Nace Rants

Rivalry

2010-07-07T19:47:00.010-06:00

The only sport that I've given more than a passing glance over the past year is baseball. My Rockies have been holding their own in a tight division and I've been keeping regular tabs on Ublado Jimenez's impressive record of delivering ridiculous gas (not a fart joke; I don't follow him that closely).

When I moved, I swapped scenery within the division and continue to reside in an NL West city. While I'm razzed with semi-regularity for being a Rockies fan, I'm a little surprised that the only time people seem to give a shit about my preferred squad is when the Rockies are playing the Giants. Even then, Giants fans are pretty much just going through the motions and hating the opposing team. There exists no real rivalry until the wild card race but it's still just Giants versus The Other Guys. It doesn't feel special.

Compare that to the Giants/Dodgers rivalry and it's night and day. Dodgers fans are despised in SF and Giants fans are loathed in LA. You can smell blood in the air when the Dodgers come to town. Not even the Crips will wear blue when the Giants are battling their cursed challengers from the south.

I guess it makes sense that the two teams would hate each other so much. They played in rival Burroughs in New York until 1958 and were subsequently relocated to rival cities within the state of California. It's only natural that old animosities would follow the teams westward and that new ones wouldn't take too long to form given how much the top and bottom halves of this fine state feel about one another. These are the ingredients for the longest standing rivalry in baseball.

Granted the Rockies have only existed for 17 years, but they need a real rival. They need an adversary so hated that each team's fans can have reason to burn shit down in each other's cities. It just makes for a more exciting summer when a game that counts as less than 1% of the regular season sends everyone into a tizzy.

It's not like Denver doesn't already have a long history of sports related animosity. Just ask any Avs fan about the Red Wings or any Bronco fan about the Raiders. You'll get an earful of so much verbal diarrhea you'll need an entire box of Q-tips to swab out the hate.

Maybe it's because I don't live there any more and won't have to deal with the ramifications of rubber bullets, molotov cocktails, missing teeth and rivers of vomit, but I feel like the Rockies are due a few celebratory/retaliatory riots every summer just to keep things interesting until ski season starts.

Taking A Stand

2010-06-28T16:08:00.013-06:00

There are few things that get my ire up like a shitty advertisement. I haven't eaten at a Good Times in years due solely to the insufferable, cheesy dimwit who does the voiceovers for their TV and radio spots. He sounds like he needs to swallow the excess saliva pooled under the back of his tongue and blow some fucking Afrin to relieve what must be the worst case of nasal congestion the world has ever seen. Fuck you, Good Times; you'll never get one Yankee Dollar out of me.

The latest to offend my delicate sensibilities is Corona and I'm about to tell you why. Watch this video and get your umbrellas out because there's a shit storm a-brewin!

Episode 1

Okay; I'll give you that it's imprudent to scope out strange ass as you sit next to your significant other. This dude made no attempt at disguising the fact that he just eye fucked the model in the white bikini and got a shot of lime to bring him back to reality. Fine. There are more creative ways to express this point but I guess Corona went for the lowest hanging fruit. Let's have a look at the second installment in this series.

Episode 2

Now it's tit for tat. An equally perfect specimen of the opposite sex walks by and the tables turn as the woman considers all of the horrible things that she'd let this dude do to her. Homeboy sees this and decides that a little revenge is justified. After all, he took a shot of citrus to the grill for the same crime mere moments before. A comedy beer spray should zero this karmic balance. But wait; his lady is crafty and pops the top on the OTHER beer instead and hands off the opener with a haughty air of self-righteousness.

Fuck that. This bitch is allowed to give the elevator eyes to this passing hunk and get away with it? The dude is just trying to settle her hash and ends up looking like a chump. Now he's down by two. From my voyeuristic vantage point, these people need to part ways on the double because they obviously have conflicting perceptions as to the nature of their relationship. The way this story has played out so far, I'm sure the salad days have come and gone for this couple. Let's move on and consider the latest episode.

Episode 3

At this point I'm not even sure why these miserable bastards bothered going to the beach in the first place. I feel like they could have stayed home and hated each other without paying to be despondent in paradise.

If he'd quietly gotten his eyeful of sexy, turned and stonewalled his SO thereby proving that he's got a set, I'd have stood up, applauded and immediately purchased a twelver of Coronas in celebration of his not being a coward. Instead, he sprays acidy lime straight in his motherfucking eye for watching three hotties frolic and splash in the ocean. If he was down by two earlier, he's in the red by at least 1,000 now.

And that doesn't even take into account the smug look of satisfaction that plays across that bitch face of hers while she watches this guy metaphorically chop off his own balls for her benefit. She fucking LOVES it that she's got this poor sucker wrapped around her little finger so much that he'll mace himself to stay in her good graces.

Fuck them both. The guy should chase after that group of lovlies like his life depends on it and try to recover a shred of his (dubious) former manhood. The girl should run in the opposite direction into the arms of the big guy from episode two and let him fuck some warmth into her heart. Since neither of these things is likely to happen, I'll hold out hope that, in episode 4, they both die in a fire.

By my thinking, these advertisements have established that people who drink Corona are either a) bitch made, spineless pussies or b) humorless, insecure ice queens. Since I'm neither of those things, I'll never humiliate myself by drinking Corona for the rest of my life. Say what you will about my resolve, but if you don't stand for something, you'll fall for anything.

Soapbox

2010-06-27T15:20:00.002-06:00

Over the past couple of years, I've become increasingly fond of comic books. I'm not the guy who shows up at the comic shop first thing on Wednesday morning to scoop up the latest pulp fantasy, but the fact that I know which day of the week new issues are released indicates that evolving into this type of creature is not off of the table entirely.

At an early age I started reading Bloom County by Berke Breathed. For the uninitiated, this comic strip ran in syndication for many years beginning in the eighties and brought us unforgettable characters like Opus the Penguin, Bill the Cat, Steve Dallas and Milquetoast the Cockroach. My father is an ardent fan of all things Opus. He had the entire Bloom County catalog on the family book shelf and I read every one. Despite this early exposure to comics as a medium, I don't count Bloom County as a comic book. The same goes for Calvin & Hobbes, Peanuts and Zits. They are comic strips. For the purposes of this article, I'm classifying a comic as a magazine made up of narrative artwork and dialogue.

Where I grew up we didn't have any comic book culture. I and my contemporaries were aware of the existence of comics but I can't remember anyone from my class who actually had a comic book collection. The kids I knew were more interested in building forts, hunting, skiing and any number of other outdoor activities than they were with spending an afternoon thumbing through an issue of Superman or X-Men.

I'm certainly not bemoaning my upbringing or making a claim that I'm somehow worse off for not indulging my childish fantasies through a nine panel page. Quite the opposite. Despite it's cultural shortcomings, Wyoming is a unique place to come of age. I don't know many people who grew up in suburbia that knew how to clean a gun, dig a car out of a snow drift or drive a stick shift at the age of 13.

I bought my first comic book (or trade if you're going to be a dick about it) when I was 20. It was Arkham Asylum by Grant Morrison and Dave McKean purchased at Meltdown Comics in LA. It tells the origin story of the legendary Gotham City asylum in a series of flashbacks while Batman battles his old adversaries and his own fears in the present day. I chose it mainly because the artwork is stunning but also because I wanted to familiarize myself with the Batman canon before the release of Batman Begins. (Reader's Note: Batman has always been my favorite superhero. Tim Burton's Batman started me down that path in my early childhood but, until a few years ago, my knowledge of the Dark Knight was limited to the films.)

Since that fateful day, I've steadily accumulated my own modest collection of graphic novels. With the exception of Batman, my library doesn't show much love to the superhero genre. Sure, I have the obligatory copy of Watchmen, but that's not really about superheroes in the traditional sense. The comics I love most are dark, bizarre, violent and completely otherworldly.

Despite the mature content that comprises the volumes on my shelf, comic books are subject to unfair scrutiny and are frequently stigmatized as being childish picture books for the developmentally arrested. I'm opposed to this sentiment. It cheapens the medium and it fails to acknowledge the long days and sleepless nights that writers, artists, inkers and letterers toil through to provide a finished product. There are some ideas that don't read in black and white or are too broad for a 90 minute summer blockbuster.

An example of this is Wormwood: Gentleman Corpse by Ben Templesmith. The idea of a magical worm who uses dead bodies as vehicles for fighting inter-dimensional squid beasts with a ghost detective and a slew of leprechaun strippers could never materialize as a film or a novel but works perfectly as a comic book. Stories like this take just as much creativity to realize as a story about a wizard mouse summoning classically trained broomsticks to dance with him in a thunderstorm, but one is classified as timeless whimsy and the other is written off as pulp smut.

Art is a tough nut to crack. I like looking at engaging images but I'm bad at assigning them context. This is why comic books are so appealing, at least to me. Each picture is a part of a greater whole and drives the story forward to an eventual conclusion. I'm not staring at a piece on a museum wall trying to glean a sense of what it could possibly mean when I'm taking in a comic book. If I don't know what to think of a particular illustration, I can always count on it being clarified a little further into the story (at least if the story is worth a shit).

I also appreciate the collaborative effort that it takes to get a finished product. I know I can write but I'm incapable of expressing anything apart from incompetence with my drawings. The idea of two people with completely different skill sets working towards the same goal is refreshing. There are compromises to be made and a middle ground must be reached for the story to be a success. Even if the story is written and drawn by the same individual, they still have to be aware enough to let neither the art or the words hog the spotlight. This delicate equilibrium is the essence of the comic book mechanism. If the story is lacking or the illustrations don't assist in the telling of the story, you may as well scrap one for the other.

Comic books are fun. Reading is often misclassified as a pursuit of the intellectual and not as a leisure activity. The same goes for touring the museums of the world; it's not fun, it's cultural and therefore, serious business. Comics are more multidimensional than their opponents would have you think. I've learned a lot about the types of images that impress me and I've also learned that the bizarre and the ethereal have place in the world. Having fun reading comic books has certainly opened my eyes to new worlds and ways of thinking and I didn't have to be sombre, quiet or smugly contemplative to learn these things.

Dead Eyed Stare

2010-06-24T21:49:00.011-06:00

I never really had a problem with the Twilight series until recently. I'm not trying to be a hater, but I've actively resisted watching the films or reading the books. I just know that Twilight is nothing that I'm interested in even on a masochistic, let's-see-just-how-bad-it-can-be way. I certainly don't begrudge anyone indulging in a little swill every now and again. For example, I'm a sucker for romantic comedies. While I know that they have very little artistic merit, these films are good for an hour and a half of turning my brain off.

No, Twilight didn't really start to bother me until Kristen Stewart started staring at me. In anticipation of what, I'm told, is to be the last installment of the series, San Francisco has been bukkaked with images of this dead eyed, slack jawed skank and she won't stop looking at me.

Every time I'm at the bus stop, there Kristen Stewart is; enveloped in smokey, ominous fog, flanked by her chiseled flunkies, just mad dogging the fuck out of me with her mouth agape as though she'd like me to feed her a pretzel. Even if I could feed her a delicious, savory snack, I don't think she'd even bother chewing it. She would remain utterly devoid of emotion as the surplus saliva slowly built up inside of her stupid mouth and overflowed in a thick, unbroken stream.

I know that the character of Bella Swan is supposed to be a blank slate for every frustrated, plainish looking, semi-unfulfilled (best case scenario) girl/woman to project themselves onto. She's merely a vessel for the jaundiced females of the western world to pour all of their hopes and dreams into. Because of this, the people behind the films had to find someone just as uncompelling as the "character" in the books. Enter Kristen Stewart.

I suppose I should be thrilled that they've found their blank slate despite her giving me the thousand yard stare while I wait on the 38. What Kristen Stewart's sudden celebrity really spells out for this author is that, after all of the Twilight hoopla finally fizzles and sputters to its bitter end, I'll never have to endure another azoic gaze from this lifeless husk of persondom. Or so I hope.

Films like Twilight make the point that you don't have to be anything at all remarkable to be the center of attention or the catalyst for a clash of cultures. That same vacant look that I encounter is, from what I'm told, the long and short of her entire performance.

All that Bella Swan has to do to make shit pop off is have a pulse (though I'm not sure that this is even true by the end of the story considering her fetish for the undead). That's it. She's just a trophy to be fought over; but more of a brittle plastic little league participation trophy and less of a Stanley Cup.

These simple posters indicate to me that I can expect to encounter more and more of this blank canvas sentiment. As Eclipse is raking in stacks and stacks of greenbacks, I know there are a million other projects just like it waiting to pick up where the Twilight series left off. I guess I should prepare myself for more bus stop staring contests.

I prefer my movies (generally speaking) to have strong characters with virtues and flaws. I like to watch captivating performances and see people make trying decisions and choices that have a consequence. I don't enjoy watching two supernatural hunks battle over who will get to pork a dead fish.

Revelry, Etc.

2010-01-06T18:45:00.014-07:00

The following is a translation of The Notorious B.I.G.'s "Party and Bullshit". You can listen to the song here if you don't have a frame of reference. Enjoy.

I've been discourteous since the commencement of my formal education.

Illegally acquired lavatory admissions, truancy and unsolicited posterior fondling were second nature.

My daily inhalation of combusted cannabis was established and, by the age of one score minus seven years, I was well known in various circles.

I recall concealing firearms in my outerwear; specifically .32 and .22 caliber handguns. Presently, my satchel contains a fully automatic 9mm blowback operated machine pistol.

I'm just relaxing, good sir, cremating superfluous perennials in the company of my contemporaries, all of whom don the latest footwear.

Gentlewomen wish to engage me in conversation but I'm more concerned with the location of the closest festivities and whether or not it is prudent to bring my firearms.

In the case that my weapons aren't permitted, I'm hopeful that I'll not be pierced by any errant projectiles. I'd do well to ensconce myself in Kevlar because I question the motives of other roisterers.

Underhandedness is all it takes to elicit a reaction from myself and my associates. The resulting cacophony will be reminiscent of an expedition to slay waterfowl.

Making merry with my companions, all we seek is...

Revelry, etc.

While embracing the ladyfolk and glad handing the gentry, I recognize an old friend, Sei, with whom I shared accommodation in a government funded housing project during a portion of my youth. He was less than pleased with my attendance and confronted me regarding my armament. I confirmed that there were two .22 caliber pistols concealed within my loafers.

If my presence is required, feel free to summon me. In the meantime, I'll be carousing with the females, imbibing champagne and will not comply with your attempts at stopping my behavior. I'm a man of ill repute.

If others are disingenuous, on whom will you call for support? If others seek to harm you, on whom will you call to douse the flames with a hail of ordnance?

It's no secret that I'm spoken of along the entire Eastern Seaboard. Your trembling in my presence is to be expected. You will be uneasy in my proximity due to your foreknowledge of my knack for disruption.

I'm addled by the combination of VSOP and cannabis coursing through my person. Despite this, I remain a most remarkable specimen of my people among these ruffians.

Revelry, etc.

In the rear, I gaze upon striking women wrapped in tight fitting couture and consider enlightening them of my interests. Topics of discussion will include the proper way to transport a revolver and how to ensure a memorable evening by ingesting Jamaican spirits.

We converse while oscillating cannabis wrapped in tobacco under the watchful eye of my colleague, Big Jacques. While we reduce our herbs to ashes and consume expensive libations, prostitutes will consider that if the abundance of hard currency produced an offensive emanation, I would be classified as malodorous.

As a result of my tranquility, my escort wishes to relocate in order that we fornicate. Post coitus, I constructed a fresh reefer and purchased a Dutch lager.

During my refractory period, there was a terrible upheaval. An individual was rendered unconscious, a subsequent verbal altercation occurred ultimately resulting in a fracas.

At times like these, I consider our lack of mutual compassion. My departing desire is to leave evidence of our sexual liaison on the chest of my concubine while she ingurgitates the finest French champagnes. It appears as though my inclinations are about to be realized. Farewell.

Revelry, etc.

The Bigtime

2009-12-11T01:19:00.005-07:00

Tonight, Sean told me that a clip of us and 15 other people made it onto SFWeekly.com. Take a moment to watch the video at this link and look for the handsome devil in the beanie hat and flannel shirt.

That's right. A video of me, Sean and a girl who I'm told got smacked like Ike beat Tina on The Real World: Seattle all singing Rick Astley's 1987 hit "Never Gonna Give You Up" exists on the internet for the world to see.

Evidently this karaoke bar in Japantown (or Little Osaka (or Petite Kyoto)) is the type of place where people get noticed. Who wants to touch me?

Enough Already

2009-12-04T13:24:00.006-07:00

Tiger Woods is not my favorite athlete. Tiger Woods is not my favorite golfer. Tiger Woods isn't my favorite human being in as much as if I had to rescue him or my mother from a burning building, I'd rescue Mom every time. All of this aside, It's only right that I take a stand in his defense during the largest media drumfire of the past week.

Celebrity is a tricky thing. On one hand, you have the glamor, the adoration of millions, the fortune and the babes. On the other, you are subject to the most probing, judgmental and sadistic scrutiny imaginable 100% of the time. It's a sad truth that we as a society build up larger than life figures only to watch them crash down in flames. We like doing this because it makes our nasty little lives irreproachable by comparison.

If we held each other to the same impossible standards to which we hold celebrities, we'd all be fucked. Put your own life under the microscope for a moment and I'm sure you'll find something you're not proud of in no time at all. Maybe you were unfaithful at some point, maybe you stole things or maybe you're just a liar. All of our flaws or imperfections pale in comparison to Tiger Woods' because he's been put on the pedestal. If he cheats on his wife, he falls a mile. If you cheat on you're wife, you fall a foot. When it comes to celebrities, the punishment never fits the crime.

I've referenced the golden rule in a few posts, but perhaps it's best remembered here. Treat others as you wish to be treated. Don't get caught up in the frenzy and condemn a man for a moment of weakness. Your dirty laundry is just as smelly, if not smellier than Tiger's. Save the outrage for something truly outrageous and the damnation for something truly unforgivable.

It's Everywhere

2009-11-30T11:36:00.012-07:00

Last night, as Sean and I were driving back from the Embarcadero Center's 10:00 showing of The Road (it was passable and nothing more), we passed by one of the only 24hr Starbucks in the city.

I'm generally not a fan of Starbucks but I have had a quantity of tasty beverages prepared for me by their friendly, well qualified baristas. I've also enjoyed consuming their scones, bagels and muffins. I'm not at all against their product. I loves me some coffee, and if Starbucks is the only thing around, I'll take it.

I won't even attempt making the same tired point that it's inconceivable how there could be a Starbucks across the street from a Starbucks. Coffee shops make crazy loot and what is it to be American if it's not about stacking some paper?

What I don't like is the fact that Starbucks gets a pass when it comes to opening stores INSIDE of other stores. There is a Starbucks in every Barnes & Noble I've been to, there's a Starbucks in the Denver REI, there is one inside of the Wells Fargo branch I use at 19th and Geary. Safeway plays host to several Starbucks kiosks as do most malls. Most distressing of all is that there is a Starbucks in the Louvre. The fucking LOUVRE!

I'm not sure when it happened, but Starbucks has surpassed even McDonalds (Oh that sweet siren) in its omnipresence. Why is it that this one particular business has been permitted to open it's doors literally anywhere? What makes selling coffee any different than selling hamburgers? God knows if McDonalds, BK or Wendy's wanted to set up shop in the Louvre, they'd be told to jog right the fuck on. I have a sneaking suspicion that even if Peet's or Coffee Bean wanted to open a branch on culturally hallowed ground, they'd be denied.

What sets Starbucks apart from the rest of the crowd? It can't be their superior product. They sell coffee. The only way to really tart it up is to add fat and sugar. Anyone can pull that off and then some. It can't be the price. Starbucks is markedly more expensive than the neighborhood joint around the corner. It's not even as if Starbucks offers a particularly engaging environment in which to enjoy your drink. It's all Formica and cold steel. There aren't any dusty couches to flop on or old volumes of art house magazines to halfheartedly skim. They are built for speed, not comfort. The faster they can get people out the door with their fix, the more profitable their business will be.

My supposition is that since coffee is the most widely used and socially accepted drug, the foremost cartel has enough influence to rise above the law; much like Pablo Escobar did with his Columbian cocaine empire. Starbucks has our coffee on lock. If by some strange circumstance all 16,000+ Starbucks counters failed to open tomorrow, most people in the world would be a little less tolerable than usual. On a macro level, this is disturbing. Imagine having to deal with that one son of a bitch today at your job. It sucked right? Now imagine that 80% of the people you encountered today hadn't had their caffeine. The scope of that kind of douche baggery is far beyond my grasp.

Starbucks has us under their thumb and that's why they get carte blanche when it comes to setting up shop in the holiest of holies. They wield the sword of destiny, they have the golden gun and they possess all three deathly hallows. I don't see the world getting over their supposed addiction to the black stuff anytime soon so I guess there's nothing to do but come to terms with Starbucks popping up like boners on a middle school field trip to the titty bar.

Kindle or Kindling?

2009-11-22T23:26:00.014-07:00

I'm torn. Common sense and my ever expanding environmental awareness should make the purchase of a Kindle a no-brainer. Given my affinity for reading, I'd be saving a few thousand trees over the course of my lifetime. I'd shrink my carbon footprint substantially when you consider all of the energy that goes into producing the paper, printing the words and shipping all of that dead weight right to my local bookseller. It would take a few less trips up and down the stairs to move me out of my apartment and I'd free up plenty of valuable shelf space to display my embarrassingly large, yet eternally incomplete, toy collection. In defiance of these factors, I don't ever envision myself taking the plunge into the pageless abyss that is the Amazon Kindle.

To me, Kindle boils all that goes into reading a book down to it's basest parts which users then smear on a sheet of tinfoil, torch with a butane lighter and inhale through a section of plastic straw.

I'm certainly not rejecting the notion of getting concentrated information from a screen. Anyone who knows me also knows that I'm a slave to Wikipedia. I read an average of around twenty articles a day. I quest for knowledge, not only to be clutch at bar trivia, but to satisfy my unending curiosity about random subjects that pop up in conversation. Having Wikipedia in book form would not only be laborious to transport, but also nigh impossible to navigate. Therefore, I do concede that an undiluted information dump has its place in the world. It seems as though Kindle knows this as they tout Wikipedia access as a feature in their advertisement. To this I say, I already have a computer and an iPhone, so I don't need to drop the large ones on another device that lets me view free content.

The joys of reading are so many more than simply ingesting information. Walking into a bookstore, inhaling that rich, mildewy smell, and proceeding to skim the dust covers on the multitude of volumes contained therein is a visceral experience. Kindle removes all of the subtle joys of buying a new book and replaces them with cold, mechanical sterility. No amount of convenience is worth depriving myself of an hour spent nosing around a bookstore.

