with Christina Ricci who is hot if you are into elf sluts with big foreheads) but I was dead wrong. I have three words for you: tire iron sodomy. (I was guilty of this hot-chick-doing-an-uncharacteristic-sex-act fallacy during Requiem For A Dream, too. I heard Jennifer Connelly took a double ended dildo up the chute and that sounded like something I would enjoy watching. First, I had to endure a smack addict's arm amputation (his limb became black and gangrenous due to his love of the vein candy) and an old woman being committed to a mental health facility for her eating disorder and addiction to diet pills. When the scene finally arrived, it was more disturbing than hot).

Saturday morning I made myself a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios and turned on the Olympics in the hopes of catching some Women's Beach Volleyball (Holly McPeak. Yummy). Instead I get the a broadcast of the Gymnastics Trampoline. The competition goes as such: an athlete (use the term athlete loosely) does tricks on a trampoline for an Olympic medal. We need an international competition forum for this? There was a kid named Jimmy in my neighborhood who would have dominated this event in the early eighties. That fucking kid was a wild man on the trampoline. His signature move was jumping off the roof and going into a double flip. I was waiting for a tandem Gymnastics Trampoline event when two competitors had a seat war or played a game of crack the egg. You know this event is not taken seriously when commentators had this exchange:

Announcer #1: Oh! That miscue on the back flip there is going to cost him.
Announcer #2: Yes. What kind of experience do you have with this event?
Announcer #1: Well, I have been jumping on trampolines since I was eight years old.

Labels: a-town, childhood, lesbians, mons, movies, pop culture, sports, weekend that was, wife

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.

Labels: /mark, birthday, chili dog, colorado, drinking, hockey, johnny ballgame, kaye, mons, the fairways, weekend that was, wife

Monica: God, I hate Creed. "Arms Wide Open" my ass. I would like to jam something down Scott Stapp's wide open throat.
Me: Ha! Excellent. Take your "I love my baby slash I worship Jesus" rock somewhere else, Scott. Somewhere like the bottom of the ocean.
Monica: Totally.
Me: Just a poor man's Stryper if you ask me.
Monica: Honestly.
Me: Well played.

Labels: im convos, mons, music, pop culture