Kindle doesn't just ruin the purchase of a new tome, it ruins how I keep score of what I'm reading and it takes away the symphony of silence. I like tracking the progression of whatever I'm using as a book mark and I like the whisper and snap of a turned page. Removing the book mark after that final page has turned means that I'm one step closer to being as well read as I'd like.

I thoroughly enjoy the sight of my books lined up alphabetically by author on my shelf. Anyone who comes into my room can't help but notice that I'm a bit of a bookworm. I like talking about the volumes I've read and would like to read. Similarly, I feel like I can glean a rudimentary sense of what makes people tick based on their library. Replace all of that with a Kindle and we'd just have another stark, white rectangle sitting on our desks.

Kindle also comes with the option of listening to whatever you're reading instead of say, reading it. That's cheating. I don't count any books I've ever heard on tape as books I've read. That's because I didn't read them. I sat on my ass and listened to someone else's vocal interpretation of an author's work. I didn't make the choice to continue reading despite having tired eyes. I didn't have to stop reading to get a glass of water and spend those few seconds wondering what was going to happen next. I didn't put my own spin on it and I didn't have the option to decide for myself which characters to empathize with.

I'm not against reading out loud; I actually enjoy it. However, I enjoy it for the fact that I can stop and discuss the story with whomever is reading to me. If you ever see me sitting on a park bench arguing with a chunk of metal and plastic, it's time to lock me up in a padded room.

Most of the features highlighted in the Amazon advertisement are beyond comprehension. I've never had to worry about my hardcover of Trainspotting running out of batteries and I've never had trouble reading Harry Potter in direct sunlight. In fact, that's exactly where it functions the best. Now Kindle offers a web browsing function thereby making it a computer that doesn't compute or an iPhone that isn't smart.

Let's stop reinventing the wheel. For centuries we've gotten by just fine reading books. Not so long ago, having books was a sign of wealth and good repute. These days, they're being stigmatized as environmentally damaging and superfluous. At some point in the future, the sun is going to belch out a massive wave of gamma rays that destroys our power grid. We'll be without electricity, phones, computers, Kindle's and all other consumer electronics. While the world is busy collectively losing it's shit, I'll be locked up in my apartment with a shotgun pointed at the door and a paperback spread across my lap, utterly content with being an anachronism.

Represent, Represent

2009-11-20T20:14:00.012-07:00

Over the past six or so weeks, I've learned a few things about the City by the Bay. I've learned that Market Street irreparably fucks up the layout of the east side of the city. I've learned that my world can be turned on it's ear simply by overhearing an Asian person speaking in unaccented English. I've learned that the most intimidating people to be encountered are the women who run Good Luck Dim Sum. Perhaps most of all, I've learned that the residents of this fine city fucking represent.

Living in Denver, I saw my fair share of Broncos, Nuggets and Rockies gear on the streets. 49ers, Giants and Warriors gear is equally ubiquitous on the streets of San Francisco. However, supporting local teams and repping your hood are fundamentally different. What I see here daily that I didn't see in Denver is apparel specific to the city as a whole or to a particular neighborhood. People take their civic pride to a new level on the Barbary Coast. It's nearly impossible to walk into a bar in San Francisco and not see at least one "The City" sweatshirt.

I've seen nearly every neighborhood similarly touted on countless t-shirts and hats. I've seen so much SF inspired graffiti and so many SF tattoos that it makes my afro straight if I try to recall even half of it. Even though I'm still driving with Colorado plates on my car and a Colorado ID in my billfold, I'm fucking suited and booted in SF apperal when I exit the whip for a quick ghost ride.

When people asked where I lived in Denver, I'd just tell them Capitol Hill and that would be that. The experience of living in Washington Park versus living in Uptown isn't particularly remarkable. Geographically these areas are dissimilar, but the feel of each district is much the same.

In SF, I'm constantly called upon to defend my corner of town. If I meet someone from the Mission, I'll inevitably be dragged into a "which neighborhood is better" argument that is unwinnable. For Example, I'll talk about my direct access to top tier Asian cuisine and they'll point out that there isn't a decent taco to be had west of Divisadero. I could claim that my access to GGP and the Presidio make my hood the best much the same as they'd mention Delores Park as irrefutable proof of the Mission's superiority. While we'll both be more or less correct (at least in our own minds), we will both actively reject the notion that the other is justified in their opinion that their's is the finer stomping ground. It's quite Sisyphean.

One possible reason for this blind support of one's own precinct is the general scarcity of real estate in San Francisco. With no yards to speak of, your neighborhood really becomes your playground. The marked lack of any neutral ground between your home and the streets of the city blurs the line between what is your space and what is everybody's space. That which would be considered an eyesore in the Castro is a revered piece of public art in the Haight. It's on your block, so it's yours. Because of this, people are quick to defend their block's integrity much the same as they'd stick up for the feng shui of their apartment.

Another reason for this territoriality is that San Francisco is a city populated by transplants. While this makes for an incredibly diverse population, it also makes for a population desperate to look like they're pros. It's awkward moving to a new place and, if you're like me, you at least want to be an authority when it comes to your own hood. It's entirely possible that people rep their neighborhoods with such enthusiasm because it's the only one they really know anything about.

The funniest thing about this community hubris is that this city is only seven miles wide by seven miles long. It's impossible for anyone who doesn't live here to comprehend how there can be such disdain among the various quarters of town, especially since said quarters all run together. For example, I live maybe a mile from the Marina, but I WON'T fucking go there. It's not out of a sense of self preservation that I avoid that district. I'm in no danger of getting clapped up or mugged walking down Lombard Street. No, I stay out of the Marina because it's filled with douche bags. If anyone from the Marina happened to read this (they won't), I'd be afraid of them coming up the hill in their 4x4s, collars popped, ready to kick my ass were it not for the fact that nobody living there has any business in the Avenues.

I suppose the main point of this is that it's good to be proud of your block, but you ought to respect the fact that it's not the only block in the city. San Francisco is more than the sum of it's parts and it's the intangible things that make it such a fun place to live. Let's not (myself doubly included for that shot at the Marina up there) spoil what makes this city such a special place by constantly one upping each other. We're all in this together, even beyond the city. The whole Bay Area is a diverse, awe inspiring wonder of America and we're all incredibly lucky to be living here as opposed to, say, Des Moines. So, instead of bickering amongst ourselves, I propose all Bay Area residents direct their shit talking towards the people who really deserve it: Southern Californians. Those mother fuckers.

The Picture of Excess

2009-11-17T11:19:00.006-07:00

I've never been a bleeding heart environmentalist. I don't litter and I clean up after myself not so much to be green, but simply because I don't want to shit up the world with my trash. There was no real opportunity to go green where I grew up. We didn't have recycling in my sleepy Wyoming town and packing up a month's worth of cans and driving to the next town to deposit them wasn't particularly justifiable. In college it was much the same. We did have some recycling bins on campus, but the rest of the city of Laramie was not all that concerned with separating out aluminum, glass and paper. By the time I moved to Denver, a city very much concerned with the environment, it took a conscious effort on my part to remember to put my empties in the purple bin.

Now that I live in San Francisco, recycling, reducing and reusing are ubiquitous. All of the sidewalk trash cans have little pyramids on top specifically for cans and bottles. Even the jackasses who are too clueless to use the recycle section on public dustbins can rest easy knowing that their improperly discarded cans will be harvested by one of the city's vast transient population. SF takes it a step further by requiring residents to keep an additional bin for compost. While the smelly bag on the fire escape took some getting used to, it's now second nature plopping my banana peels, coffee grounds and food leavings into said receptacle.

Even though I'm trying to reduce my waste and do my part to help the planet, I'm far from what you'd call fanatical. I'm not going to pick orange peels or apple cores out of the gutter and bring them home to the compost bag and I'm not going to get in someone's face if I see them flick a butt onto the street.

Getting to the point, yesterday at work I was tasked with unloading and merchandising three boxes of Spyder brand gloves. Pictured below is the packaging from one pair of gloves.

This is disgusting. Each pair was wrapped in plastic with a silica pouch and a plastic wrapped cardboard divider. Furthermore, each individual glove had a cardboard insert, ostensibly to help it retain it's shape. What the fuck is wrong with the people who gave this package the green light? After unwrapping each pair of gloves, I had one box filled completely with cardboard inserts, a 35 gallon trash bag half filled with plastic, a grocery bag of silica and two boxes full of gloves. If you do the math, our order came out to 66% product and 33% garbage.

Perhaps most disturbing of all was the fact that each pair of gloves had a green stamp on the hanger informing consumers of Spyder's commitment to a cleaner environment and the fact that their packaging was made of 100% recycled cardboard and printed with soy ink. What the fuck? It doesn't matter what percentage of your packaging is green if you're using factors more than is necessary. That's like spending the afternoon baking a cake knowing the whole time that you're just going to take a dump on it once it's been frosted; it just doesn't add up.

I'm aware that a little green stamp or made with recycled materials sticker goes a long way these days, especially in a city like San Francisco. After spending two hours unloading and separating someone else's trash (that we paid for), I'd think twice before I spent the extra money on something that is supposedly carbon neutral. The best thing you can do for the environment is be responsible for yourself. Do your part in the real world and you'll feel like you're making a difference because you are. Stop relying on others to do the work for you. It's much easier for companies like Spyder to increase their margins by taking advantage of society's collective environmental guilt than it is to actually do something proactive.

I Spell Fun H-A-L-L-O-W-E-E-N

2009-10-30T18:54:00.007-06:00

Halloween is, by far and away, my favorite holiday. Every year, it's well worth the struggle coming up with the perfect costume, planning the evenings events and not getting the taste slapped out of my mouth for shamelessly ogling all of the lovely boobs that are seemingly shoved in my face with such salacious abandon. I've always heard that Halloween is a holiday for children and twenty somethings. Having been both, I can say that this statement has been, heretofore, wholly correct. What disturbs me about the aforementioned sentiment is the implied notion that, once I reach a certain age, my favorite celebration will cease to deliver on the thrills. This frightens me.

If Halloween ceases to be the highlight of the fall, what do I have left to look forward to? Thanksgiving is good but it is more wholesome than debaucherous. Christmas isn't so much of a holiday as it is a season unto itself. Christmas' encroachment on all other autumn celebrations irritates me. The wonder has completely disappeared and I see it for the corporate cash grab that it is. No, Halloween is the only holiday in the bottom half of the year that still gets this author's dick hard. I rue the day that my spirit has been so irreparably crushed that I don't even bother to consider what to go as.

To say that I take my costuming seriously is an understatement. I'll spare no expense when it comes to making sure that I'm nothing short of authentic. Even if I happen to run into another "whatever I am" while I'm out cavorting, I'm confident that my outfit is superior. I dive into my adopted personality with such enthusiasm that I couldn't remember how to walk properly after a night spent running through Laramie as a Beastie Boy from the Intergalactic video. It took a while to remember that I didn't need to strike a pose on every other step or suddenly start walking backwards.

Halloween also serves as an opportunity to forget about all of your troubles and get lost in the revelry. A few years back, I went as the Joker (this is pre-Dark Knight, when being the Joker wasn't completely fucked out). I was one month out of the most serious relationship I've ever been in and it was a struggle for me to wash myself, let alone have a good time. I knew that if there was one day to say fuck it, it was Halloween. I pulled myself up by the bootstraps and made the effort to put something awesome together. The afternoon I spent dyeing clothes and experimenting with face paint was one of the only times that fall that I felt truly happy and distracted from my heartache. Even though it was just for a moment, I was thankful to have a night set aside where getting buck wild was entirely acceptable.

Trick-or-treating is something I haven't participated in for well over a decade, but I still look forward to the possibility of losing a crown while eating Sugar Babies or making my mouth bleed with fistfuls of Sour Patch Kids. Jamming as much free candy as is humanly possible down your gullet is well worth the annual stomach ache. I'm independent and have lived on my own for a long time now. I can buy and eat candy whenever I please, but there is something about Halloween that makes candy all the sweeter.

Finally, there are few things as bitter sweet as a hangover on November 1. Waking up with a bumping headache, a sandpaper mouth and sore teeth, sometimes in unfamiliar company, means that you had a hell of a time the night before. Even when the Ibuprofen fails to dull the hard edge of alcohol's next day sword, this is the one time per year that I'm not angry with myself for pulling the trigger and slamming that final shot of Jameson or Jager.

With all of this in mind, I am swearing an oath to you, dear reader, to keep running with Halloween long after it becomes socially unacceptable for me to do so. Undoubtedly, when you are out this weekend at the bar or at a party, you'll see the one guy who is holding on to his rapidly fading youth with all he's got. When you see this person, I implore you to go and shove your tits in his face if you're a chick, buy him a shot with a filthy name if you're a dude or both if you're nasty. I'm not asking you to spend your entire evening with this person, just help them keep it real. This may be the last time they get the chance to act a fool for a while; at least until St. Patrick's Day.

New Bar Thursdays

2009-10-23T23:08:00.003-06:00

Last night, Sean and I debuted our new Thursday night routine of imbibing spirits in unfamiliar territory. I'm excited by this new tradition and look forward to passing many a Thursday trying to figure out which MUNI route takes us back to the Inner Richmond and far away from any of the crazies we're sure to meet. Despite the obvious benefits of broadening our horizons, I think this new tradition could serve to do more than get me tipsy.

First and foremost, while San Francisco may be a relatively small enclave in the greater bay area, I'm like a rat in a maze whenever I need to leave the house. Unlike Denver, the streets aren't laid out in an easily navigable grid. Rather, streets in the city will suddenly change names, skew off in unpredictable directions or end. That's not even taking into account the incomprehensible numbering system; why 742 Clement is between 8th and 9th avenues is too baffling to consider. I'm sure that my sense of direction will improve as time passes and the city shrinks on me but, for the moment, it's not a bad idea to sharpen up my drunkdar. Getting plastered and taking the heel toe express home usually aids my recollection of shortcuts and landmarks.

NBT also serves to keep my belly full of the tastiest late night snackies available. If you are like me, after knocking down a few drinks the urge to graze takes over. In Denver, debasing myself with a trip to Mickey Sleaze was, sadly, par for the course. While my options when it comes to after bar mop downs are seemingly endless and don't necessitate piloting a motor vehicle, they are all equally unhealthy. From donuts on Polk to burritos and ice cream in the Mission, from a slice in the Haight to crepes on Clement, there is something for everyone. Should you decide to come and visit, I'm confident I'll have the snack sitch on lock no matter what hood we're in. Be sure to thank me when you're balls/boobs deep in a Nutella and cheesecake crepe and not the next day when it feels like you've eaten a bag of Quikrete.

When it comes to meeting all types, I'm wont to imagine a better place than SF. While the vast majority of residents are attractive, smart and capable, there is no shortage of creepers. Last night in the Haight, Sean and I were offered "stinky nuggets" at least twice per block. I'm not saying that I take offense; far from it. I love smoking weed and if my habit keeps just one hippie flush in magic crystals and patchouli, I'll have done my part. I am interested in finding and subsequently avoiding the bridge and tunnel crowd. Please don't think I have my nose in the air because of my ZIP code. I may live in the city, but I don't front; I'm poor as hell. In a city full of active, dynamic individuals, I don't have time to waste on the wannabes. Anything that serves to diminish my contact with said poseurs is a boon in my book.

Perhaps I'm trying to justify my possible alcoholism or maybe I'm just excited to get out and about in my new digs, but NBT can do nothing but improve my San Francisco experience. Maybe I'll meet a lovely lady one night and we'll have lots of fiendish, frantic sex or maybe I'll slay the narwhal and use her as an excuse to avoid SOMA for a few months. Whatever the case, I'm sure this isn't the last time you'll hear about New Bar Thursdays. We're keeping a log of every bar we patronize as well as a list of pros, cons and, hopefully, conquests. I'm hoping the majority of my stories will leave me looking like the hero, but I promise not to leave anything out if I have a less than stellar evening on any given Thursday.

Caught Off Guard

2009-10-15T16:28:00.006-06:00

"Do you think about me when you jerk off?"

The question broke the post coitus silence with all of the subtlety of a shattering window. Patrick had just been laying there, trying not to say something that would spoil the moment, which is to say, nothing at all, when the opportunity to fuck up big time hit him like a slap in the face.

"What was that babe?" he asked, trying to buy the precious seconds that would save him the trouble of a fight and earn him a more permanent place in her bed.

"You heard me, Pat. I asked if you think about me when you masturbate," she reiterated, "It's a simple question."

Truth be told, Patrick hadn't even thought about that himself. In the few weeks since he'd met her, Amy had already made an indelible impression. They'd gone to a couple of nice restaurants, they'd gone to the beach for a picnic, she'd brought him to her friend's gallery opening and he'd taken her on a drive in the mountains; each date was better than the one before. Even when they weren't together, Amy was still on Patrick's mind. He'd often recall the first time he kissed her. He knew what she looked like naked. He knew she was exceptional at giving head. What he didn't know was whether or not he thought about her when he yanked it. Now here he was after their first time having sex, good sex too if he said so himself, being asked an unanswerable question with the highest of stakes.

"Does it really matter," he ventured, "I mean, either way I can see you not being happy with my answer. If I say no, you'll be upset that I'm thinking about someone else and if I say yes, you'll call me a pig and wonder what imaginary scenarios I'm concocting in my twisted little mind."

"Twisted mind, huh?" Amy prodded, "So you're saying you've got some kinky fetishes? You're saying you want to tie me up and slap me around, you want to get rooted out by a big purple strap-on?"

"No, you're saying that. What I'm saying is that your question is meaningless. It makes no difference what or whom I think about when I'm masturbating but it bears a real world consequence if I tell you. I'd very much like to sleep with you again and I won't sabotage myself by answering that question."

Patrick was satisfied with his answer as his shoulders relaxed back into the pillows scattered across Amy's bed. She had had him on her hook and he'd wriggled himself free without looking like a moron.

"You say it makes no difference, but I disagree," said Amy as she propped herself up on her elbow to get a better look at Patrick's face. "If you aren't thinking about me when you jerk off, that could mean that you want to respect my honor by not casting me in your fantasies. Gentlemanly, yes, but if you can't be open about what gets you off, what do we do if the passion starts to die? I'd rather know now, on my terms, what you may ask of me down the road. If it's me you are considering when you... slap the salami, I want to know when I made my first appearance."

"Wow, Amy. There is so much opportunity for me to put my foot in my mouth here that I'd really prefer to plead the fifth," Patrick replied now sensing a new tension creep its way slowly through his body like so much molasses.

"Sure, I get it," Amy said, "But if you don't answer me, whether it's to save my feelings or for you to save face, I promise I won't be sleeping with you again for a long time. Either fess up and risk my getting upset or don't answer and I'll think you're a pussy. Only one option leaves you with a chance to have me again. It's up to you."

This is exactly where Patrick didn't want to be. He had roughly a 25% chance of giving Amy an answer that would keep him flush in the sex department for the foreseeable future; and that's if he even had an answer to give. She might have made an appearance in his sexual fantasies at some point over the past few weeks. An ass here, a boob there. Maybe a sultry stare or two. He hadn't necessarily been trying to preserve some lily white incarnation of the real Amy in his minds eye as he relieved the pressure but he didn't want her in the mix with the youporn crowd either.

They laid there silently and the minutes passed; Patrick busy chasing the mice in his head and Amy patiently waiting to hear what he came up with. Suddenly, Patrick took a breath and turned to face Amy.

"I can't honestly say that you've never made an appearance, but I haven't actively denied you entry either. What I can say is, whether or not I masturbate to thoughts of you, I always prefer having sex with you over having sex with myself. Sex will always be a priority and if it needs spicing up, we can discuss that together. It shouldn't be up to either of us individually what keeps it fresh. If that's good enough for you, why don't you pull out that purple strap-on and give me the business."

"Well," said Amy, "I suppose that's as good an answer as I could have hoped for. I half expected you to keep quiet."

"And the other half," offered Patrick.

"The other half was busy trying to remember where my strap on is."

Patrick swallowed hard. "Oh God, I thought you were kidding."

"I am," said Amy as she climbed on top of him, "You're something special, you know that?"

"I do," said Patrick as he laid back and devoted his full attention to the woman on top of him.

Trouble With The Law

2009-09-23T12:13:00.008-06:00

Last night, over brisket sandwich, I was reminded of my lone run in with the boys in blue, the fuzz, the five-oh, the law. Being a 25 year old male, one would assume that I have an M.I.P. under my belt, perhaps a D.U.I. or at the very worst a ticket for possession of illicit organic matter. Surprising at it may be, my record remains clear of any of these charges. Save for a speeding ticket in 2005 and my many parking violations, I've managed to keep my nose clean for the past 13 years. No readers, the only blemish on my otherwise sterling record came at the ripe old age of 12.

When I was in middle school, I was friends with a lad named Brandon Herd. I loved going over to Brandon's house. His mom let us listen to gangsta rap, swear in the house and make as many prank phone calls as we wanted. We could watch Beavis & Butthead, smash things in the driveway and stay up as late as we wanted. Whenever I'd return to my house after spending time with Brandon, I'd have to make a conscious effort to bite my tongue about what we'd gotten into the previous evening. I'd tell my parents that we ate pizza and played Nintendo instead of said fuck and watched the movies with the boobies.

The summer after my sixth grade year, Brandon moved to Phoenix to live with his father. With Brandon out of the picture save for the occasional phone call, my life went back to normal. I spent my time swimming, learning to shoot guns and setting up elaborate war scenes in my room with my G.I. Joes.

Halfway through seventh grade, I got a call from Brandon. He explained that his dad was moving again and that he'd be coming back to Cody after the Christmas break. I was ecstatic. I couldn't wait to have my buddy back and listen to the latest dirty songs and try out some new material on the phone. What I didn't know was that Phoenix had hardened Brandon. His intentions were less innocent and his demeanor more malicious.

Brandon was no longer content to enjoy late night cartoons and campaign for the release of Prince Albert from his tin prison. Instead, he wanted to smoke cowboy killers, sneak alcohol and tell the random people we spoke with to go fuck themselves. I won't say that I approved of his new found recklessness, but my failure to speak out against it may as well have been an endorsement.

After a while the shock of his angst wore off and just became par for the course. We continued to hang out together and I fell into a bad routine of disobedience and carelessness.

One day, as we wandered the streets of Cody unsupervised (my parents were in Vail and I was under his mother's care, which is to say, nobody's care), we went to the house of a mutual friend. After a day of smoking cigarettes and being naughty, we made our way back to the top of the hill to meet his mother. Along the way, as we passed through a deserted field, Brandon stopped.

"I dare you to light a fire in the grass," he said, "Right here, just for a second, then we'll put it out."

I knew it was the wrong thing to do, but, with the possibility of being called a pussy looming, I complied. I spun the wheel of the Zippo and let the flame lap at the dry grass. Faster than my twelve year old brain could comprehend, there was a nice little inferno burning at my feet. I quickly stomped it out and turned to leave the scene as Brandon stopped me in my tracks.

"Hold on dude, it's my turn," he said as he mimicked my actions and set the brush ablaze. This time, the wind picked up and spread the fire beyond our control. As we stood there, mouths agape, the fire rapidly engulfed the field.

It's at this point that I wish I could say we called 911, fessed up and paid the piper. Instead, we did what any kid would do when they realized that they had really fucked up; we ran. We ran as fast as possible and tried to look as innocent as possible as, moments later, we heard the wail of the siren coming in the distance.

My stomach was sour for the next few days. I didn't dare tell anyone that we'd been anywhere near that part of town at the time of the fire. Around the middle of the week, just as I was getting back to business as usual, Brandon and I were summoned to the police station. We were separated and questioned individually. Unsurprisingly, we each gave a completely different account of what happened and where we were when the fire started.

We were released then and there, without any further questioning or charges filed. Thinking we were off the hook, life returned to normal until my folks returned form their vacation.

Now comes the part of the story that I don't like to recall. I was walking home from the bus stop when I saw my mother's car scream around the corner. It was a nice day and I wasn't expecting her to come and pick me up. I climbed in and was greeted by tension that you could cut with a knife. When I asked my mom what the matter was, she said "everything".

I new the jig was up. I slunk into the house, head hung low and got it with both barrels from my dad while my mom sat there and cried. I've never felt as rotten as I did that afternoon. I fucked up a few more times over the course of my adolescence. I got caught with weed, I came home late, I got the occasional reprimand for bad behavior at school, but I never felt like as big of a failure and as much of a criminal than I did that afternoon.

The next day, I went down to the police station and fessed up. I told them everything and was assigned a court date. Brandon never forgave me for spilling the beans even though the cops knew what we did all along and were just waiting for my family to come back to town to show their hand.

We ended up going to court and were fined $300 each, assigned 60 hours of community service and we had to write letters of apology to be published in the local newspaper. I took my lumps, swallowed my pride and completed my sentence.

I think it goes without saying that I'm glad this is my only run in with the criminal justice system and that it didn't result in my incarceration. It wasn't the fine, the community service or the public shaming that taught me my lesson. Rather it was the disappointment of my family that hit home the most. I hate seeing my mom cry, especially if it's because I did something wrong.

Maybe it's because I'm taking a few lumps now that I posted this story. If there is any moral, I suppose it would be that everyone goes through some terrible shit at some point in their lives and the only thing to do is pick yourself up by your bootstraps and make the most out of things. Despite my life being up in the air for at least the foreseeable future, I'm happy that, compared to the story you just read, it's all good and I haven't disappointed anybody. Thanks for reading. I'll get back to being an opinionated asshole in the next post.

Todd Helton Will Fuck Your Wife

2009-08-29T09:49:00.002-06:00

Let it be known: If you can't get the job done, Todd Helton will. Your cock doesn't work? Todd's does. Your wife needs some attention downstairs? Todd's goatee is made of orgasms. Your wife wants to have a threesome? Todd Helton will give her one by himself. Your wife wants a baby? Todd Helton's sperm all wear Rockies helmets and carry bats to beat the shit out of your pitiful seed. The Toddfather is a pleasure machine.

Mine Are The Boys Of Summer

2009-08-25T16:54:00.003-06:00

This year, I fell in love with baseball. I don't know how it happened. I've always been a fan of taking myself out with the crowd, but it wasn't until this season that the old ballgame became a really special place for me.

Having spent my formative years in Wyoming, I was never really able to say I was a fan of this team or that team with any true conviction. To top it off, nobody in my family had or has more than a passing interest in baseball, so my metamorphosis into a fan of any team in this sport was improbable at best.

When I was in college, I spent a fair amount of time traveling to and from Denver. Virtually every concert event, shopping trip or big day out required me to enter the Colorado quadrilateral. Oftentimes, these events would lead to my attending the odd Rockies game. Of these times spent in Coors Field, I have trouble recalling anything short of hot dogs, beer and sunburns.

I moved to Denver in November of 2007 and had plenty to look forward to for my first Colorado summer. A significant portion of my excitement was due to the fact that I could now attend any number of baseball games with little or no planning whatsoever. The $5 Rock Pile tickets were at my fingertips and I settled on the lofty goal of making it to twenty games in the 2008 season. Sadly, I only made it to nine games total. Similarly, of those nine games attended, I'm wont to recall any significant details.

I took the day off on opening day this year and, while I couldn't get tickets for the game, I made my way downtown with some friends to revel in the festivities. After drinking two "Bear Fights" each, we rode the train to LoDo and made merry well into the night. After much drunken discussion, Feaster and I decided to set a goal of seeing ten games live at Coors Field. Having put my goal in the realm of the realistic, I was certain I could make good on it. As of August 21, I have been to my ten games and have tickets to see one more in late September along with the possibility of attending tonight's game against the division leading Dodgers. A large pat on the back for yours truly.

Along with having met my goal, I've been tuning in to watch the Rock Show on telly. I've kept close track of their efforts over the course of the season and have learned a lot about the game thanks to my latest roommate, Beantown Brian (I'll let you guess who he supports, at least in the AL).

The point of this post isn't so much that I'm a Rockies fan, but rather that I'm pleased to finally have a team that I support on my own terms. Now, when someone asks who my team is, I'll be able to say the Rockies without missing a beat. I've had some awesome times at the ballpark this year and can confidently recall more than the number of beers and hot dogs I consumed at any given game. The vivid green of the field, the smell of every junk food imaginable, the crack of the bats and the roar of the crowd have made the Old Ballgame a magical place for this new fan.

Lighten Up

2009-08-12T16:53:00.007-06:00

Moments ago, I had a not so happy encounter with a lesbian couple in my office. I had just finished signing a lease with a new tenant and, as I bid him farewell, a nondescript young woman entered my office to take a look at vacant studios. As I began my speech, a dubiously coiffed, hipster girl rounded the corner from the waiting room, posted up next to the other woman and stared daggers at me.

"Are you two together," I asked more to save myself the time of giving the same speech twice and less to out them as a couple.

"Yeah... so..." she snarled in my direction.

Taken aback, I replied that I was only trying to save a few breaths and get them out of the office efficiently so I could go back to the episode of 30 Rock paused on Hulu. Despite my geniality, all that was returned was a scoff and a pair of rolled eyes.

I'm not the type of person who gives two tits and a cunt or two balls and a cock if you're gay or not. I'm not even the type who says "do what you want to behind closed doors". For real; kiss, hold hands, fingerblast and rusty trombone when and wherever the hell you please. What I do care about is you coming into my place of business with a chip on your shoulder flipping me attitude because your tiny little brain is trained to take offense at EVERYTHING.

I'm sorry you've been dealt a tough hand in life by being the vast minority when it comes to all things sexual. All I ask is that you unsaddle all of that pent up aggression and hostility at the proper time and on the appropriate party. Shit, let me know the time and place and I'll come and show my support (I loves me some angry red staters and Bible beaters) for your right to fuck whomever you so please.

I'll never change my belief that everyone deserves a fair shake regardless of their orientation much the same as I'll never change my belief that if you're an asshole, you can go fuck yourself. No matter who you are, always follow the golden rule and treat others as you want to be treated.

The Pole

2009-08-04T12:38:00.012-06:00

I'm a tough man to please when it comes to most mass media. I like to think of my tastes more as refined and less as picky. For example, I don't watch local news, preferring to subscribe to tidbits of pertinent information harvested from Digg or Reddit. Likewise, I don't often listen to local radio. I have a great appreciation for sites like Pandora that allow you to control what you listen to while still keeping it fresh. That said, I was recently in a cab headed to the ballpark as a stretch of songs by such favorites as TV On The Radio, MGMT and The Killers assaulted my ear holes with their rock.

I asked the cabbie which frequency we were enjoying and, come to find out, it was a local indie station celebrating it's one year anniversary. What ho! A local station that's tolerable? Surely you jest, good sir. Later that weekend, I fixed my car (a different story entirely) and celebrated by cold flossing that whip all over this fine city jamming to a rare mix of indie sounds.

I live in a part of town that does not necessitate daily driving, so I remained content listening to the Adam Carolla Podcast each morning and a mix of fresh jams from Pandora at work. Despite not listening on the daily, I made sure to spread the word about this fabulous station to my commuting friends confident that I was doing my part to popularize the best radio in Denver.

Last Friday night, we had a party. As I mingled amongst friends, I caught a snatch of conversation from my good buddy Hammer.

"...the best radio station for sure. 101.5 dude, I swear."

"I know, man! They play the best rock in town," I eagerly enthused.

"Totally, dude. Fucking Whitesnake and GNR... classic."

At this point, I became vexed. Surely the same folks who saw fit to pump us urbanites full of Modest Mouse were playing some sort of horrible prank. A one year anniversary joke to force listeners to hear this garbage before switching back to their regularly scheduled programming.

"That's not what they usually play..." I started to suggest.

"Why wouldn't they play that," offered Hammer, "the station is called The Pole. Their shtick is playing stripper music. Have you actually heard it?"

The answer was no. I hadn't listened in a while and was unaware of the change in content.

The Pole? Why, Denver? Are we not sophisticated enough as a city to make room for just one station that doesn't vibrate the air with waves of diarrhea blackened by Satan's asshole? By my count, we have 107.5 on top of Autotuned Lil'Whoever, 93.3 for the Spreadheads, 105.1 (which, admittedly, does play quality oldies) for the old timers and a million God forsaken country stations that don't deserve the time of day. Evidently one modern station for we of good taste was too tall an order.

Coming from a small town, I am used to digging deep to find quality entertainment. I'd always hoped that when I finally moved to "The Big City" I'd be able to abandon my scouring and embrace the top notch entertainment that flowed forth like Key Light from a frat house keg. Well, I've been here for two years and the keg is floating. My fleeting time with pre-Pole 101.5 represents the final sputtering of foam from the filthy tap.

No Title

2009-07-14T16:14:00.006-06:00

Today, I called the power company. This is not something I look forward to doing. For those not familiar, Xcel Energy is the biggest pile of shit company I've ever had the chance to deal with. Their customer service department is staffed by the dregs of society who are barely able to string together a sentence, let alone issue and complete a work order. I HATE calling this den of ignorance, this parlor of dunces, this nest of cunts.

The worst thing about calling is the saccharine sweet automated voice that guides my calls and desires, above all else, that each call I place to Xcel Energy be a pleasurable experience.

Why should it be? The amount of time wasted listening to a recording slobber up and down my dude parts about how my call is important to it is ridiculous. If my call were really important, I wouldn't be having my time wasted for me and would be presented with concise options as to how my call is directed minus the "we hope your day is AMAZING" bullshit.

I'm fucking done with everything being a pleasurable experience. Some shit just sucks no matter how much you tart it up. I'm never going to be stoked to call the power company just like I'll never look at a dentist's chair and think that it would be a great place to spend my birthday.

If everything was awesome all the time, we would completely lose track of our feelings and become the zombie horde that I live in fear of every single day of my sordid little life. The people I feel sorry for the most are the people who are happy all the time, because they most assuredly are not. That veneer of contentment is where they focus all of their energy and the real, fleeting, momentary joys are completely forgotten and replaced by insultingly fabricated "pleasures" like calling the water bureau.

Citizens, it's your right and duty to feel burned by the slow melodies of piped in muzak and the sugary voices of the faceless, mechanized representatives of companies who don't give a flying fuck about you, your street, your mom or your feelings. Make no mistake, I'm not asking anybody to be a prick to someone who is just doing the job they're paid to do. What I'm asking is for you not to be fooled into dispassion and lose your ability to rise to anger when you're being delayed by a false sense of a shit being given.

Horny For Some Theism?

2009-06-10T14:30:00.005-06:00

Mere moments ago, I was sleazing around on the book of faces when an ad caught my eye. Conveniently positioned in the upper right corner of the screen was the type of grainy photo of a young, busty, brunette coed that you would expect to find on a voyeur website. You know; the kind where subscribers are treated to a view of a bathroom stall (and whomever may be toiling therein) courtesy of a covertly placed, single megapixel webcam. Usually, such pictures are accompanied by a caption asking "Do you like skanks?", "Want to get into this" or "How 'bout some pussy?". Curiously, this advert was captioned "Do you like Christians?".

The juxtaposition of these two conflicting sentiments was too much for my booze moistened brain to comprehend. Is the idea to present Christianity as a fetish? I had no idea that there was a subculture of people who are turned on by religion. I've never seen an attractive girl at the bar and thought "Man, I hope she's Lutheran; that would be so fucking hot." Contrarily, I've never seen an ugly chick and thought "Whoa, that girl looks like Ernest Borgnine raped Roseanne," and then got a boner as soon as I found out she was a Methodist.

Forgive me for saying so, but don't Christians already have a place to score ladies? Church is a full on meat market where the faithful go to meet their own kind. I can't imagine a better circumstance for chatting up a pretty girl:

1. You are both looking fabulous in your Sunday Best.

2. You're both probably sober so there won't be any nasty surprises on the wake up.

3. You already have something in common so if there's an awkward silence you can just quote some scripture or sing the hook to your favorite hymn.

With an in like that, why would any person of faith bother with finding a partner online? The internet is not an honest place and who's to say that whatever site is promising truckloads of hot, baptized trim is not an enormous rip off? Were I among the flock, I'd take full advantage of the opportunities in my own backyard. Even if your church is a tad dry on the poon front there are scads of similarly denominated cathedrals in every city, so feel free to spread it on. Just because you're in a different building doesn't mean you're not marked as present on the roll sheet in the sky.

Sadly, for this author, church is a venue that's been written off when it comes to scamming ass. I'm certain that most churchy chicas would see right through me as I sidled up with a chalice of communion wine and casually laid out a line like "Hey baby, let me buy you a drink. This place has the best early morning happy hour in the city."

The Neighbor Cat

2009-05-11T15:31:00.001-06:00

I've been promising Sarah a post about her cat for some time now and I thought it prudent to finally follow through. This would fall into the category of reader suggested topics, so if you have anything you'd like me to address, I'll gladly take your suggestions.

I am not a cat person. We have a cat that lives in my office and our relationship is contentious at best. The office cat is an ever shedding, twenty pound, orange monstrosity called Reese. Reese and I don't have the best relationship because I don't get much pleasure out of ingesting fistfuls of his dander on the daily not to mention the fact that he's about as cuddly as a sack of rusty knives. A significant portion of each working day is spent scaring him off of my desk with a can of duster only to have him return moments later to sprawl across my keyboard. On the rare occasion that Reese decides to use his voice, the noise he produces is the same cheerless yowl you'd expect if I had fed him to the shredder. Were someone to leave the window open one night and allow him to escape, the best I could muster would be a few crocodile tears to avoid suspicion.

The neighbor cat, Raleigh, is a different story. It's not often that I actively seek the validation of an animal but I find myself modifying my behavior to make myself more appealing to Sarah's cat. Whenever I have occasion to enter her domicile, the first thing I look for is the cat. Once I've located him, my voice goes up about two octaves and I'm unable to correctly pronounce my Rs (Raleigh becomes Wally for those who were struggling). If everything is coming up Nace, I'll have the pleasure of giving Raleigh a bit of a rub down and perhaps hear him squeak out the most precious meow you've ever heard before he loses interest entirely.

I prefer Raleigh to Reese because I have no responsibility for Raleigh save that which I choose to take on should Sarah leave town for the weekend. I don't need to know Raleigh's birthday, bathroom schedule or favorite pillow. I don't have to tell people that they are not supposed to move the cushion on the bench and I don't have to answer questions about Raleigh's gender. If I have to feed Raleigh or give him attention, it's strictly on my terms.

I consider myself lucky that I've figured this out the easy way without having to care for an animal once the novelty has worn off. I come in contact with far too many people who mistreat their pets simply be keeping them locked away in studio apartments for 23 hours a day.

I'm able to enjoy the dogs and cats of the world because I don't have to remember to feed them, walk them or pay for their costly medical expenses. I'm sure that one day I'll heed the call to exercise my bible given right to have dominion over the beasts of the world. For now I'll rest easy with the knowledge that Raleigh is just next door should I ever need to touch something disgustingly fubsy.

Shit Trek: Attack Of The Fanboys

2009-05-07T14:52:00.022-06:00

I'm not going to admit to being a fan of Star Trek. Honestly, the only one that I watched and enjoyed was Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home and even then, the most exciting parts for me were picking out the anachronisms. And also the part where Spock swims with the whales in his space diaper; that was funny as hell.

When I heard that everybody's favorite, J.J. "I shit out abominations like 'Felicity'" Abrams, was doing a reboot, my interest was piqued for a precious few moments. I'll probably shell out $10 to see it because the trailers look cool, I'm definitely stoked to see my boy Simon Pegg filling in for Ol' James Doohan and, since it's an origin story, I can go stoned, confident that I'm not missing out on any preexisting plot points. However, I'd like to make it clear that, just because I'll probably see Star Trek, does not mean that I'm happy about the impact this movie has had across the entire internet.

All week long, the sites I look forward to going to the most (Cracked, Digg & Holy Taco) have been sucking at the Abrams teet, posting nothing but Star Trek themed content and enticing virginal fanboys away from their ill lit backwater haunts and into the mainstream.

The once raucous forums have been overtaken by whining, lisping pussies who want nothing more than to "pwn" regular posters like myself for being so stupid as to mistake a Romulan for a Vulcan or whatever other cheese dick, improbably humanoid aliens there may be. Well guess what, fucker; I've known the touch of a woman and it's vastly better than anything your ass could hope to get on the Holodeck.

Maybe I'm just hateful towards fanboys in general. I'm a huge fan of Batman, but I'm not going to try and convince a stranger on the street, internet or anywhere else that he's better than Spiderman. I'm too preoccupied with getting drunk and sticking my dick in things to think that if I've convinced just one person of Batman's superiority that I've made any kind of difference in their lives or my own.

Be it Star Wars, Star Trek, Batman, Spiderman or Commandant Turd Squeezer and the Fart Brigade, your unflinching attempt at power ranking fictional universes is what is keeping your penis dry. I suggest you take all of the thought and energy you are wasting on this nonsense and focus it on something more visceral like loveless, drunken groping in a dimly lit alley or, gasp, a marketable fantasy world of your own design. Even if you're profiting off of your own kind, chicks dig rich dudes and sexy twister is more fun than jerking it to that sort of naked Borg chick.

Thanks For The Upgrade

2009-04-27T18:31:00.017-06:00

When we moved into our house in Gov's Park, the only plant life to speak of was an old, majestic tree that can still be seen here on Google Maps. I'm not sure how old the image is, but it's plain to see that our tree was lush with emerald leaves and was an integral part of our block's squirrel habitat. Sadly, one of the geniuses working for the city had some sort of synapse error and declared the tree hazardous, thereby sentencing it to death.

I came home from work one afternoon in January and was greeted by a large, goldenrod portion of carbon copy paper triple taped to my front window. The notice informed me that, since the tree had been deemed a liability by city officials, we could expect a crew to come and remove it at some point within a 30 day period.

In a word, I was sad. This tree was the one stick of plant life on our otherwise zeroscaped portion of the block. I like to think that I'm not an idiot, but perhaps I'm mistaken. I was, and remain, under the impression that any plant capable of regrowing it's winter killed foliage is alive and well even if it is a little worse for the wear. I spent the next few weeks watching our lovely timber's personal doomsday clock tick it's way to midnight.

One morning, as I left my house for work, I saw the city's hired guns parked across the street with an array of murderous implements in tow of their red pickup. I took one last look at our forest of one and made my way to the office relieved that I would not have to bear witness to it's demise.

When I made my way around the corner for my lunch break, the carnage that greeted me was barbarous at best. Limbs lay severed on the cold winter blacktop and sawdust had been thrown in all directions by the unyielding teeth of a thousand chainsaws. All that was left of our arbor was the still sappy stump and a faint whiff of summer. After a few days, even those last traces of our once stalwart tree were erased from the memory of 5th Avenue as the death squad returned to unceremoniously grind its roots from the ground.

With the feng shui of our home irreparably disrupted, our small coalition of neighbors wondered if our fair city would put us on the list for a replacement tree. A month ago, our questions were answered. I again returned home from another soulless day at the office to find a small marker flag set inside of a neon green Krylon circle. A note on my front door informed me that the flag in our stone bed represented the intended spot for our replacement tree.

My heart skipped a beat or two as I imagined a lovely, leafy young sapling filling the void in our corner of town. I had visions of myself lovingly tending to the infantile needs of our young addition in a well worn pair of gardening gloves, a straw hat and boots, shirtless save for a dusty pair of overalls. I thought it might be nice to hang a hummingbird feeder or a birdhouse from our tree's young branches and watch for my avian friends in the summer twilight as I sipped sweet tea with my lady by my side.

Instead, what we got was this:

Really Denver? A fucking stick? REALLY? Was this the best they had at the tree farm... fucking wicker? What an improvement. I can't wait to relax in the shade beneath it with a tattered novel in July. I'm just aching to build a tree house in it's gnarled, leafy embrace. Too bad I'll be seventy five fucking years old before any of this happens.

In summation, I'd like to extend a hearty thanks to our friends who run this great city. Your attempt at beautification has produced nothing but a pile of rotting sawdust and a tree that makes Charlie Brown's look like a god damned rain forest. Truly a marked improvement in the aesthetics of the 80203.

Next Level Shit

2009-04-22T12:52:00.008-06:00

Hey Readers! It's me, Nace!

As I'm sure you've noticed (at least I hope you've noticed), I've been pretty active as far as posting new content this month. This one will make 8 for April. Comparing past numbers, this month I've already accomplished 33% of what I did all of last year, I've doubled the previous record of 4 posts in a month and I've been getting a ton of feedback on Facebook, Twitter and in the comments sections.

With that in mind, I've set some goals for myself for the upcoming summer and anything you can do to help me along would be greatly appreciated.

Comments: I've had a lot of luck lately with these and only one post has slipped by without any. As it stands, the current record for number of comments on a single post is seven. By the end of the summer, I hope to have posted an article that breaks twenty comments. If you like something I've done, write a comment about how insightful I am. If you hate something I've posted or are terribly offended, flame it and or me. You can rip me a new asshole, threaten death or post a photoshopped image of me banging a horse. There is no such thing as bad press.

Followers: I currently have 5 followers and by the end of August, I hope to have twenty. The benefit of being a follower is that you will be informed about new content as soon as I've made it public. Like milk, my rants are better fresh. For those who don't know, my birthday is August, 19, so if you're trying to save money on a gift, take a few minutes to follow me and I'll consider sending you a thank you note.

Digg: Towards the end of last year, I was putting Digg This icons on some of my favorite posts. The links didn't work terribly well, but I'd still like to see one of my articles at least make an appearance on the Beta page. If I can do this by year's end, I'll be ecstatic.

Reader Suggestions: I'm always looking for new material to write about and since you guys are the ones who get to enjoy the finished product, you deserve a say. I'm far from shy about what I tell people about myself (getting caught jerkin the gherkin isn't something most people want to relive) so if you want to know something about me or any of my counterparts, ask away and I'll deliver.

Money: While the goal of Nace Rants isn't to make money (though if you have some that you aren't using, I'll gladly take it off of your hands), I yearn for a certain amount of exposure. I do some writing on the side for a ski/golf company and I love doing it. I want to write full time and feel that if I keep this up, my words will tickle someone's fancy and perhaps help me to get my foot in the door.

The long and short of it is that I want you, dear friend, to help me toot my own horn. Spread it around to whomever you think might like what I do and I'll keep bringing it. Post links in the forums of your favorite sites, tell your friends to tell two friends or start a lame chain email promising bad luck for all who don't click through to my site.

So my friends, let's get this thing off the ground floor and into the penthouse. If I can achieve just three of my goals over the course of the summer, I'll be the happiest angry guy you've ever met. I thank you all in advance for your continued support of my little project. As always... ONE LOVE!

A Quiz For Every Occasion

2009-04-20T17:20:00.016-06:00

Devotees will recall a recent post where I railed against a certain social networking site. One of my major beefs was the propensity of "fun" quizzes users can take to determine what type of dinosaur they would have been, what color best represents them or which Barry Pepper movie they are most like. While these seemingly innocuous questionnaires serve no other purpose than to entertain, or in my case annoy, I've just stumbled upon a new breed of test with a much darker agenda.

One of the blogs I like to read is called "Stuff White People Like". If you haven't read it, the content comprises an ongoing, tongue in cheek commentary of the various proclivities and peculiarities of urban, materialistic, image conscious Caucasians. Each brief entry is assigned a spot under the full list tab so readers can easily choose which articles to read. Like Gmail, advertising is based on key words harvested from the content. For example, If I'm reading an article about Mos Def, ads will direct me to sites dealing with Mos Def, hip hop, Brooklyn, etc.

Bored at work, waiting for six of the clock to roll around, I found myself looking for inspiration in articles I've already read. When I came upon #88 on the list entitled "Having Gay Friends", I was distracted from the acerbic prose by a flashing ad banner which read, "Do you think your husband is gay? Take the gay husband quiz to find out more!"

Jesus. Fucking. Christ. Do we really need to have a fucking multiple choice quiz to determine one's sexuality? Maybe I'm not the best authority on this issue as I've never had a lover switch teams on me, but these days, for 99.99% of the population, if you've gone so far as to marry someone of the opposite sex you are not homosexual.

My best guess as to why a person would suspect their significant other of being gay would be a lack of activity in the bedroom. In this case, you don't need to send a P.I. after your hubby to see if he's been frequenting the glory hole. What you do need is a pink wig, some nipple pinchers and a barrel of lube. If that doesn't spark his interest, your relationship is probably over, but it still doesn't make him gay.

With regard to the precious few marriages shattered by a middle aged discovery of homosexual tendencies, I'd hope that it didn't take a Cosmo style quiz to inspire either party to call it quits. The likely scenario is that he/she, for whatever reason, wasn't comfortable enough with themselves to admit their orientation in which case they have no business dragging someone else down their road of self discovery.

If one is compelled to take a point and click bubble exam to get answers about their mate, it leads me to believe that their relationship wasn't all that solid to begin with. An open channel of communication is the foundation of any relationship be it romantic or otherwise. If whomever I decide to be monogamous with doesn't trust my word, it's over. I would hope that they would take my constant pawing of their lady bits to be a declaration of my heterosexuality.

Taking an online quiz to get advice and then heeding that advice is tantamount to a slap in the face. Just because your husband is spending more time with Eddie and Dave than he is with you doesn't mean he's trying to blow them. Maybe he's trying to get some time away from the rancid, sneaky, backhanded bitch he was stupid enough to marry.

In Case Of Zombies: Read This

2009-04-15T11:03:00.015-06:00

I'm a realist. With scientists manipulating the genes of any and everything these days in the name of making crops, livestock and people better, faster and more resistant to disease than ever before, I believe that there is a 50/50 chance society will ultimately meet its demise in a bloody and terrifying zombie apocalypse. With odds like that, it's best to have a survival strategy in the works for the day that the dead walk among us yearning to feed on our gray matter.

Step 1: Pregame
Odds are that if the dead rise from the grave, we'll have at least some time to gather supplies and get our ducks in a row. The clincher here is to always be up to date on the latest local and world news. I spend an inordinate amount of time on Digg and am pretty sure that, should something go down, it won't escape the web scouring horde of 9-5 zombies who supply the headlines and links to this social news site. In the unlikely event that I somehow miss out on the information because I happen to be distracted by a LiLo nip slip or an article espousing the curative properties of PBR, I'll rely on Feaster's slavish dedication to Keith Olbermann for my news. Keith's smooth baritone should effectively impart the facts while simultaneously quelling my panic enough to proceed to step 2.

Step 2: Decide who lives
When preparing to flee your impending doom, it is important that you have company for a few reasons. Nobody wants to be like Will Smith in I Am Legend (isolated and probably incurably horny with no company save for a quadruped), that's why you'll definitely need some companions. It's a slippery slope deciding who to bring but the trick is gathering people who can contribute their unique skill set to your survival effort and can be mobilized at first sign. Naturally, you'll want to save your family and friends. Depending on your geographic proximity, you'll probably have to make due with people in your neighborhood, at least to start. The men of my group would consist of Feaster (he's in possession of a fantastic multitool not to mention I couldn't face the emotional trauma of leaving him behind), Rivers (brute strength and cunning with regard to all things manly), Mario (unrivaled culinary ability and possession of the all important herbal remedy) and Foresman (knowledge of the Colorado back country). For the girls, I'll take Tessa (River's lady), Sarah (Mario's lady) and Jamie (hilarious on all fronts and easy on the eyes). I don't mean to play favorites, but eight people is as many as I'm willing to be in charge of. If you feel that your skill set could be of vital importance, please make an argument for yourself in the comments section.

Step 3: Gather supplies
Facing uncertainty for the foreseeable future, your group will need to stock up for the long haul. First of all, you'll need protection, and I don't me prophylactics. Guns and ammo are crucial when it comes to cutting down the army of corpses sure to be standing in your way. For my part, I'll be frequenting French's Gun Shop at 258 Broadway to grab me some shooters and dumdums. Once you've amassed your arsenal, you'll need to load up on outdoor gear and fuel. I'd recommend stopping by an REI or Sports Authority while the gettin is good. At this point, it helps to send out teams of two to acquire the necessities before regrouping at your prearranged rendezvous point. Remember, zombies can smell your untainted flesh from miles away, so don't sit idly waiting for the tardy members of your group; chances are they're already dead or something like it. Loading up on nonperishable foodstuffs should be the last thing you do. Stop at a market on your way out of town as the centrally located ones are already overrun.

Step 4: Get out of town
Naturally, city centers are going to be swarming with the enemy. Staying in my house, however easy it may be to defend, is out. Living in Denver, I could choose to lead my group eastward into the high plains or westward to the craggy peaks of the Rocky Mountains. Each choice has it's benefits and drawbacks. Should I choose to flee towards Kansas, my crew would have the benefit of fortifying a lone hilltop from which we could survey our surroundings. Like prairie dogs, sight would be our primary advantage against would be invaders. With time to mobilize and prepare, we could successfully engage the throng. Realistically, I'd probably choose the mountains. The undulating nature of the landscape would prove difficult for the shambling undead and the sparse population may dissuade them from advancing beyond the outer suburbs. With any luck, we'd be able to shack up near a lake where fresh water is close and we could hunt and fish for food. Since the major roadways will probably be jammed with traffic and desperate, under prepared, frantic folks looking to hitch their wagon to my star of survival, alternate routes will be discussed and in place well beforehand.

Step 5: Vigilant waiting/first contact
If I've made in this far with few or no casualties within my survival party, I'll consider my plan a success. After the adrenaline wears off from cutting down legions of your once fellow men, you'll soon settle into a seemingly endless string of long and uncertain days. During this time, you will begin to wonder if it is safe to leave your fortification. It is not. If I've learned anything from the many films I've seen on this subject, it's that you aren't safe until the virus, magic or whatever it may be has gone through at least two complete cycles. You may be contacted by government scouts searching for survivors to repopulate the planet. Under no circumstance should you be part of the first group to move back to New Wherever as you will undoubtedly come across some remaining vestige of your terror. Like sex with a new person, it takes a few tries before things start to go right.

Step 6: If nobody finds you
As the weeks turn into months and months turn into years, you may feel the need to propagate the species. Who wouldn't want to act out their own little Garden of Eden fantasy? It would certainly break up the day a bit. At this point, you'll be thanking yourself for saving the lives of a few hotties. I know I will. It's important to consider the feelings of the woman at this point. Try a little light massage and necking at first, perhaps put some Usher on the HiFi to lighten the mood. Once you've mounted your mate, be vocal about what you like or dislike about their performance. Communication is the foundation of any solid coupling. Once you've completed the task, you may want to urinate or smoke a cigarette. These are natural urges. Once you've multiplied, its up to you and your group to decide what kind of society you will become. Communist, socialist, minimalist or alarmist, you are bounded only by the limits of your imagination.

While my plan may not work for everyone, I'm confident that most of it will help you to survive the impending attack. Where my strategies don't match up with yours, feel free to amend them. With any luck, this article will help you to persevere. Maybe we can join forces when the mayhem abates. I feel it's only fair to warn you that I won't have any condoms and any Jameson or pot you bring to the camp must be forfeited to me.

On A Serious Note

2009-04-13T20:17:00.013-06:00

I'll preface by saying that I'm not looking for a girlfriend on the internet. In fact, I'm not looking for a girlfriend at all. I enjoy my ready to mingle lifestyle and have enough on my plate as it is without making time for another person's birthday/family/bullshit. That said, I like to take the odd stroll through the Women Seeking Men section of Craigslist.

Normally I only open links with photos included. I assess the pictures based on the scale of how many beers I'd need in me before I'd get naked with that person. Usually, the amount of booze required would either leave me as soft as a rotten peach or dead. That's about as far as my intrigue had taken me until last night.

As I opened yet another listing to judge the photo contained therein, I found that I would happily stick it to the author with no help from uncle alcohol. After I was done taking in her surprising beauty, I moved on to read the post itself. After listing the characteristics, both physical and otherwise, that she sought in a mate, there was a curious addendum stating that she would like to become best friends before becoming lovers.

As I sat in my underpants, bathed in the blue light of my monitor, piling Vienna Fingers into my face, I scoffed at her preposterous demands and moved on. As I scrolled through subsequent postings, I was surprised, nay, flabbergasted that she was not the only person looking for a hybrid bestie/sex partner. Evidently, for the lonely masses on CL, this is not out of the ordinary.

I am totally on board with getting to know someone before putting P to V, but being best friends first is a little bizarre. Hell, I'll even endorse the notion of your significant other becoming your best friend over the course of the relationship, but going on your first date with that as your goal is unreasonable. I enjoy dating and meeting new people, but I know who my best friends are. They are the ones with whom I share the tales of dates gone horribly wrong and sex gone startlingly right. I am a firm believer in having your own life, interests and friends.

I'm completely turned off by the black and white declaration of your intent to be clingy. This tells me that you are A) terribly lonely, B) not confident enough to pursue your own interests and C) willing to put all of your eggs in one basket.

Loneliness is something we all have to deal with at some point. Usually, when I'm feeling blue, it's because I've been idle for too long. Whenever the walls start closing in, I take some initiative and get active. Going for a shred, making a meal I haven't had in a while or getting some angst out on the QWERTY really helps me to feel better about myself. Misery loves company and anyone willing to come give it a shot with you won't stick around for long if your happiness hinges on their mere presence. Nobody willing to take on that role should be considered as a mate because your mutual melancholy will keep you both wanting more.

People who rely on others for their happiness seriously lack the fortitude to pursue their own interests. This is not an attractive quality. It takes some balls to go out and be your own person. The least attractive people I know are the ones willing to act as an accessory to the exciting lives of others. Having our own hobbies and dreams is what makes us dynamic creatures and keeps us growing as people over the years. Nobody who is worth it is going to tolerate you tailing them everywhere like a lost puppy. Find something you love to do and do it. You will get back twice what you put in and, unless you take up serial killing, you'll meet tons of like minded people in the process.

Lastly, an individual who's happiness is based solely on one person is bound to get hurt. Show me someone who defines themselves based on their relationship status and I'll show you someone unstable. Everything in life is a give and take and if all you do is take, you'll get dumped faster than my dinner at Benny's. If all you do is give, you'll make your partner feel guilty about spreading their free time amongst their friends and face the same consequence. Everyone has a lot of love to give and no single person deserves all of it.

In summation, single people of CL, heed my advice and stop waiting for your perfect match to send you an email. Go for a bike ride, pick up a hobby or just go and explore a new neighborhood. New places mean new people and you may just find someone worthwhile. Check your irrational expectations at the door because with just a little effort, you could open a whole new world for yourself.

Jack Attack

2009-04-09T17:10:00.011-06:00

Other than getting a fresh article up, I have no reason to share the story that follows. The idea is that if I get into the habit of writing a new story a couple of times a week, I'll strike gold with one and be whisked away to bigger and better things in LaLaWood or San Franangeles or wherever they'll pay me to do what I love. While this is one of my favorite stories to tell, I'm decidedly on the wrong end of it.

When I was a freshman and lived in the dorms, the toughest nut to crack was finding a place to bust said nut. When I was growing up, I never had to share a room and I always had my own bathroom. If I needed to punch the pud, I could retire to either room, put on some Enya and get down to business.

When I moved into the dorms, I shared a room about half the size of my usual quarters with Solomon West. We had most of our classes together as we were both in the same Freshman Interest Group and we quickly started running with the same crowd in our down time. While I'm thankful to this day for the friendship that this symbiosis cultivated, I was 18 years old, surrounded by college chicks and practically impregnating my shorts most of the time.

At first, I tried to go to the bathroom to flog the dolphin, but quickly ascertained that this was ill advised. For one, the high traffic nature of the water closet left me little time to complete what was necessary in solitude. If I'm poop shy, I'm damned sure jerk shy. Second and perhaps more importantly, the conditions of the commode quickly devolved to a hazardous level after our cleaning lady was run down in the parking lot by her boss the third week of the semester. Her replacement spent more time trying to get high off of Comet and Soft Scrub than he did cleaning and with 20 guys sharing two toilets, the filth level skyrocketed. At that point, I decided I'd rather risk a nocturnal emission than tug the tadger in the bathroom from Trainspotting.

The long and short of it was that I had to plan jerking off with the same precision and forethought that goes into launching a space shuttle. My window of opportunity was small and my desire for release was immense. For months, I was able to achieve without incident until one day, favorable circumstance and ill timed execution added up to my embarrassment.

On a bright Friday afternoon, I noticed Solomon packing a duffel bag with clothes and toiletries.

"Where are you going man?" I casually inquired, sensing that I might have an opportunity to take myself on a sexy journey across the internet in isolation.

"I'm going home for the weekend. What are you going to get into?"

"I'm going to jack off as soon as you leave," I candidly expressed without the slightest suggestion that I may have been kidding.

"Oh, that's cool man. Enjoy yourself," Sol said as he finished wrapping his toothbrush in a plastic baggie and carefully placed it in his shaving kit. "Don't hurt yourself buddy, see you on Sunday night."

Faster than you can say "impure", I was out of my seat switching off the fluorescent overhead, lighting candles and incense, removing clothes and booting up a diverse selection of movies in multiple windows for easy navigation. I had just begun to firm up as I browsed Google's offerings when, suddenly, the room was flooded with a rectangle of light spilling forth from the open door.

"JESUS CHRIST, DUDE!" shouted Solomon as I struggled to cover my shame with a fist full of tissues and recently discarded clothing, "I thought you would at least wait until I left the fucking building. I forgot my sunglasses."

As he grabbed for his cheaters, I noticed that he actively avoided touching anything else in the room. With his glasses in hand, he quickly fled the scene.

While I recovered quickly from my mortifying encounter and still finished the job at hand, I knew that I'd have to pay the piper by way of reliving that sordid encounter over and over again as Sol gleefully disclosed it to anyone willing to listen.

I spoke with Sol a few days ago and he told me that the story lacked a certain punch when he recounted it to his colleagues in Antarctica. Hopefully, I've done it enough justice to garner a chuckle or two from that forgotten land. For those readers in the real world, I ask only that you knock before entering my room lest you find me in the throws of passion with myself. It will undoubtedly be more traumatic for you as I no longer have qualms with well publicized self degradation.

A Shelf For Myself

2009-04-08T12:34:00.000-06:00

I'm not entirely sure of it's purpose, but Wells Fargo (at least the one in Cherry Creek) has a small, sub-ledge that runs the length of their teller counter. Maybe ladies are supposed to have a place to put their purses as they take care of business. It comes in handy when I need a place to rest my longboard, but that can't be why it's there. Perhaps it exists to add a bit of a racing stripe to the Grand Caravan-esque counter. Whatever the case may be, it sits precisely at cock height for this writer. So perfect is the level of this mantel that I could pull out the pickle and pills and gently lay them down without squatting or tiptoeing.

Now, it could just be that I'm uniquely proportionate in relation to the feng shui of this particular piece of furniture, but 6'1" isn't exactly an out of the ordinary height. Whatever the case may be, I'm easily distracted by the intermittent contact of my denim wrapped dick with this rounded Formica plateau.

How am I expected to not look like a complete pervert when I'm already fighting the wood that the hot, chesty, flirty, Eastern Bloc teller is giving me when I feel like I'm getting an over the clothes tug from the bureau?

When the time comes to endorse my deposit, I feel like all eyes are on me as I either bump and grind with the counter or stand with my ass out and back arched like I'm ready to be mounted by a fireman. Trying to comfortably squeeze myself into a position where I'm able to legibly autograph my receipt without looking absurd and/or deviant is next to impossible.

Anywhere else, a junk level shelf is avoidable. My DVD cabinet, for example, sits just so, but I don't have to straddle the thing to grab a movie. Kitchen islands are great, but if my balls are touching one, it's probably because I'm banging the chick sitting on top of it.

Maybe I'm just hyper-aware of places where I could put my sack or I could have some bizarre fetish. Whatever the case, I don't need to be aroused when I'm doing my banking. Please, Wells Fargo, ditch the second counter so that if I pop a chub while paying the rent I'll know it's not because I'm a closet furnifucker.

Confessions Gone Wrong

2009-04-06T14:48:00.008-06:00

Collegehumor.com publishes a weekly article called Roommate Confessions. The long and short of the feature is people write to CH and elaborate on how terrible their roommates are and how they have subverted them in some horrible, surreptitious way. When I first came upon this article (and subsequently read all of the back issues to kill an hour in the office), I coughed out a few brief chuckles and that was it. I just finished reading this week's installment and I can say with confidence that I won't be reading it again.

It's not that I'm against vengeance; far from it. If someone gets your goat in a serious way, they should pay. I still owe that rat prick Jeff Kinder a public shaming at some point and if you know his whereabouts, please let me know. The point is that all of the "pranks" on Roommate Confessions are so over the top that the punishment never fits the crime and rarely do folks actually fully fess up and identify themselves.

I've lived with many different people over the years and can safely say that I've had a few nasty encounters with my roommates. The main difference between myself and the irrational posters on CH is that I've never considered urinating into a shampoo bottle, smashing an Xbox or sabotaging a term paper by seeding in profanities just because someone helped themselves to my last granola bar.

When I was in college, I had a roommate who habitually stole my weed. Instead of peppering his face cloth with oven cleaner, I started keeping my pot in my car; problem solved. Once, I had a roommate who would get drunk with his male cheerleader buddies and blow a lifeguard whistle inside like he was at Carnival in Rio. I didn't think it prudent to feed him a cake made out of my shit in retaliation, so I asked him, respectfully, to keep the fucking Miami Sound Machine down until the weekend. Again, crisis averted. If I couldn't abide a nasty habit and if a sit down didn't work, I would just move out and move on.

I like to play pranks. They are as much of a cheap thrill for me as for anyone else. The difference between me and the CH posters is that I don't mean any harm. I've rearranged furniture, pennied people into dorms and made thousands of prank calls. I've also been on the receiving end of a good many jokes and mess abouts and feel like I'm a pretty good sport about it all.

To me, the best part of a prank comes when the target finally catches on and knows he's been had. In this regard, Roommate Confessions fails. Maybe 20% of the people who contribute list their name, school or any other tidbit that may narrow down their origin. Coming clean anonymously is a cop out. If you're going to post the terrible things that you've done to others on a popular website, have the sack to fess up proper. Sure, you may risk a black eye or a broken friendship for microwaving your roomies hamster because they left the door unlocked, but if they deserved it then, don't you deserve it now?

What bothers me the most is that Roommate Confessions validates this petty, juvenile behavior. The fact that people, myself included, come back over and over again to hear about the dickish things people do to one another is sad. The way I see it, if I look forward to this stuff and read it, I'm driving up the demand for hurt feelings and rude conduct. I don't want to confirm the efforts of some catty bitch or passive aggressive pussy who's best idea for dealing with a snoring bunkmate is to key their car.

I can only hope that I'm not fighting the good fight alone. Please, dear reader, don't be a dick for the sake of being a dick. If you don't want someone to eat your food, tell them so. If you don't want your roommate to be such a slob, ask them to clean. If it doesn't work out, suck it up and live with your decision to share a home with that person until the lease is up and move on. It may be hard in the short term, but you can't put a price on dignity. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to wipe my ass on Feaster's pillow one last time. That motherfucker has been borrowing my DVDs.

(Author's note: I'd like to say that I'm thrilled with all of the feedback you readers have been steadily supplying. The positive encouragement that I've gotten from this site means the world to me and I thank my loyal readership from the bottom of my blackened, angry, cynical heart. Just beneath the bravado is a tender little guy who just wants people to enjoy his words and hopefully have a good laugh. My work has been gaining ground as far as getting new readers is concerned and for that, I'm grateful. If you find the time, please send a link to this site to your friends and help me spread the word. ONE LOVE!)

Life Lessons

2009-04-01T16:04:00.005-06:00

I've learned a great many things over my nigh quarter century on this planet. I know how to form a sentence. I know how to ski at dangerous speeds and somehow come out alive. I recently learned how to cook asparagus to perfection. Despite the vast reservoir of knowledge and trivia I've accumulated, I've always been bad at sticking up for myself and, as they say, not taking no shit from nobody.

While I am not inept at defending myself, I'm unpracticed as I don't chance upon confrontation terribly often. I'm not one to pick fights (though I do have a big mouth which gets ever bigger when I drink) and I prefer to keep things on an even keel. That said, I was reminiscing the other day about a particularly poignant lesson in self defense.

For those who don't know, I am a transplant several times over. I was born and raised in Melbourne Beach, Florida until the tender age of, we'll call it, 8.5. I loved being a Floridian as much as any prepubescent child is able. My days were spent swimming in our pool or the nearby ocean, playing in our large backyard and vigilantly keeping watch over the two block radius where I was permitted to ride my bike unsupervised.

Just as I was beginning to think that my life could not possibly improve, I was ripped from America's most phallic peninsula and relocated to the lonesome, dusty square of Wyoming. I was loathe to be dislodged from my beloved beach community only to have my surroundings supplanted by scrubby prairie grass and endless sagebrush.

My new school was straight out of an episode of "Little House On The Prairie". I went from being one of several hundred students to comprising roughly 18% of my graduating elementary class. Being only 9, I was still impressionable and grudgingly fell into the new routine of a shared room where three different classes were simultaneously taught.

After two and a half years of close quarters with my classmates, I was, again, plucked from my comfort zone and dumped into middle school. Cody Middle School was, and probably still is, a place not fondly remembered by it's alumni. For me, it was especially difficult because I had come from a school populated by 3 teachers and 30 students. I came in as an immediate outcast as the other town schooled students had preexisting foundations of friendship. I, on a good day during those first trying weeks, could identify perhaps three other pupils in the hallways.

The worst part of the entire experience came at the end of the day when we had to pile onto the transfer bus to the high school to catch the final bus home. No longer confined to the color coded hallways that divided the red sixth graders from the green seventh graders and blue eighth graders, the bus crowd was the essence of depravity.

I quietly strode onto the bus and sat down in an unoccupied seat. Before I knew it, someone had plopped down beside me. I looked up and saw the pimply face of what must have been an eighth grader. He looked at me with the utmost scorn and promptly declared, "I fucked you mom last night you little faggot."

I was stunned. I had never been spoken to like that in my entire life. I quickly turned red in the face and tried my hardest not to get choked up.

"You are a real piece of shit and I hope I get a chance to kick your ass before I die," he continued.

I just sat in furious silence, unable to think of what to do or who to tell about this crater faced monster who had come, uninvited, into my life.

For a few days, this savage continued to berate me. No matter which bus I chose, or whose seat I shared, he was always within ear splash and the stream of vitriol never abated.

One day, as I took my seat, I reddened at the sight of his wiry frame and his disgusting, mutated face as he approached. He plopped down next to me and said, "Hey fuckstick, your mom was really into it last night when I was nailing her."

He looked down at my hands and saw that I had, unconsciously balled up my tiny fists and had begun to shake.

"I see your fists you little stain, you want to hit me, don't you?" my tormentor inquired, "Well why don't you hit me then you little shit? Hit me right in my face so I can beat your pussy ass!"

Before I could rise to his bait, a flash of movement caught my eye. The person behind me stood up calmly, balled up his fist and smoked that bullying son of a bitch right in his hideous, yellow toothed maw.

As my bully crumbled to the floor in a mess of blood and tears, my savior looked at me and said, "Dude, you should really stick up for yourself. If some asshole asks you to hit him in his face, you hit him in his fucking face."

My rescuer's name was Alex Cantrell. At six foot three, he was already formidable by the standards of a grown man, and a god amongst seventh graders. Throughout middle and high school, we rode the bus together until he moved into town or I got a car. I'm not certain which came first. We still spent some time together in band class in high school, but saw each other with dwindling frequency. Sadly, Alex saw fit to eat both barrels of a shotgun somewhere around 2002.

I hadn't thought about Alex for years until a conversation steered my memory back to middle school bullies and childish fights. To this day, I have no idea what happened to the asshole who made my life hell for two weeks in the late nineties. I can't even be certain of his name. Either way, I feel like I have to give up some love for the guy who smashed that mutant's ugly mug. Even though I still have trouble being upfront and still back down in situations where I should puff out my chest, I can thank Alex Cantrell for telling me that there is nothing wrong with throwing some weight around if the situation calls for it.

Facebook Come Home

2009-03-25T15:56:00.011-06:00

I've maintained an account at facebook for several years now and, along with the rest of my narcissistic brethren, have tolerated its ever changing format. When I started my profile, I had a photo in the top left corner, a comment wall where friends could post messages and a brief list of favorite movies, music and quotes; that's about it. Slowly, over the course of three or so years, facebook has devolved into a hell storm of Mafia Wars, Superpokes, Top Friends and any other of the endless mundane and self serving applications currently available. The layout changes never really bothered me too much beyond the mild irritation of learning the new system. Annoying application invitations were a little more irksome, but could be batted away with a well placed click of the mouse. Facebook's most recent incarnation, on the other hand, has me seething and I'm about to open the floodgates on this bitch.

When I log on, I want to look at my profile first and foremost. I'm not at all interested that someone whom I have not seen since summer camp in '93 is at work (as well they should be at 11:00am on a Wednesday) or that so and so is feeling like Corinthians 43:12 (ask me to look up your mood in the good book and I'll unfriend you quicker than Suckmydick 22: fuck you). That is not why I came to the site. Bring me to my page when I log in and let me decide if I want to look at someone's profile or status.

When I logged in yesterday, I was greeted with a mess of beer logos and photos of jungle creatures. Evidently, a few (here unnamed) friends had spent a considerable amount of time working on choosing their top five brands of oat soda and taking quizzes to determine which animal they will be in their next life. I can't even begin to describe how much of a fuck I don't give about that kind of bollocks. You are coming back as an elephant, huh? Let me know how that goes. You like Fat Tire, Bud Light, Amstel, Guinness and Coors? Does that also mean that I'm the asshole if I buy you a PBR and that happens to be only your ninth favorite beer? Shit, I should have consulted facebook before I kindly bought you a drink. It doesn't stop there either. I've heard tell of an application that will pigeonhole your unique and abstract personality into the confines of a George Strait song. I don't know about anybody else, but my life is fucking forfeit the day that I'm reduced to "Trains Make Me Lonesome".

Perhaps the most dumbfounding thing of all is that, even as I amended my status to indicate my disgust with facebook's current direction and trends, the very same people who applauded me for calling attention to the futility of it all subsequently filled out surveys to see how they would fare in a zombie apocalypse. Well readers, I'm here to say that the zombie apocalypse is upon us, but not in the traditional sense. Hordes of undead groaning for brains have been replaced by droves of dunces who, ohmigod, just have to know which type of vegetable most defines me as a person and platoons of prats who think I'd really like to be friends with the guy who I still wish was dead for being a total shithead in high school.

So, facebook, please heed my call to banish the bells and whistles back from whence they came. I used to love you, facebook. Remember how we used to look down our noses at people on myspace and laugh in their faces when they asked if we would be their friend? Do you? I know I sure do. What about that time we agreed that dragon and lightning page themes are totally lame? The way things are going, you are just two reformattings away from chromed out spinners and diamond Playboy Bunnies flashing on everyone's walls. Let's get back to the good old days where I wasn't expected to solve a captcha each time I want to post new content and I didn't have to concern myself with my next life as an aardvark and could focus on the one I'm living right now as Adam Nace.

If you don't get your shit together soon, I'm afraid I'm going to have to kick you like the bad habit that you are. Maybe I'll pick up smoking clove cigarettes or shooting heroin in my free time. At least the tobacconists and drug dealers won't ask me to fill out a questionnaire about which Jonas Brother I'm most like before selling me my poison (drops the mic).

I've Gotta Have It

2009-03-18T16:08:00.002-06:00

As we came back from Breckenridge a few weeks ago, Rivers, Tessa and I played the list game to kill some time. Among the topics of discussion were the top 5 cities you would love/hate to live in, top 5 foods, top 5 CDs, etc. The topic that I enjoyed discussing the most, however, was the top 5 things I couldn't live without. I'm not talking Freudian, self actualization crap like shelter, water, food and love. I'm talking about items or activities without which would make living utterly banal. Without further ado, here are the top 5, smallish things that help to compensate for the minutia this writer encounters daily.

1. I can't live without sunglasses. Putting on a favorite pair of cheaters makes leaving the house a little easier. On sunny days, they allow me squintless sight. On hangover/stoney days, they mask my crimson tinged eyes allowing for seamless integration into the real world. Apart from their intended purpose, sporting the sunnys allows me to be a creep without being a creep. I can eye fuck hotties without getting glared at, I can scope out whale tails with no adverse reactions and I can appear to be engrossed in deep, philosophical conversation while I'm actually looking askance at a magnificent rack. If all of the sunglasses on earth disappeared tomorrow, I'm sure I wouldn't make it through the hot Colorado summer without getting slapped in the face for ogling some popped collar doucher's girl.

2. I can't live without chips and salsa. You may be thinking that I'm cheating and trying to fit six things on a five item list. You, however, would be erroneous. Chips are good by themselves and can be quite satisfying with a sandwich. Salsa makes burritos and tacos better but rarely, if ever, serves as a stand alone dish. Combine the two and you have a culinary orgasm. The crunch of the chip coupled with the burn of the salsa is nothing short of sublime. My love for chips and salsa is so deeply rooted that I'll go to Mexican restaurants and order a meal I don't want just so I won't feel bad about rolling through six baskets of chips and a gallon of salsa.

3. I can't live without t-shirts. I suppose I should be more specific and say that I can't live without silly, difficult to acquire t-shirts. They can keep those shitty "I got crabs at Joe's" novelty jobs and "Adirondack Varsity Lacrosse" dick uniforms from Abercrombie the fuck away from my tender flesh. I must have feather soft, size large American Apparel top with an off the wall graphic, obscure 80's pop culture reference or anything in written in Cyrillic. While my hatred of all things hipster is nearly boundless, I grudgingly offer a tip of the cap for their tenacity when it comes to scaring up oddball tops. Without my silly t-shirts, I'm afraid I'd lose the tiny kernel of self confidence I have, somehow, managed to maintain despite my best efforts to the contrary.

4. I can't live without reading material in the bathroom. I am one of those people who view taking a shit as an opportunity for erudition, enlightenment and casual perusal. I've always been poop shy and like to let the Lincoln Log shudder itself out lackadaisically. With all of this time spent sitting idle on the commode, I become bored. Reading on the toilet allows me to pass the sometimes considerable duration of my excretory process much faster. However, sometimes I get in too deep and my legs fall asleep making my exit from the water closet less than graceful. I'll take the bad with the good on this one because I'd rather endure pins and needles than subject my friends to phone calls from the can.

5. I can't live without longboarding. I picked up longboarding on a whim a few summers ago and haven't looked back since. It was tricky and, oftentimes, bloody finding my stroke on the shredder, but once I did, my world improved dramatically. I never really wanted to do ollies or kickflips but I was fascinated by skateboards as a means of conveyance. Until I actually went out and bought a longboard, the thrill of carving out turns and legging down the straightaways was a mystery. If I've had a hard day at the office, am feeling a little blue or am just shiftless, I hop on the plank, pop on some tunes and cruise. Sometimes an uppity shortboarder will take issue with me saying "I love skateboarding" when I'm talking about longboarding, but fuck 'em. It takes all kinds and I have some gnarly scars/ailments from busting my ass, so I'll use whatever verbiage I please.

I'm sure that there are scores of other things that I couldn't live without but I tried to keep it light. If you are feeling the least bit ambitious, I invite you to take a moment and list 5 things you couldn't abstain from in the comments section. I promise to brutally rip into anybody for including crap as trite as "the love of another" or "a child's laughter". Keep it fun or you may be facing an unfriending on certain social networking sites.

Petty Offerings

2009-03-11T14:13:00.003-06:00

Today, when I came back from lunch, I opened the office door to find a tiny pile of candy (one fun size bag of Skittles, one fun size Snickers and one fun size pouch of M&M Minis) resting atop a piece of paper urging us to consider using Rent.com for our online advertising.

What the fuck?

We run a business. If you have a proposal for us, give us a call or send an email or fax. I'm not voting for kindergarten class president, ergo, I'm not swayed by offerings of high fructose corn syrup or nougat.

I'd like to know whose idea it was to send the candy couriers to Capitol Hill at high noon to dispense bonbons and business opportunities. I wish I could have sat in on that meeting.

Big Wig: Listen, our first quarter numbers are in the shitter. How are we going to get new clients in the door?

Small Wig: What if we drop assorted sweets in the mailboxes of potential clients?

Big Wig: That's fucking brilliant! Good work everybody, let's call it a day.

When the entire US population is losing their fucking minds about saving every last penny they possibly can, who is prompted into spending at the sight of sugar? I think Rent.com would do much better if, instead of candy, they dropped the change from their cup holders through the mail slot. Or, better still, since the people who run companies and make decisions are adults and not tweens, attach a tiny bottle of JD or Smirnoff to your ad.

If Rent.com looked into getting leads the same way that I look into getting blow jobs, they might achieve something. Get them loosey goosey with a few cocktails and a good story or two and you might get lucky. Instead, they take the tact of the playground pervert; they wait until your back is turned, plant a trail of gummy bears leading to their Astro Van and sweatily lisp into your ear that they can get you 18,000 page views a day as their hands stray southward.

I'm not saying that Rent.com rapes children, but the bait should indicate the nature of your target.

That Time I Found $5

2009-03-02T15:03:00.009-07:00

My last year in college was spent living with Ryan Feaster and Solomon West in a large, three bedroom house in Laramie WY. For those who may not be familiar with the weather in southern Wyoming, the ground thaws for a quick six weeks between July and August and is otherwise, colder than the devil's heart. The final winter spent in Laramie was, perhaps, the coldest winter I have ever lived through.

When the first snow fell, we didn't bother to shovel the walk. Nobody from the city ever came by to tell us to remove the iced-over build up, so we just let it ride. After two or so months of living with a glacier on our driveway and sidewalk, we exclusively used the garage door to come and go so we didn't risk broken limbs summiting the stairs to the front door.

One day, as I awkwardly slid the Subaru home on the ice rink of my car park, a flash of green caught my eye. As I gingerly gained my footing, I stooped low in search of my distraction and dusted off a corner of transparent ice, earning myself a glimpse of a folded, five dollar bill.

"By the power of Grayskull!," I gasped delighting in the prospect of a mostly free value meal, a mostly free cocktail or a completely free pint of crap vodka with change to spare. I should make it clear that in no way was I hurting for money. I was pulling down some serious loot mixing drinks at an area chophouse and lived any which way but light. New t-shirt, why not? Trip to London, that will take three shifts. 15 Jagerbombs, I've got 'em covered. Still, I wanted that five bucks.

I quickly shook a skiff of snow over the banknote and made a mental map of its location. As the days went by, I was convinced that Solomon, one of the tribe of Israel, would sniff out the money and extract it from its icy confines. Every few days, I'd come home from work and check that the cash was where it should be.

Ever so slowly, the weather warmed. I came home one night to find that one corner of the note had become exposed. I gently tugged at my treasure but was met with resistance. I would have to wait a little longer. So enamored had I become with this tiny prize, I took to looking in on it several times a day. I'd sneak out with a flashlight in the wee hours when the roomies were sleeping and chat with Honest Abe about the things we would do together.

"I know you can't hear me, but I love you. I love you like fat kids love Little Debbie. I love you like a junkie loves riding the H train. My love for you is like that of a mother for her child. I'll dream of you tonight my sweet. I'll pray for the Star of Phoebes to release you from your icy tomb."

For a few more weeks, my sanity was questionable until one day, my patience was rewarded. It was a day like any other as I stepped out from the garage onto the last remnants of winter. I stooped down to take stock of the situation and saw that, while the ice still covered the bill, it was encapsulated in a kind of reverse snow globe. It was as if it were generating a heat of its own in anticipation of our union.

I crashed my gloved fist down on the ice, shattering the only world the bill had known for all of those long, cold lonely days and nights of Wyoming winter. As I cleared the debris, I felt a pang of terror. Something wasn't quite right. I turned my tiny trophy over in my still shaking hands in order that I might unfold it and turn its glory outwards for the world to see, and yet, I was unable to locate a free end or a crease. I had, in my hand, exactly half of a five dollar bill.

My world crashed down around me as I slunk back to my room defeated, the half bill fluttering gently to the ground in my wake. All of my dreaming and scheming was for nothing. The universe had spit in my face, peed in my Cheerios and called my mother a whore in one fell swoop. I didn't leave the house again for the rest of the day and wept softly into my pillow until the tears, snot and spit that spilled forth stained a blotchy sad face on the pillowcase. For days, candy didn't taste as good and beer didn't get me drunk enough to forget what I had never really had in the first place.

As the days past, I started to forget about the fin that could have been. I shaved, trimmed my fingernails, had my hair styled and told myself that there were still beautiful things in the world worth living for. I made a promise to myself to never again get worked up over so small a trifle and to live my life for experiences had rather than dollars in hand. I hadn't quite put a price on my happiness, but I learned that it was worth way more than five dollars.

Drinks I Won't Order At A Bar

2009-02-18T14:11:00.017-07:00

I'll start by apologizing for my lack of recent activity. Not to make excuses, but I have been busy writing content for a local golf website. While it is quite an honor to actually get paid for putting pen to page, I have left my loyal audience high and dry, and for that, I am sorry. If there is anything I can do to rectify the damage done by two Naceless weeks, please advise in the comments section. That said, I'll dive right in.

When I go out to the bar, which I tend to do with alarming regularity, I usually stick to the basics. The main stay is, of course, Pabst Blue Ribbon. In a can, glass or bottle, this little number fits my budget and never fails to please. Even when it's skunky, I'll readily pour it into my body. If it's not PBR I'm imbibing, I'll go for Jameson on the rocks or a shot of Jagermeister straight or with whatever energy drink happens to be on hand. That's about it. I know what I like and I stick to it. Rarely do I stray. Having tended bar all through college, I know what a bitch it is to make Key Lime Martinis and Pina Colodas. I also know how tasteless it is to ask for Malibu and anything. I'm a conscientious drinker and make it easy on whomever is serving me.

That said, there are several drinks that I will not, under any circumstances, order when I'm out (though just because I won't order it, doesn't mean I won't drink it if one is purchased for me). Let's begin.

1. I won't order Washington Apples. They are delicious to no end, but my problem with this drink is that, while you will pay between $3 and $4 per shot, there is precious little alcohol in your tiny glass. Basically you are paying the same price for 1/3 of a shot of vodka as you would for a full one. In these tough times, who can justify that? From a bartender's standpoint, these shots are a tremendous pain in the ass. This is a shot that people generally order in bulk because it's easy on the palate and girls lap it up. Whenever someone ordered 13 of these little fuckers, I also knew that I would have to have 13 more lined up for the next idiot who decided to be a baller and so on and so on. Considering your wallet and the bartender's patience, go for Kamikazes instead. They are a cinch to drink, cost half as much in the long run and will still get you plastered enough to slay the mighty Narwhal.

2. I won't order anything blended. When you get a drink blended, you dilute the solution and the potency of a full strength margarita is whittled down by at least 30%. Plus, you know that shit is going to separate so there is an impenetrable iceberg on top of the liquid fun. Despite what you may think, if you order a fucking smoothie at a bar, it is inconvenient for the bartender to make. Congratulations, you just made them wash the blender and have ensured that you won't be getting another slushy when that one runs dry. If you want a snow cone or a Slurpee, go to the quick shop and save everybody the hassle.

3. I won't order anything minty. I'm not a sixty year old teacher trying to get through just one more Rime of the Ancient Mariner by chugging Rumple Minze and passing it off as Plax when little Johnny asks why I smell like his grandmother. I'm also not camping. The only time it is acceptable for a person not yet retired to drink this shit is if they are within twenty yards of a campfire.

4. I won't order a martini unless it's a martini. There is no such thing as a chocolate martini. There are chocolate flavored drinks that can be served in a martini glass. There is no such thing as a melon martini. There are melon flavored drinks that can served in a martini glass... you see where I'm going with this. A martini is vodka or gin with or without a couple of drops of vermouth and perhaps an olive, cocktail onion or twist. By calling a drink a "martini", bars are charging you two to three dollars more and serving you less of an already shitty drink in an awkward glass. If you want a chocolate drink, get a Black Russian or a shot of Frangelico. If you want a melon drink, I can't help you. Maybe work on getting better taste first.

5. I won't order a tequila and sprite. This drink is fucking gross. Rivers may try to tell you otherwise, but he is dead wrong. When it comes to tequila, you can be a girl and have it in a margarita or you can be a fucking maniac and shoot that shit all night WHOOOOOOOO! Either way, if you mix that shit up with soda, you are making a bad thing worse.

6. I won't order a drink with more than two juices or one expensive juice. If I want a tropical explosion in my mouth I'll go to Jamba Juice or I'll blow Tarzan. Two juices is just plain high maintenance. You are out to cut loose and you don't need a splash of cranberry in your screwdriver. You won't be able to taste it anyway. Topping off glass papaya nectar with a shot of Potter's finest vodka takes away from both ingredients. Either the expensive nectar is tainted with shitty spirits or you have put frosting on the turd that is cheap vodka. Neither is terribly appealing.

7. I won't order a "What he/she's having". Drink what you like and if he/she wants to judge, that's their problem. If he wants to get fucked on three fingers of Beam and she wants to giggle over a Fuzzy Navel, so be it. It takes all kinds. It isn't impressive if a girl orders a belt of whiskey and winces after each tiny sip. Likewise, you won't come off as the Adonis if you can't sack up to order what you want and settle for a Brandy Alexander. I know being indecisive is cute when it comes to choosing a movie or a restaurant but when it comes to getting wasted, have some balls or go the fuck home.

Being the picky drinker that I am, I'm sure that there are hundreds of drinks that I wouldn't be caught dead ordering. If, for whatever reason, you are out with me and witness me purchasing any of the above mentioned drinks, you have my full permission to ridicule the shit out of me and insist that I buy you your next drink. I'll happily comply just so long as you don't want a citron and pineapple spritzer with seven maraschino cherries blended with Fiji water ice cubes in a Peruvian crystal martini glass.

Quite The Prank

2009-01-29T12:22:00.009-07:00

Settle in readers because this is sure to be a long one. Several weeks ago, I made the journey up to Fort Collins to attend a friend's holiday party. Over the course of the evening, I managed to drink 5-8 Jager Bombs, several glasses of wine and, if memory serves, 3 or so beers. The long and short of it was Nace got faced. It didn't help that I had to rouse myself at 5:30 to make it back to the city to pick up Feaster and go skiing. At some point in my dazed and confused state, I discovered that my wallet was nowhere to be found. I tore apart my car and backpack when I got home and turned up nothing. I never lose my wallet and was quite concerned that I had left it at any of the out-of-the-way the bars I had visited the previous evening.

Cut to that night. I returned home completely exhausted and asked that my friend search her house for my AWOL billfold. I sat down at my computer to catch up on any emails I may have missed and lo and behold, a mysterious message lay, unopened, in my inbox. I opened it to discover the invoice contained within. "Thank you for your interest in alpaca breeding," it read, "Your credit card has been charged $4.95 and the information you requested is being sent to you with no delay."

To back peddle for a moment, I drink and buy. There have been several occasions when I have come home to phantom packages waiting on my doorstep that contain items as useless as ill fitting hats, Ghostbusters/Simpsons toys and knock off watches. For whatever reason, when I'm drunk, I cruise eBay and make bids on absurd auctions. This time, however, I knew that I hadn't, even in my blinded state, purchased anything related to tiny llamas.

I opened my phone and frantically dialed my bank's fraud hotline. Sixty minutes later, after talking to the debit and credit card departments, no charges turned up on either card that related, in the least bit, to alpacas. To boot, as I was putting on my comfy pants afterward, my wallet fell to the ground with all of its contents intact. I then deduced that this was part of an elaborate prank fiendishly devised by one or more of my associates.

Thinking back, I recalled an email sent to me by Solomon West (of trash eating fame) saying that I should be on the look out for a package from Antarctica. Knowing his sense of humor, he was first and last on my list of suspects. Feeling confident in my sleuthing ability, I quickly emailed Solomon congratulating him on a prank well pulled. A few days later, I heard back. Solomon steadfastly denied taking part in signing me up for anything alpaca related although he wished he could claim the idea.

The next day, I received the package. The 200+ page book arrived in a FedEx envelope addressed to me. I closely examined the book and laughed at the ultra-enthusiastic voice in which the information was presented. Thinking the joke had reached it's peak, I placed the book on top of the pile of coffee table fodder thinking it would make for a good laugh when we entertained guests.

A few days later, I was hanging out with friends when the short buzz from my pocket told me that I had a new text message. The message was from an unavailable number and said that the good folks at ilovealpacas.com were curious as to whether or not I had received their package. I tried to respond, but for whatever reason, was unable to. Shrugging it off again, I went back to business as usual until the next day.

Reproduced for you below, dear reader, is the message I discovered:

Mr. Nace,

Hi there! Our records indicate that you've requested information about Alpaca breeding and we hope this information has reached you well. If you've yet to receive your information packet and prospectus, rest assured that it's on its way. My name is Amber and I'm a consultant with www.ilovealpacas.com, I wanted to reach out to you today and answer any questions you might have about the exciting world of Alpaca breeding. Starting your own Alpaca farm is an exciting venture for anyone, and in these hard economic times can be remarkably fruitful as well! The sheer art of breeding the Alpaca is reward enough for some. Their majestic bodies clashing together in the spiritual ceremony of reproduction has had powerful effects on first time breeders. But we're getting ahead of ourselves aren't we! I see here that you reside in Denver, CO (prime Alpaca country!) and would love to schedule a sit down with one of our consultants sometime in the future if you're serious about or even considering Alpaca Breeding.

Adam, thanks so much for your time and I look forward to hearing from you.

My response was swift, again, reproduced below:

Amber,
I do have a question for you. I am in receipt of your packet and I am thoroughly impressed with the wide range of information that it provides. However, I have no record of ever purchasing/requesting these materials. I have my suspicions as to who may have solicited your prospectus on my behalf. If you are able to, please either confirm or disconfirm that the individual who placed the order is named Solomon West. I understand that you may not be able to disclose that information, but any assistance you can provide would be greatly appreciated. While someday I may heed the call to breed these truly majestic creatures, it is not currently an option. I live in the middle of the city and am unable to provide suitable habitat for any type of livestock at this time.
With warm regards and best wishes towards your continued success,
Adam Nace

This final correspondence was delivered on January 21. I waited anxiously for any type of confirmation. Yesterday, as I sat bored in the office, my best buddy, Sean Vanaman, sent me a message on gmail asking if I'd heard back from Amber. I responded that I had no idea who Amber was, thinking he may have entered text into the wrong chat window or maybe I had met someone by that name when I visited him in San Francisco and was too drunk to remember. He reminded me that the person I had messaged regarding the alpacas was named Amber. I was momentarily baffled beyond words as the hamster spun on its wheel. As it turns out, it was Sean all along who had worked up my ire, evidently with the help of Alpaca Amber. So, after nearly a fortnight of mystery, I can put this one to bed.

It is with great humility that I award this round to Sean. He blindsided me with a brilliant prank and I even have a souvenir to remember my gullibility. Kudos to you good buddy. Your comeuppance shall be legendary.

No Credit Due

2009-01-16T15:40:00.006-07:00

About ten minutes ago, my main man, Randall the Scandal, messaged me a suggestion for my next post. Evidently, he has a problem with those bumper stickers that espouse one's state/country of origin. Please refer to the image for an example from the great state of Colorado.

Randall views these stickers as a celebration of a failure to launch and I can understand his position.

Pride in one's state is not a bad thing, but, I don't agree with taking credit for where you were born. That event was completely out of your hands. Vastly more cunning would be a sticker that reads "I shit out a child in Colorado". At least you sort of earned your stripes through the actual birthing and were not just birthed. If you were born in Colorado or Papa New Guinea, you still came out a howling, pudgy ball of flesh and no more or less of a blank canvas than anybody else.

How little do you have to have going on in your life that your one noteworthy accomplishment is not yours to note?

An Open Letter To Potential Residents

2009-01-14T17:22:00.008-07:00

*Disclaimer* While my last few posts have been relatively tame, I'm not pulling any punches with this one. Don't let the boss catch you reading this.

Considering how much of a pain in the ass finding suitable quarters can be, we make it pretty easy on all of you potential tenants. All you need to do is come to the office with a photo ID and I'll give you a warm greeting, a map and a code to get you into all of the buildings and units. There is no appointment necessary and if I'm back from lunch a little early and not technically open, I'll use my free time to make sure you can take the self guided tour.

For the most part, people are cordial. I have met some wacky people over the past year and I always get a kick out of it when I see them at the bar. I haven't made any friends besides co-workers at my job, but let's face it, how many of you would like to go and have a drink with the guy you signed your lease with?

What gets my goat lately (slight pun as I have recently cultivated a sparse, ginger goatee) is that people come to the office and are complete morons/pricks from the outset. It has been getting worse lately and I've had my fill of certain behaviors, all of which you will find outlined below.

1. I need to see your ID so I can take down the number. That way, if we have any problems while you are out touring, we aren't without recourse if you go on a murderous rampage. I don't give a fuck how old you are, I need to see it. I don't give a fuck if it's in your car; bring it in and I'll let you take the tour. If you throw your ID at me, like several people did today, I hope you realize that the only thing keeping me from beating you senseless with a coffee mug is that next direct deposit coming sometime in the next two weeks.

2. We post ads on CL at least three times a week. We write these ads very clearly and succinctly so as not to confuse the general population. BEFORE you call me, read the fucking ad from top to bottom. I can't tell you how many dipshits have called and said "I saw your ad on CL," and that's it. There are fifteen separate ads up fuckbag, give me a hint. I can't come through the wire and look at it for you, use your goddamned eyes and tell me a price, a building, what color it is... anything. I've taken to just agreeing with people that, yes, they did in fact see an ad on CL and they deserve a pat on the back for having the wherewithal to point and click just like the drooling mongoloids who play Bejeweled and enjoy it.

3. When I am house hunting, there are several questions to which I require answers. How much money is due at signing, are utilities included, is parking a problem, will I get a knife shoved into my person if I leave the house after dark? All of these questions are relevant, and if you've been to my office and picked up a map, you hold the answers in your filthy, malformed hands. Turn the map over and read the information I have provided you with you fucking cunt trumpet. Don't call me every five minutes and ask me what the deposit is for apartment A vs. apartment B. It's 90% of one month's rent, get a fucking calculator or move the decimal point.

4. We are not unreasonable when it comes to renting to ex-convicts. Our main concern is the safety of our 400+ residents, so if you went to the clink for peddling weed, we'll probably take a chance on you. If you went away for killing hookers and raping the new holes you carved in them, that changes things a bit. I swear to God, I had one person ask me if it's still considered a violent crime if the victim deserved it. Yes, you fucking waste of life, it is.

5. If you come in to talk to me, please don't fill your mouth with a dozen butterscotch discs from the candy bowl first. Not only does it make your already piss poor grammar sound like Swahili, but you are now a fully loaded gleeking machine. As you struggle to chug down the spit you are now producing by the gallon while still breathing through your mouth, your saliva glands are simultaneously filling the air with so much liquid that my office may as well be in a fucking car wash. Save the candy for the way out or go without. It's fucking old lady candy anyway.

6. We are a pet friendly company. We even have a cat that lives in the office. No, I don't want to "meet" your dog. It's a dog. I like dogs, but I am not automatically in love with Mr. Pudding Pops just because he is a dog. I expect that you will have the common courtesy to leave the thing tied to one of the many trees on the block and not bring Tickles the Great Fucking Dane, into my tiny office to run free and chase the cat while I tell you that utilities are not included. There is a time and there is a place you imbecile.

7. Lastly, please bathe before you come to see me. If you come into my office and you smell like the shitter on a refugee boat, I'll make sure you never get an apartment from us. I'm not asking for you to put on a suit and tie, just be somewhat presentable so you make a decent first impression. I'm not a difficult person to get along with, but if I can smell you coming before I see your face, you sir/madam, have failed at life and have earned my unbridled contempt.

If you can follow these simple rules/suggestions/guidelines, feel free to come and take a look at what I have to offer. If, on the other hand, you decide to roll in a mountain of giraffe shit, spit on my desk and tell me how you used to finger bang the bed sores of invalids before you got sent upstate ten years ago all while your jungle beast pet ravages my office, don't expect to see a smile on my face.

Ricky and Danny

2009-01-03T21:48:00.005-07:00

So today, my crew and I were skiing and we got to talking about a great friend of mine called Solomon West. Solomon currently lives in Antarctica doing some wonderful things in the name of science and if you have any interest in reading about his life apart from what I am about to divulge, I'm sure he wouldn't mind the traffic on his blog (http://solomontravels.blogspot.com/).

I have known Solomon for many years. We started as roommates freshman year at UW by happy coincidence and managed to reprise said status for my senior year. I like to surround myself with salt of the Earth types and Solomon is no exception. Despite his many peculiarities and proclivities, none stand out as much as his love of eating from the garbage.

Freshman year was a wild ride on many levels (dedicated readers will recall my liaisons with Girl X) and Solomon definitely played a part on most of them. We became friends easily and soon discovered that we each preferred different substances when it came to altering our perception. I did, and still do, love smoking marijuana and he had a taste for the finest of inexpensive vodkas. Suffice it to say that throughout our first year in each other's company, we had some pretty serious conversations that I'm sure neither of us can properly recollect.

What I do recall, however, is returning home from blaze rides with our neighbor Flannigan to find Solomon munching on various snacks that would appeal to any person as high as I was. Be it pizza, tacos, a three pound bag of pretzels or any number of cakes, I was definitely on board for a munch fest. To take a brief step back, Solomon is half Jewish and, as such, was, is and can be notoriously thrifty. Knowing full well that he had not purchased his refreshments, I had to ask where they were procured.

Without missing a beat, Solomon replied, "Oh, I got this from Ricky."

I accepted his answer without the slightest hesitation as I piled whatever it was he happened to be nibbling on down my throat with the same enthusiasm as an Ethiopian at a Country Buffet.

Over and over again, Sol and I would go through this little dance of ours. Each time, when I inquired as to the source of the snacks, I was always reassured that they were relinquished willingly and happily by Ricky.

One day when the weed may have not been of the highest quality or I had become somewhat accustomed it's effects, it dawned on me that I had never met a person on our floor named Ricky. Being that Sol and I ran with pretty much the same group of friends, it also came to me that if he knew a person willing to repeatedly donate food to a drunk and a stoner, our paths would have had to have crossed at some point or another.

As I hazily drifted into our dorm from my latest excursion, I witnessed Sol shoving a warmed over slice of pepperoni Papa John's into his yawning maw.

"Where did you get that," I innocently inquired.

"Oh, from Ricky," gasped Sol in between bites.

"Who the hell is Ricky and why is he always giving you pizza and cake," I demanded.

"Ricky Receptacle," alliterated Solomon as he wiped sauce from his whiskers.

It was then that I realized that Solomon had been feeding me garbage for months without my knowledge. While I was slightly perturbed at his not being immediately forthwith about unflinchingly serving me trash, I was also impressed at his nonchalance about the situation. I suppose I should have been more prying about who, exactly, Ricky was instead of solicitously devouring his offerings.

Three years later, Solomon and I, once again, found ourselves cohabitating. At this point, I would love to say that we had matured beyond being mutually blazed up and skunk drunk. Being the scrupulous scribe that I am, I will not fill your head with such fallacies.

Sol had started working at a local coffee/sandwich shop called The Grounds that I frequented even before they were signing his cheques. Often, as I returned from tending bar at the local watering hole, I would encounter Solomon in the kitchen getting nasty on a sandwich or some other treat from The Grounds.

Drunk from my shift drink (usually six to seven shots of Jameson on top of as many beers) as well at stoned from the requisite post work pipe, I had to scarf something down before I passed out. Solomon was quick on the uptake and always offered me a portion of whatever he was eating. Wise to his tricks, I quickly asked where the food had come from.

"Oh... this came from Danny," Solomon replied.

"Danny huh? Well, that has to be a person," I said as I gluttonously consumed what was put in front of me.

"You would think so wouldn't you," said Solomon.

I froze on the spot with a mouth full of turkey, cheese and aioli. "Who the hell is Danny and why is he giving you food," I urgently demanded as lettuce clung to my lips like a climber to a headwall.

"You must know Danny, you work in a restaurant," Solomon offered.

"No, I am unfamiliar with him, who the hell is he?"

"You know, Danny, the dish bin," Solomon replied, "He holds on to the leftovers when someone takes off."

Once again, I was fooled into eating refuse. Rather than be upset, I chose to finish my portion of the sandwich with my head held almost as high as I was. I knew then that I could never again accept any offerings from Solomon West without a nagging feeling that it may have come from the dustbin.

Eventually, I was able to overcome my revulsion of eating detritus. I learned to appreciate what Solomon offered me without question even going as far as participating in the amassing of the legendary Laramie Pizza Donut. For those not in the know, if you ever find yourself drunk and hungry in Laramie, WY at two in the morning, do yourself a favor and dive for the leftover pizza near the top of the Papa John's dumpster and wash that down with a few donuts from the bakery garbage. Just a thought.

How Do They Survive?

2008-12-11T13:52:00.007-07:00

Since I have not yet achieved much of an audience beyond my close friends and the odd unaffiliated/accidental visitor, I have been supplementing my income by working as a leasing agent in Denver's Capitol Hill neighborhood. I can't say that it is the most exciting work out there, but I'm definitely thankful for the direct deposit of funds to my account every two weeks. Property management was never, and still isn't, of any interest to me.

Before I started this job, the most I knew about leasing was that I needed to have my rent paid by the first of the month and I needed to clean up after myself when it was time to move on. Having worked in this business for well nigh one year, I have discovered that there is a large cross section of the population that fails to grasp these simple concepts.

Now, current home excluded, I have rented houses from some shady folks in the past. I lived in one house where I was expected to mow lawns with no mower provided. I have been bilked out of damage deposits for thumb tack holes left in walls. I even had one landlord come into my bathroom, shake the contents of an entire tube of Comet on the floor, and leave a scathing note about my lack of cleaning ability (for my own edification, the bathroom was not dirty enough to warrant a Hazmat suit as her letter so subtly suggested).

Despite being dicked around by more than one property owner, I always take care to pay rent on time and generally treat my accommodations with respect. If problems with my domicile should arise, I try to the best of my ability to handle them personally. If the challenge is beyond my capabilities, then I will contact maintenance and make myself available at their convenience. I can't say that I'm the most responsible or accountable person on the planet, but God damned if I'm not like Gandhi compared to some of our tenants.

Each day brings a new batch of batshit crazy requests and complaints from residents. We have people call because they think they saw a spider and want the pest control company to bomb the building. We had someone demand a new hair straightener because theirs shorted out after falling in the toilet. Evidently, the toilet was so close to the counter that things were bound to fall in. Clearly sabotage on our part. We even had a tenant try to sue us for wrongful eviction after stabbing someone for NOT selling him drugs. Truly a winning group of well adjusted individuals.

Despite the daily dose of the outlandish from our tenants, the most baffling creatures of all are the parents of said renters. For instance, I had a parent call me from Boston to tell ME to call the police in Denver on HIS SON'S behalf because some people were talking outside of his window and he was scared. How much of a pussy do you have to be to not puss out and call the police? I had another parent call me yesterday to tell me that a light bulb had gone out when she was cleaning her 25 year old son's apartment and wanted our maintenance staff, who had gone home, to come out immediately and replace it.

If this is what people expect out of us, I wonder what they feel they deserve when they go to a restaurant. If their steak is not cooked to their liking, do they demand reimbursement for the gas it took to drive there? If they don't get their water filled up enough times, do they call Mommy to come and scold to the big bad waiter?

I guess I'm just more of an adult than I thought I was even factoring in my toy collection, Batman obsession and love of microwave pizza. It is beyond my level of ineptitude to call the landlord should a light bulb happen to blow its filament. Likewise, I would never summon my mother to clean my kitchen if I didn't have a bowl for my Campbell's Chunky. I suppose the whole point of this post is this; I'm glad my parents cut my cord and told me to grow a pair when they did because if they hadn't, I'd still be in diapers writing love letters to Boba Fett like most of Capitol Hill instead of posting snarky essays from my two story, self scrubbed abode. Ivory tower? No. Brick duplex? Proudly so.

Odd Things That Bother Me

2008-12-09T17:17:00.001-07:00

I don't like ink on my hands. I don't ever write things on myself and dread going to bars where they stamp your hands at the door. The ink is always quick to smear on my clothes and whatever is left won't come clean no matter what chemicals I scrub with.

Finding out that sexy female celebrities I like have boyfriends. I cruise Wikipedia frequently to see if people like Nelly Furtado, Jenna Fischer and Natalie Portman are hooked up with dudes. When I find out they are, rather than comfort myself with the knowledge that I will probably never meet them let alone be desirable to them, I get jealous and feel inadequate.

Myspace. I hate Myspace, but I still, for unexplained reasons, have an account with them. I let months go by without checking it and when I finally break down and log in I feel dirty. Without fail, the next website I go to is Facebook. Perhaps it's because Facebook is inhabited by people I know beyond the confines of the internet rather than *-*KEWTGRRL69*-* who is evidently very eager to hear my thoughts on her latest photos.

Next time you are in a car, fold your seat belt over on itself and rub it together. The feeling and the noise produced from the above mentioned action... yeah... fuck them both with a chimney sweep.

The thought of impaling myself on accident. I suppose it's not really too bizarre to have qualms about being run through, but I think about with disturbing regularity. When I go cliff jumping for instance, as soon as I leave the ground, I am convinced there is a twisted, rusty hunk of metal ready to plow through me on impact. I'm even a hesitant to leap onto my bed just in case a spring has uncoiled and reformed itself into something stabby.

I don't like when websites make you include letters AND numbers in your password. It's MY password. My Wells Fargo password is *******1 vs. my Gmail password which is *******. I want to store something more useful in that part of my brain like how to repair pocket watches or build ships in bottles.

Serpentine Rendezvous

2008-12-03T12:59:00.010-07:00

It was way too early as Jim slogged his way through the mass of humanity that was the Denver Airport the day before Thanksgiving. He stopped and got a black cup of coffee and people watched for a few minutes before he made his way to the security queue. He smiled to himself as he watched mothers schlep their broods from the McDonald's to the Newsstand through security and down to the train.

Jim liked traveling alone. He didn't have anyone else's baggage to worry about, both literal and psychological. He remembered the trip to London with his ex-girlfriend who was afraid of flying. He had had to call in a favor to one of his less than savory acquaintances for some pre-flight pharmaceuticals. Even through her Valium induced haze, she had still managed to make use of the vomit bag. The way back was even worse without access to any benzos. She had mistakenly watched "28 Weeks Later" over the Atlantic. To his horror and embarrassment, she loudly sobbed into his shoulder as she pictured a zombie-infested wasteland waiting to welcome her home.

No matter. This time he was alone and on his way to see his friends on his time. More alert now, he gathered his carry on pack and made his way to the serpentine TSA line.

He wound his way to the back of the line and was lost in his own thoughts until he was pulled back to reality by a half remembered voice.

"Jim? Jim Dunn? Andrew's friend right?," spoke a somewhat familiar, female voice on the other side of the waist high, nylon barrier.

He recognized her vaguely from a recent party at Andrew's cabin and struggled to recall her name. He was awful with names.

"That's right..."

"Amber. Amber Rhoades," she eagerly replied saving him the discomfit of asking her appellation.

"Yeah, it's good to see you. Where are you headed today?" he blandly inquired as they moved slowly moved away from each other in line.

"Baltimore. To see my family," she said, "You?"

"San Francisco. To visit friends."

But that was all he could manage without shouting. As the line led him away from her, Jim was relieved to be back on his own. However, as he progressed in line, he realized that he was being guided right back towards her. He was caught in her tractor beam and struggled to think of more inane banter to keep her at bay.

He was starting to remember more about her. He was drunk at Andrew's party and made the mistake of chatting her up. From the get go, it was bad. For over an hour, Jim had had to feign enthusiasm while she told him about her semester abroad in Canada. He said things like "Wow" and "I'll be damned" and "That's something" a lot during the conversation. What he was really thinking wondering was what type of person studies abroad in Canada. They must not be too interesting if they decided to drop that kind of time and money on Edmonton rather than Paris or Rome.

"Wow! San Francisco sounds so fun! I wish I were going with you," Amber enthused as she came within ear splash.

"Yeah, you know, it's no Edmonton though," Jim wryly replied.

"Ha ha! You're so funny," she said punching him in the shoulder.

"You know me, the funny guy," he coughed out in response. Jim wasn't a touchy feely kind of guy with anyone, let alone someone as irksome as Amber Rhoades. Thankfully, the queue again separated them.

Sensing an out, Jim quickly scrambled for the iPod in his backpack. He learned in college that the little white cord acted as a kind of people repellent. Even if the battery was completely flat, he found just donning the ear buds was enough to save him from interacting with Mormon missionaries and recruiters for the Ultimate Frisbee team. He found them and pushed them into his ears and fired up some tunes.

Even at opposite ends of the line, Jim could feel her gaze. He stole a glance in her direction and she caught his eye faster than a hooker in Amsterdam. He shook it off as the distance between them lessened. Jim felt a thin sheen of sweat gather on his forehead as he pressed on.

As they neared each other, Jim saw her mouth moving as she again met his eye. He attempted to ignore her but she persisted.

"What was that," he sighed.

"You put your headphones on silly! You'll just have to take them off again when we get to the X-ray machines and we're almost there."

"Oh yeah..." he said through gritted teeth, "you're right."

"I'm good like that. When does you flight leave?" Amber bubbled.

"In about forty minutes," Jim said.

"Mine leaves at 9:30. I know I'm, like, three hours early, but I was just so excited to get home to see my kitties that I couldn't stand staying at home for another second."

"Wow, I'll be damned," Jim said, "That's something."

That was all he was able to get out before they were again pulled asunder. Finally, it was business time. Jim got out his ID and boarding pass to gain admittance to the smaller line before the screening process. As he removed his sneakers, belt and watch, he saw Amber going through the motions further down in another line.

After passing through the metal detectors, he scrambled back into his shoes without tying them and fled from the source of his annoyance to the train. He clutched his belt in his teeth and put his watch on the wrong wrist as he leaped into the car narrowly avoiding a slow group of Asian tourists.

On the way to his terminal, Jim straightened himself out and slowly regained his composure. He was back on track and soon would be on his way to sunny San Francisco certain that this would make a good story to regale his friends with. He popped his ear buds in and bounced along to his sounds on the way to his gate. He made note that the flight to Baltimore was departing from the next gate down. He shuddered for a moment but realized he was right on time and would be safely in the belly of the great steel bird idling on the tarmac well before Amber caught up to him.

Jim's attention was caught by a sound from beyond the Daft Punk blaring in his headset. As he removed one bud from his ear he heard:

"...again departing flight 1248 to San Francisco has been delayed and will now be leaving at 9:25, thank you."

"I'll be damned," Jim muttered to himself as he caught sight of Amber meandering her way back into his life.

Musings Etc.

2008-11-11T21:04:00.006-07:00

I have a little book where I write down all of the silly thoughts I have. Actually, I only write down a portion of my silly thoughts as it would take reams and reams to get them all down and I don't have that kind of funding. If you have ever wanted to wander around in my mind for an afternoon, here is a sample of the things you would find...

1. It must be really easy to steal a canoe. If I see someone walk out of a store with a canoe, the last thing I would think would be that they were stealing it. I would just assume it belonged to them.

2. Why is applesauce the only sauce that is acceptable to eat by itself and how do they keep it from turning brown?

3. I love crossing one-way streets. It only takes half the time to determine whether or not it is safe to cross.

4. I'd definitely go to a movie if it promised a kiss between Jake and Maggie Gyllenhaal but would skip it if it were Eric and Julia Roberts.

5. Isn't the Kix slogan "Kid tested, mother approved" backwards? I would hope my mom would have the decency to verify that what I was eating was food and not rat poison.

6. If I were going to a swingers club and was told to BYOB, I would definitely bring my own bitch.

7. Prairie dogs are like the bar peanuts of the animal kingdom; they're there, but hardly anyone is interested in eating them.

8. Why are combs and scissors the only things you see sitting in vats of blue disinfectant? I'm not so much concerned about getting my hair tainted, but if I got a mouth full of herpes from a fork, I'd be well miffed.

9. I'd love to set up a phone sex service for Stoners. They could call in and talk about Doritos and Swedish Fish for $5 per minute.

10. The only real way to throw a surprise party is for a non-occasion. I'd be blown away if someone picked a Tuesday and invited all of my friends over and much less so if it was for my birthday.

I'm sure that I'll have more to add later, but I haven't posted in a while and thought this would be fun. Feel free to leave comments and/or original musings of your own.

The Best Thing I Never Had

2008-11-07T16:34:00.006-07:00

I'll start by saying that I am quite happy to be achieving some feedback on my posts. That's why I started this blog in the first place. However, based on the comments from my most recent entry, it has become necessary to get my Clinton on. Now, I don't want to alienate those readers who may not be familiar with the story, so I will disclose all of the details from my encounters with a certain Girl X.

Freshman year was a slow year for Ol' Nace. I was much more concerned with where my next handle of Potter's Vodka was coming from than my next sexual conquest. This was before I had sense enough to spend my hard earned scratch on quality spirits like Jameson and Jagermeister, but I digress. As chance would have it, I met a like minded lady, Girl X, through my then and future roommate, Solomon West (shout out kid!).

She was super cute, loved getting her drink on, loved getting felt up by yours truly and was not shy when it came to reciprocating with an awkward, high school style HJ to the tune of whatever movie we had put on expressly to ignore. It was all systems go even if she made me clean up my sexy produce from her dorm floor with soft soap and one of my socks.

After a few weeks of this, she went off the map and showed up wasted at my door on a Friday afternoon for the express purpose of telling me how much of a bastard I was. She left nothing unsaid and I thought that was it. I was a little miffed at being called all of the horrible things under the sun in my own room in front of my friends, but more disappointed in not getting anymore of those wristys I had become accustomed to.

The next day, she showed up again, this time with a timid tap rather than a thunder clap. I answered and she told me that she had enjoyed a few too many Key Lights the previous evening and that she really didn't mean what she said. It was all I could do to keep from laughing in her face, but I managed not to and forgave her on the spot (I wanted another tugger and didn't want to burn a bridge).

Cut to the following weekend. Friday night, I was again summoned to the door with a storm of knocking. This time, I was greeted by Girl X with her roommate in tow. Her roommate, Girl Y, looked horrified at being party to a berating even more vicious than the previous. After being told that I was a total fucker who deserved to die a thousand deaths, Girl X was escorted back to her lair to sleep it off. Guess who showed up the next morning and emptied her sack of sorries? That's right.

At this point, I decided it would be less stressful to rub one out myself and keep this trick at arms length than to have another Friday night fiasco. It was tiring getting cut down to size in front of my crew so I concentrated my energies on smoking as much pot as possible and keeping the charcoal filtered vodka barons flush with my parent's money.

A month or so later, Girl X showed up at my door again, this time sober, to see what we were up to. I was headed out the door for a blaze ride with Steve-O, Flanagan and Solomon. She said that she could use a little herbal refreshment and asked to tag along, a request which we were happy to accommodate. After her second tug on the pipe, guess who was, once again, public enemy number one? That's right.

You can probably fill in the blanks about what happened the next morning. After this happened, I didn't have any additional contact with her, save for one midnight jack attack late second semester in her dorm when we both needed a little something something. That's it dear readers; the whole sordid, silly story. I saw her around every now and again, but that's it.

Some people would have you believe that Girl X and I made sweet love, but some people are liars. I never had sex with that girl... ever... never ever. I would be lying if I said I didn't want to but I would also be lying if I said we did anything more than paw at each other's bathing suit areas in alcohol fueled freshman lust. I don't know why I am so adamant about my denial as she would not have been my worst conquest by a long shot, but I am. I didn't have sex with her. Truth be told, I would love to take her for a ride, but sadly, I fear our lives have taken us in very different directions. I feel it's appropriate to end this one with the last words she ever said to me; "I'm the best thing you never had."

DO YOU GET IT? PLEASE BELIEVE ME! I NEVER FUCKED THAT GIRL! PLLLEEEAAASSSEEE BELIEVE MEEEEEE!!!

Now Is The Time

2008-11-05T17:10:00.006-07:00

It's been just over a year since my liberation from a certain party of the female persuasion and just over a year since my subsequent relocation to the Mile High City. Contrary to what some would have you believe, just being a warm body is far from enough to get you regular sex in this city. Since moving here, my numbers have gone from midnight to six.

When I first arrived, I was not in a good place. I had just been dumped, I was jobless, living off of credit and for all intents and purposes, a raging alcoholic. Not exactly someone you would want your roommate to discover you with, let alone your parents. I still had my looks, but when coupled with a crippling inferiority complex and a dollop of hopelessness the stink of it all was enough to keep even the dreaded Narwhal at bay.

Cut to New Year's Eve. I had met a girl a week or so earlier and as I waited for a cab on Market Street, I decided to give her a shot. I dialed, she bought it and we hit the skins like an Atlanta area drum line. Somewhere in the mix, I let it slip that I was employed and wildly successful. This was far from the case unless you think playing Wii is a viable career path or if being able to drink three Mickey's forties in a sitting and still get 70% of your urine in the bowl is successful. Still, I was getting mine and it was a welcome relief for Rosie Palm who was beginning to get gnarled and sinewy from overuse. Like all good things, it ended. I would say I did the noble thing and came clean about my unemployment but I didn't because I just stopped calling. I would say that I feel bad about getting booty by lying but I don't and live with the hope that our paths will never again cross.

A month later, I took on my current position, thus ending my "hiatus" from employment. My current standing is far from ideal, but compared to my first three months as a Coloradoan, I'm on top of the world.

I live in a giant house in a dope neighborhood for next to nothing in rent, I have an easy (albeit unspeakably dull) job, I have a decent car (standard Colorado issue Subaru Outback) and a little spare coin to toss around every now and then. Accordingly, I dress well, I have a sense of humor that takes on a slightly less cynical tone around the ladies, I am in possession of a functioning (though sometimes over eager) member and I am no longer sorry for myself.

Motivation is what I need and I am reminded of the topic from the first speech I gave in sixth grade; now is the time. Now is the time to slut it up. Now is the time to leave them wanting more. Now is the time to get my shit together and earn my stripes again. So internet (except Craigslist), if you know any single ladies, send them my way and I'll charm my way into their panties and out of their lives because I know I've got what it takes and you won't find anyone until you stop looking for the one and start fucking the masses. Here I cum.

Today's Turd

2008-10-16T16:25:00.004-06:00

8:15 - I woke up, scratched myself, assessed the level of my hangover (6) and stumbled into the bathroom. I tried to poop for 15 minutes before giving up.

9:00 - I ate a bowl of Apple Cinnamon Cheerios. As they settled in my stomach, I felt the beginnings of an urge to defecate; just the faintest inkling.

9:27 - I arrived at the office and had a cup of coffee. The inkling turned into an urge, but I held back as the bathroom is directly across the hall from my boss' office and the walls are paper thin. Being as frank as possible, I am poop shy. I cannot and will not poop in public places or within ear splash of anyone but the closest of friends.

11:58 - I left the office for lunch and went home. As suddenly it had come on, my desire to make a deposit subsided. I ate a hamburger and some cheesy potatoes washed down with my old friend DC and returned to the office.

2:21 - OH MY GOD! I had to shit something terrible. Since the office is mine from 4pm to 6pm, I had only to wait one hour and thirty nine minutes before unloading in privacy.

3:15 - The maintenance crew made its way back to the office signaling the end of their and my boss' day. I began sweating and every task I tried to perform required energy meant to keep my chocolate dragon in its cave thus increasing the probability of premature release.

3:56 - FUCK! I was as white as a sheet as the maintenance team filed out the door trailed by my boss. Thank Christ! As I lunged towards the bathroom, one of the guys came back into the office. I like this dude a lot, but he is long winded as fuck. He started running his gums about some chick as I pretended to pay attention. My fuax nonchalance (leaning cross legged and cross armed against the wall) was really my last ditch effort at forcibly keeping the Cosby kids in the minivan.

4:09 - The dude left the office. I ran to lock the door behind him and barely made it to the toilet. The explosion was immense. Never have I made such a mess in such a short period of time. Roughly twenty seconds and I turned a pristine ivory bowl into a Jackson Pollock.

4:55 - I'm still reveling in my catharsis. I am intermittently interrupted with the odd fart, but otherwise contented. I could use a beer and some pretzels.

5 Things That Are Working Against My Preceived Manliness

2008-10-03T12:30:00.016-06:00

1. The fight scene in "A Christmas Story". Everyone has seen it and everyone hates the shit out of that little ginger fucker that relentlessly taunts Ralphie. As such, when Ralphie makes Gingy his bitch, everyone cheers and applauds. Everyone but me. To my way of thinking, that poor little boy will more than likely have a terrible Christmas. That isn't to say that I don't think he got his just deserts on some levels, but nobody needs to get beat up over the holidays. I am just sad that he probably went home to an abusive alcoholic father or a mother who brings home a new "uncle" with disturbing regularity. There would be no hideous bunny costume beneath his tree not to mention any firearms. I may be making too much of this one and I have no idea how or why I was able to come to such conclusions at the ripe old age of nine, but even today, I have trouble watching that scene.

2. Death Cab For Cutie's album "Plans". I love this disc to death and listen to it at least once a month. From the first long, groaning organ notes that open the album, I get all kinds of misty. "Plans" literally bleeds sentimentality. Seriously, if you pulled out the liner notes and gave them a good wringing, you could fill a pint glass with tears. Whenever it pops up on my iTunes, I automatically turn down the lights, close the blinds and hum quietly along. About halfway through I start to come to my senses and I must immediately eat a steak, do something reckless or punch a woman; you know, something manly. I hope my roommates think I'm masturbating when my door is closed without a sliver of light coming from beneath the frame in the middle of a Saturday afternoon. Me molesting myself is much more dudely than thinking back on 8 years stale breakups and blaming myself for not being more sensitive.

3. Never having been in a real fight. Sure, I've boxed rounds with the fellas and participated in my fair share of drunken grappling, but never a proper fight. Sometimes when I decide to play rough I emerge victorious and other times, I end up with a dirty sock soaking up blood from my nose in order that we not worry Sean's mother with my inability to properly block a solid jab. I've seen "Fight Club" and I grasp the concept that a good ass kicking can be liberating, but when it comes down to it, I don't want to get into it with some no neck motherfucker at a bar because I glanced in his direction. I suppose that if it really boiled down to it, I'd have no choice but to at least give it a shot. I mean if someone hit my sister, yeah, they'll get a fist full of Nace, but thankfully, there has not yet been occasion for me to get that fired up.

4. My toy collection. I have an extensive collection of original Star Wars toys (those new ones are a dime a dozen), an ever growing collection of "urban vinyl" (that's hipster for action figure) items and a slew of miscellaneous "Ghostbusters" and "Simpsons" figurines drunkenly procured via eBay. Maybe it's because I refuse to fully mature into adulthood or maybe I'm just a fucking psycho, but I get excited at the prospect of getting a new toy to add to my armada. My obsession has become so great that I have actually attended a toy release "party". I was the only person in attendance representing the 20 something demographic and was surrounded by a sea of children and sweaty, bespectacled middle aged men all rapidly exchanging their purchases with one another. You would have thought it was the NYSE were it not for the stench of cheetos, fruit by the foot and virginity. I have sense enough never seek out a child in hopes of swapping dolls, but I still looked on covetously as their tiny fingers brought forth one 1/400 Dunny after another.

5. The time I decided to just stay in and watch "French Kiss" on a Friday night with a bottle of wine by myself. This last one is for Feaster because I know if I don't mention this particular incident, he will think that I think that it is something to hide, which it is not. Yes, I love the movie "French Kiss". Kevin Kline's portrayal of a smarmy Frenchman is so spot on that I am in stitches every time I watch it. Meg Ryan, also, does a fantastic job of being super cute and endearingly quirky. I loved this movie the first time I saw it when I was a child and love it still to this day. While it was a pretty bitch move to stay in and nest on my own, on a Friday, I stand by my decision to do so. Still, that hour and a half is the one thing that most downgrades me on the dude scale from Macho Man Randy Savage to Boy Meets World's Ben Savage.

The Game Killer

2008-09-30T22:58:00.008-06:00

He was pissed off. He tried not to be so upset, but the fact remained, he was. He was driving a little too quickly in an unfamiliar neighborhood. He had had a little too much to drink but was not “whiskey pissed” as his less eloquent friends so mildly put it. He had indeed smoked a wee bit too much dope, but that was about par for the course.

He turned the music up a little louder and was instantly irritated that he hadn’t upgraded to a better sound system by now. Slowly, foreign buildings morphed back into those with some geographic significance.

He was still pissed. He was thinking that he didn’t deserve to be so miserable while all of his friends were busy chasing shots with beer and ass with reckless abandon.

His car breached the unseen barrier of his home zip code. He had started to let it go a little. Being this angry was too much to maintain. His feelings moved from self righteous to rational. He thought about the cash he was saving by going home. He wouldn’t have to pretend to be excited when some shitty band took to the stage and he didn’t have to pay nine dollars for a Miller Lite.

He went into his house and put on some music that he really wanted to hear. He made a sandwich. He used the good pickles and the good turkey.

He thought about calling her, but didn’t want to put himself out there too much. He gave thanks for text messages. He flipped his phone open and let his thumb swirl over the keypad. He pressed send.

Half an hour later, he felt a buzzing in his pocket. It was a short buzz, not a long one. He knew it was a text message. He opened his phone and smiled to himself that he had elicited a response. He was also pleased to see that his non specific invitation had earned a slightly more detailed reply.

He was smiling. He let his vocabulary work for him. He was proud of the poetry he could fit into 160 characters. He sent the message. This time the reply came a little sooner than he thought it would. This cycle continued for a little longer and eventually a destination had been agreed upon.

He brushed his teeth and put on a half squirt of cologne. He didn’t have much of his favorite fragrance left, so he used it judiciously. He changed jackets and shoes.

He got into his car and took a new route downtown. He found a parking space in a good area with little effort. He felt good, not great, but decidedly better as he walked to the bar. She had picked it and it happened to be one he knew well, even liked.

He saw her walking ahead of him as he made his way through the streets. He slowed his pace, faked some phone calls and turned his back to her group. He didn’t want to be the guy that jumped out from around corners ambushing people he had only met two nights previously. He immediately regretted his insecurities, after all, she had agreed to meet him.

He entered the bar and made eye contact with a nod. He was pleased with his savvy. He let the feeling set in and boost his confidence. They talked for a while and he introduced himself to her friends. The one seemed nice enough, but the other was a talker. The talker soon got on a tangent of inside jokes and stories that he could not relate to. He found himself staring at the beer coasters that adorned the walls of the pub. He thought about his hair. He thought it could look better.

He wasn’t used to not leading the conversation. He was a little nervous. He knew he was funny when he could talk, but now he felt like the new kid. He tugged on his jacket sleeves.

The talker went for a cigarette. He took the cue to pick up a thread. She was interested, he was interested. She apologized for the talker and said she was really annoying. He said he agreed but hadn’t said anything because he didn’t want to fuck it up. She said she was tired and wanted to leave. He had ordered another beer, but promised to finish it quickly and he would walk her to her car.

The talker came back. He drank the beer he no longer wanted too quickly. He had heartburn. He kept glancing at her, he was interested. He caught her glancing at him too. Nothing to write home about, but enough to elicit a long absent warm feeling in his belly.

The talker paused to sip her drink. She told the talker she was tired. He followed suit and stood up. The talker said that she was tired too and would just walk back with them so she could finish her story. He was pissed. She was disappointed. The talker was long winded.

They all walked back to the cars. He was determined, she was interested and the talker was still going strong.

They got to his car. It was parked next to hers. He told her quietly that he had really had a good time. She said that she felt the same and wanted to see him again. The talker commented on how good it was to talk to someone who was interesting with so much to say. She and the talker walked on. He got in the car.

He pulled out his phone and put his skills to the test. He proposed another rendezvous. She responded in the affirmative.

He was no longer pissed.

You Want Me To Sign What?

2008-09-25T11:28:00.012-06:00

We have a tenant at work who is deaf. This, in and of itself, is not a big deal. What is funny though is when she calls the office. Since she herself wouldn't really get much out of a regular phone call, she uses a video phone with a translator who talks to me and signs to her. The conversations are always awkward in that the pause for translation leads me to believe that I should have been less loquacious in my response. I always end up dumbing down my vocabulary in an effort to smooth out the inevitable wrinkles in the exchange.

Me being me, I got to thinking the other day about how awkward it must be to get paid to eavesdrop on other people's conversations. Not only eavesdrop, but listen to, process, translate and respond in kind for someone else. I'm sure that the magic of the SMS or TXT alleviates some of the stress of having a stranger know way too much about you, but what happened before these services were invented?

What if you were deaf and needed to buy a bag of weed? Usually, I'm not the most clandestine person when it comes to my illicit purchases mainly because you can pretty much buy dope at the grocery store in Denver, but what about the infrequent smoker who happens to be deaf? I'm pretty sure that most drug dealers would be less than receptive to a phone conversation with a guaranteed third party presence. Imagine if they wanted to buy cocaine. Thank God I don't know any coke dealers, but I have met a few and you couldn't find someone more paranoid if you ran into an agoraphobic in Times Square on New Years Eve.

On another level, say you were deaf and in a long distance relationship. It's been a while, your libido is approaching crisis level and you just want your BF/GF to say some nasty shit to you while you get one off. I can only imagine how red faced everyone involved would be (no pun intended, but it is a pretty good one nontheless). Here you have a translator with a voice in their ear saying something like, "Yeah baby... it feels so good when you spit on my dick... OH CHRIST!" While this is going on, they are watching some squirming woman frantically masturbate while signing back something like, "Fuck me like a badger you pussy... make the badger noise... SHIT ON ME!" Maybe it would be nothing like that and I am being overly dramatic, but it would be hilarious/appalling either way and everybody would deserve a cigarette afterward.

I can only assume that instances like these arise infrequently at best and most of the conversations are mundane, but it would be worth learning sign language on the off chance that you could be party to something breathtakingly inappropriate. The best I can hope for at this point would be dating a deaf chick in New Jersey, but even then, I would be squeamish about telling an unfamiliar person that my girlfriend should beat my dick like it owes her money.

Shut The Arf Up!

2008-09-16T16:51:00.005-06:00

I never thought I'd be this much of a hater, but seriously, I have had it up to the top of my afro with dogs. Now, before you Dumb Friends League or PETA nutters get the wrong idea, I love dogs, but I also hate them... so much. I hate them for the simple fact that they disturb me at all hours of the day and night and are undeterred by my threats of physical violence.

The company I work for is one of the few in Denver that indiscriminately rents apartments to people with dogs of all breeds and sizes. As such, we get a unique subset of individuals that MUST rent from us lest they cut loose their furry friends. The idea of life without Fido is enough to send some folks into conniptions, so they pay outrageous pet deposits to keep their critters near.

My office building is home to no less than 10 dogs, each of which is sent into a fit of howling with a different sound. Let me explain. The dog that lives in the apartment just above my desk makes a simultaneously mournful and piercing groan each time an emergency vehicle flips on the wailer. Likewise, the beast across the hall from the office goes into a frenzy each time the security door buzzes open as someone enters the building. Another dog is in the habit of going completely shithouse whenever someone walks by it's door. I could go on, but you get the point.

The cacophony of barking is unfathomable to passersby and unbearable for yours truly. The most vexing part of the whole thing is that, somehow, the people who rent from us are completely undeterred by the symphony of canine voices clamoring for acknowledgment. Were that I could block out the yips and yelps of these sorry beasts, my life would boundlessly improve. Sadly, this is not the case, and only one front in my battle for silence.

Upon my homecoming each day, I am greeted by the earsplitting wail of the dog next door. My area of the house consists of two rooms, one of which was shoddily thrown up in the not so distant past. As a result of this hastily contrived addition, my "office" shares a thin wall with the second half of the duplex. Huxley, the dog next door, has chosen this wall to stand next to as he commences his daylong lament for the neighbor girl to return. Since she keeps the longest fucking hours of anyone alive, this dirge of howling lasts from 7am until 6:30pm and often, well into the night.

Some would say that I am being heartless and unsympathetic for the dog's situation. To those people, I offer an unapologetic GET FUCKED! You don't have to live next to it, so, as far as I am concerned, you are heartless and unsympathetic to my situation. I am losing my sanity at every turn. Even on my birthday, when liquid was uncontrollably rocketing from my face and anus, I was without respite. Hilariously, the worst day of my life was scored by the most able of composers. As I lay trembling on my bathroom floor barely able to haul the requisite orifice to the commode to loose another storm of waste, Huxley's lament was sad enough for us both.

Since a world without dogs is an utter impossibility in these times of "fur kids" and "non human companions", I suppose the best I can hope for is a surge in the popularity of domesticated rabbits. Until then, I'll be the one bumping Biggie to get to sleep.

Bad Good Advice

2008-09-13T10:03:00.005-06:00

Yesterday was a rainy one in the Mile High City, so instead skateboarding to the office, I drove. I don't do this very often as the parking situation on Capitol Hill is a complete disaster. As I was leaving for the day, my eye was caught by a man holding a yellow sign that read "Drive Safely". While I appreciated his efforts to keep our city streets safe, I found it a bit odd that he was standing in the middle of the fucking intersection while doing so. I am no stranger to road rage and frequently signal with my driving finger. Likewise, I am not exempt from making the occasional schmuck maneuver and have oft been on the receiving end of a maliciously raised digit. This however, was the perfect storm of dickery. Everyone at each point of the intersection simultaneously paused, read the sign, thought about it and flipped off the sign holder. Then they started flipping each other off for all of the various infractions committed as they swerved and dodged around him. I don't know if the man was some sort of performance artist or what but he had me laughing my ass off. Keep it up sign guy.

'Tis The Season

2008-08-13T15:39:00.006-06:00

The Olympic season is upon us, dear readers, and once again, the countries of the world pretend that "sports" like beach volleyball and ping-pong truly matter on a global scale. I suppose we should consider ourselves lucky that we live in a society where we are only called upon quadrennially to give these champions of backyard BBQ games their just deserts. It pains me each evening to hear the great Bob Costas recall who put the most English on a table tennis serve or who had the superior day putting around on the croquet pitch.

What, I would like to know, happened to celebrating real sports and athletes that rarely make the spotlight? Swimming, track and field, gymnastics and wrestling are all legitimate sports whose athletes deserve our undivided attention twice a decade if not more. I think a world with more Micheal Phelps' and fewer Michael Vicks would be a more inspiring place to live. It bothers me to no end that a squad of pricks playing softball will take away some of their glory.

And what about the events in which human strength and agility have little to no bearing on the outcome of the event? Equestrian? Sailing? While I do give props to those willing to sit on the back of a horse as it jumps over shit, is the horse not still doing 95% of the work? I think it would be more suitable to reward the beast with a nice bag of oats and a rub down. As per the rider, a high five should suffice. And sailing; we may as well just give those medals to Vayu, Anemoi and Njord (the wind gods of Hindu, Greek and Norse mythology), the only true contestants, rather than some dipshit from Connecticut who was privileged enough to be born into a family with a yacht club membership.

Yes, if I ran the IOC, I would take the money saved from producing medals for such prestigious feats of strength as badminton and use it to buy commercial air time. What would I broadcast during those thirty precious seconds? Nothing. No commercials showcasing that the proper way to eat an Oreo transcends cultural barriers. No ads telling the masses that McDonald's double cheeseburgers are an integral part of Michael Phelps' daily regimen. No, I would hope that my thirty seconds would serve to snap people back to reality. A reality where someone will get off their duff and actually play some badminton or volleyball. I'll be outside waiting.

An Excercise In Futility

2008-06-26T15:50:00.004-06:00

A little background. At work, we constantly get emails asking us to cash cheques from overseas banks and return the hard currency, minus our cut for "helping" the sender out. I think the scam started with a deposed African king pleading his case to some poor sap about frozen funds or some bullshit, but now, they are claiming more reputable countries (i.e. The United Kingdom) in an attempt at eliciting false sense of legitimacy in the recipient. In a fit of boredom at work, I decided to reply to one of these emails. This guy claims he will be visiting the states for a one year sabbatical from studying pharmacy. He also claims to be a devoted Christian (how heartwarming), with a wife (lovely) and a daughter (my eyes are sweating). While I know that I will probably not get a response, let alone a plane ticket, it was still satisfying to write. Enjoy.

Mr. Wagner,

For someone who seems to have so much going on scholastically and professionally, you seem to be have missed the main point of our previous correspondence. I said that you need to have someone look at the apartment on your behalf before I am able to even begin the leasing process. While I am confident that this oversight was in no way intended to offend me or insult my intelligence, I find it necessary to inform you that it will be a cold day in hell before I am willing to proffer any of my personal information to an individual such as yourself.

If you want someone to cash your fraudulent cheques, you may want to focus your attentions elsewhere. I can tell you that it is unwise to email folks in urban areas, as we are used to dealing with situations such as these. Perhaps it would be advantageous to contact people in rural localities who may not have access to news reports that outline exactly how these little scams of yours operate.

I can tell you that there are many unassuming and trustworthy senior citizens in the great state of Florida who may be willing to take the fall for you. However, you may want to tailor your pitch for your target audience. I would be more than willing to assist you in this task, but first, I must request some favors from you good sir.

I will require a first class plane ticket to London along with 5 star accommodations with one of the city's finest hoteliers. Also requisite is $10,000 in discretionary funds so that I am able to provide my loved ones in the states with souvenirs and knick knacks from my travels. If you feel that my caveats are excessive, you need look no further than this message for confirmation that my mastery of the English language is such that I can touch the very souls of those you are trying to rip off with one dance of my fingers over a QWERTY board. I delight in the prospect of hearing from you with my flight details.

Your potential partner in pick-pocketing,
Adam Nace

The Hulk Is A Taint

2008-06-01T12:43:00.005-06:00

The Hulk is the shittiest "super hero" ever conceived for one, sole reason; the pants. I'm not an idiot and have some semblance of propriety, but my suspension of disbelief can only be taken so far.

If Banner gets pissed and hulks out, why do his size 32 jeans remain intact regardless of how massive his frame becomes and then shrink back to normal size as soon as he has been placated? The last time I checked, denim was not the most elastic of fibers. In fact, after plowing through a Thanksgiving dinner, the waistband on my Banana Republics turns into something not unlike piano wire.

"Well Nace, what if he's not wearing jeans? What if he prefers sweatpants?"

Fuck you. You're telling me that Bruce Banner, a scientist with intelligence that cannot be measured on any known scale, spends his every waking moment wandering around looking like a World of Warcraft junkie? Maybe he also has a permanent Cheeto beard and Mountain Dew breath. Get real. Them shits have a button fly and belt loops motherfucker. Furthermore, look who they got to play him in the movies. They got Eric "Hot Guy" Bana and Edward "Service Me" Norton, not Jonah "Man Tits" Hill and Seth "Pringles" Rogan.

It may sound the tiniest bit gay of me, but I want to see that giant virid cock smash a firetruck during the floppiest of jalopies. I want to see his boner. I want to watch him fuck the Hulkette and loose his shamrock shake upon the stunned masses. I want to see him wilt back down to his human size in his post coital elation only to be pantsless and ashamed.

Chairs I Hate

2008-03-27T17:44:00.001-06:00

I hate my chair at work. Many times a day, I sit down in such a way that I create an updraft from the seat of the chair that hits me square in the sniffer. The smell can only be described as tart, thick, unpleasant and vaguely reminiscent of old urine or some other discharge. I have my theories as to the source, but I'm not ready to accuse my co-worker of soiling the chair and then continuing to sit in her own waste day after day.

I hate my chair at my computer desk at home. It came from a previous roommate who also hated it. It is consists of a cheap metal frame and two strips of canvas. I have to sit on the very edge of it in order to reach my computer keyboard. I spend a considerable amount of time surfing the internets. I am confident that eventually, I will contract some kind of awful spine disorder as a direct result of sitting on the back half of my ass hunched in front of this computer hour after hour. Plus the fucker is wider than any doorway that I have carried it through. My knuckles become increasingly scarred each time I have to relocate this bastard of a stool.

I don't really hate my recliner so much, I just hate the stories that Rivers tells me about where it has been and what has happened on it. While it remains incredibly comfortable, I know for a fact that it has been whacked off on, in and around by many different gentlemen in an effort to mark their territory. It's really way too comfortable to get rid of and what doesn't kill us makes us stronger... even old jizz.

I hate the chairs at The Mayan Theater. I'm a long legged individual to put it lightly. It is terribly difficult to enjoy a film when my legs are in danger of choking me out as I pile more Sour Patch Kids down my throat. Thankfully, I don't have to sit there very often, but for $9.50 a ticket the least those cheap fucks could do is give me an extra 3 inches (that's what she said).

I hate the chairs in the coach section of any aircraft. I know this one is really hackneyed, but I still loathe them. I especially hate any seat on an airplane that is directly next to some slovenly wreck of humanity who spills into my area and has the audacity to lift my armrest (the only barrier between me and their sweaty, cottage cheese XXXL shirt wearing ass) and demand that I scoot over. Travel by rail or bus and save me the hassle, okay hoff?

I hate the bar stools at Altitude Chophouse. I feel like the tops should be beveled and featured on one of those extreme insertion or elephantine dildo websites (not that I have ever happened upon anything like that in my interweb scourings).

Finally, I hate any seat beneath a sexy ass that is not my face. It's not a dislike as much as it is an envy on my behalf. I just wish it could be me with my nose sandwiched betwixt those achingly delicious cheeks.

Rock Hard Shame

2008-03-19T13:42:00.004-06:00

Few people I know are willing to recount their most embarrassing moments without some prodding. I, however, have absolutely no problem sharing my most embarrassing moment and do so frequently and with little provocation. The way I see it, I could let the shame of it slowly blacken my insides, or, I could let it air out and laugh at myself. My insides are already fairly tarnished from years of backed up road rage, sexual frustration and Jagermeister, so why add to it. No, good readers, I will take this opportunity to clean a little house and make room for something truly heinous.

I was once a young, pure soul who had a sense of propriety. My naivety when it came to all things sexual was unparalleled and, as such, so was my enthusiasm. One fine summer afternoon, my parents informed me that we were going to a barbecue. When I asked where the event was to occur, I was told that it would be hosted by their friends Bo and Anna.

Now, a little background. Bo and Anna were an unlikely couple. He, a 74 year old, self made, jet setting millionaire, had the means to reel in a real beauty of a spouse. She was a bubbly, charming, Swedish model who had been alive just a shade under a half-century less than Bo. Their house was beautiful. They had expensive baubles from all over the world, snacked on caviar chased with the most illegal of Cuban cigars and wine so valuable, the cost of one glass would quell all of my outstanding credit card debt.

Additionally, they did not take issue with nudity. There were sculptures of people banging all over the house, Playboys as coffee table fodder and, much to the delight of my blossoming libido, nude photographs of Anna in every room of the house. It was like Disney world, but I had to tread lightly so as not to arouse the serpent. If I lingered too long in front of a particular portrait, my curiosity would give way to embarrassment as my Ballpark Frank plumped and perspired.

Cut to the picnic. Much to my dismay, the event was held outside, away from the images I so desperately and secretly yearned for. Suffice it to say, I was bored, and so, donning my swimsuit, decided to let the hot tub melt away my anxiety.

As I was getting in, I saw a flicker of movement from the corner of my eye. I turned to check the source and was happily surprised to see Anna coming over to the tub.

"Ooohhh, that looks nice," she cooed, "I think I'll join you."

Imagine my delight. Here I was, sitting, on my own, in a bubbling pool of relaxation only to be joined by a specimen of the utmost divinity. She started by putting her hand in the tub to test the waters and, upon her satisfaction, removed all of her clothes and slid into the froth ever so seductively, her glistening breasts quivering slightly from the jets.

I had a RAGING boner. Not one of those half chubs that you get when you see the bra ads in the paper, but a full on, fully loaded weapon of mass gratification. Despite the aforementioned naivety, I knew exactly what I wanted to do to her. I wanted to bend that piece over the fucking side of the tub and give her the best two minutes of my life. I would hose her down with my man chowder and leave the bitch wanting more. In my mind, I would be the single greatest lay of her life and she would immediately take flight with me to the farthest reaches of the globe in order to satisfy each other in ways that exist only in my mind.

What really happened was this. I was red faced and terrified. I couldn't form a cogent sentence and prayed to anything willing to listen to sink my battleship so I could extricate myself from the situation. This day is the day I became an Atheist. Rather than acknowledging my pleas, some force saw fit to send my parents to the hot tub for a soak.

At this point, my nerves are so frayed that the stress has settled in my lower intestine and as I am fighting my hard on, I am also trying to suppress the unspeakably large fart that had made its presence known. As my parents got in the tub (they had the decency to bring swimsuits), I gave a last ditch effort to collapse my steeple. I pinched my ball as hard as I could stand it and thought about how wrinkly my finger tips had become.

At last, some relief. My boner had subsided. I made some excuse about wanting to go and play with the other kids, and as I slid out of the water, it happened. I loosed the loudest flatulence imaginable. Not only was it loud in it's own right, but it sounded like a snare drum because of the wet bathing suit flapping against my ass cheeks in its wake.

At first there was silence punctuated only by the chirping of crickets. Then laughter from my loveliest of ladies.

"Ooohh, you made an ass burp!"

Indeed I had.

I hope my shame has brought a smile to your face. If you have anything that rivals my story, please do post in the comments section. Anything to distract me from my crushing fear of hot tubs and Swedes.

Proximity

2008-03-07T17:44:00.003-07:00

That is the real problem here. I would never think to frequent you with such reckless abandon if I lived in a neighborhood with any half way decent "restaurants". As it stands now, it's either you or Church's Chicken, and I've only seen the inside of that place once; on my way out. It's just that you are so close.

You have always been a guilty pleasure of mine but achieving you required, at the very least, a fifteen minute skate. Now, Mickey Sleaze, you are at the very most, a forty five second drive away any of the twenty four hours in a given day three hundred and sixty five days a year. Your neon gilded arches beckon me like a moth to a flame or other bugs to a zapper.

I don't even think like the taste anymore. It's your grease, fat and salt that every fiber of my soul demands immediately after that third beer or second rip. Having you inside me fills me with a warm, lethargic glee.

What sets you apart from my other vices is the fact that I KNOW that I shouldn't be abusing you. At least with alcohol, I can justify my consumption using youth and stress as flimsy veils. Even with the weed I can still fool myself into thinking that it is at least a better stress reliever than heroin or the ritual slaughter of other humans.

Perhaps it is resultant of the above that I ultimately end up balls deep in a "burger" that literally sweats out a viscous, salty liquid that is itself death realized. Regardless of the catalyst, I need to exercise some restraint the next time I'm aware of the fact that I am next up at the window. Maybe I'll peal out and leave you behind in a blaze of glory and haze of dust and smoke. More than likely however, I'll end up reiterating my request for sweet and sour sauce.

I'll Be That

2008-03-05T08:42:00.001-07:00

This is one that I wrote a long time ago and posted on Craigslist when nobody would even pay me for tug jobs on Colfax. Happily, I now have a job, but I still like this one a lot; enjoy.

Well potential employers, this is it, my laid out like that, on the line, last ditch effort to get your attention. Since none of you corporate overlords have the decency to at least serve up a hearty, steaming plate of "Fuck NO!", I have no choice but to appeal to an audience of millions. I moved to Denver under the impression that there was a veritable bevy of employment opportunities for a young, malleable, well educated, well read, well traveled SWM from up north. Much to my increasing dismay, the only companies willing to give me a chance would have me wander aimlessly around the city hawking credit card processing for 11 hours a day for not even a respectable hourly wage. It is now, when savings are running dangerously low and self esteem has bottomed out so hard I think it may be found buried in a frozen lake of tears in the foulest depths of hell, that I beg of you, potential employer, to take a chance on me. This is my pledge:

1. I am willing and able to do whatever you would have me do eight hours a day. If this includes feeding you children the sweetest of milks freshly squeezed from the teet of a golden blowfish while being spit on by the titular character from Ridley Scott's "Alien", so be it.

2. Regardless of how unspeakably unpleasant the work may be, I promise to show up early, leave late and work a double on my birthday. If you require it, I will even sleep in an electric shock collar so that, should you need, I can be zapped into consciousness at three AM to come to your mansion and cut your lawn with my toenail clipper.

3. I will remain in your employ despite any other life changing opportunities that may present themselves. Even if Victoria's Secret calls me tomorrow and offers me a position where my face would serve as a cushion for any number of breathtakingly sculpted butts for $20,000 an hour, I shall politely decline in lieu of letting you fart in my coffee cup before you gleefully dump its contents on my crotch while calling me faggot.

4. Any benefits offered will be immediately declined. Why do I deserve medical, vision and dental coverage? If I have these things, I would be able to afford to take a sick day when I catch a raunchy case of the black death while I am killing the plague rats in the bottom of the latrine at your vacation home with a sharpened broom handle.

5. I will literally murder any competition that you may have. As long as you keep me on the payroll so I can report to my family that, yes I am employed, I will ruthlessly study, stalk and dispatch of competitors regardless of their impact on your business. Melting corpses with lime will be business as usual, just like shredding paper!

6. Finally, I pledge to nurture your inflated ego like I would my own children. You, after all, have been gracious enough to pay me pennies on each dollar you make. If you go to the bathroom, I will stand at the urinal next to you and comment on how enormous your dick is. Furthermore, in the event that my modestly sized member is bigger than yours at the outset of our professional relationship, I will undergo penis reduction surgery just to ensure that there is nothing about me to put you ill at ease.

I wish to thank those who took the time to read this and I enthusiastically await your responses. I hope to be employed by the end of the week, so get on the stick. As a bonus incentive to hire me, I will let you kill my dog, besides, it's getting expensive to feed him.

17th Avenue, A Lament

2008-02-28T08:32:00.001-07:00

Eastbound 17th Avenue, we are finished. You have been the source of untold amounts of undue stress in my life for much too long now.

Each day as I leave the office, I am enticed by your siren's song. The amount of traffic that you carry eastward towards Park Hill seems to pale in comparison to that of Colfax or even any of the lower numbered avenues running between Capitol Hill and Congress Park.

As I recently discovered, it isn't the traffic that is the problem, but rather the absurd schedule on which your traffic lights operate. Do you know how maddening it is to sit at a red light and look down the block and watch the next light switch from amber to crimson just as the light I am currently waiting on moves from crimson to emerald? Of course you don't. You are stationary and I am mobile, or at least should be.

Furthermore, I am deeply aggrieved by the fact that your time table dictates that, while hundreds of cars are traveling east and west, you allow an unseemly amount of time for the few cars going north or south to cross you. I don't think it takes a fucking fish out of water five minutes to flop its way across the street, so why 17th Avenue, do you find it necessary to permit 1/12th of an hour to pass after the lone N/S car has vanished?

Don't get me wrong here, I'm not saying that I hate you 17th Avenue, just your eastbound half. I still give a hearty BIG UP to westbound. Although you only exist between Colorado Boulevard and York Street, you are never congested and have the good sense to change into 18th Avenue west of York Street. I know you and 17th are friends and share the load for a while by the park, but good for you for splitting off and changing your name; it was a step in the right direction (pun intended).

Until now, I have been seduced by the promise of a short commute home, but Eastbound 17th, no longer will I play the part of the fool. From now on, I will trade your tree lined, city park views for the gritty warehouses, "secret" gay clubs and crackheads of Walnut Street.

Alluring Assonance And Alliterations Abound!

2008-02-27T17:33:00.006-07:00

Asian Amy accidentally accepted anal action.

Big Bernice blew Brandon behind Bob’s blue Blazer.

Crazy Christine cunningly clutched Clint’s cock.

D cup Denise degradingly devoured Dean’s dick.

Easy Erin expertly earned Earl each ejaculation.

Frith the floozy foolishly fucked Frankie’s French friend.

Greedy Gertrude gobbled Gary’s gushing gob.

Horny Helen hungerly helped herslef to Harold’s hugeness.

Ingrid immediately invited Ian to insert increasing increments of ice.

Jenn joyously jerked John’s jimmy.

Kinky Kat kissed Kevin’s king kong.

Lonely Lola longed lustfully for Larry’s lean loins.

Mary may have mouthed many mens members.

Nancy nearly nuzzled and neatly nibbled Nick’s nuts.

Oprah openly opts only for Othello’s o-face.

Pretty Patsy petted Percy’s penis properly.

Quircky Queenie quietly quit Qunicy’s quick-stick.

Regan readliy rammed Randy’s rod repetedly.

Shameless Sarah slurped Stanley’s slender schlong.

Tit-fuck Tara took Tony’s tallywhacker to town.

Ugly Ursla unknowingly undertook Uche’s undulating underparts.

Vulptuous Vanessa victimized Vernon’s viper.

Wiley Willa wowed Walter’s wang with wicked whacks.

Xena X-rayed Xander’s excited extra parts.

Young Yvonne yawned Yanci’s yanker.

Zany Zelda zapped Zeke’s zonker at the zoo.

To An Old Friend

2008-02-23T12:19:00.001-07:00

I guess I just don't understand why you have to be this way. We have been together for ages now, you and I, and every time we see each other it's the same. Friday night (Saturday, Sunday and really a lot of week days too) we get together after work and it always starts out so well. I pick you up, take you to my house and we go at it, hard.

After that, I usually leave the house and go downtown, to a friends house or maybe a restaurant. Sometimes I'll bring you along for the ride, sometimes not. No matter what though, I always see you out. No matter where I go or who I'm with, I ALWAYS see you hanging out with other guys. Sometimes I even see you with girls, which is, admittedly, pretty hot. It's cool, I'm fine with it, really. I understand that you are extremely popular and have many relationships. I do too, but I wonder if you make everyone else feel uneasy after a night with you.

Sometimes I try to ignore you and play like you're not there. Inevitably, one of our mutual friends will bring you over for a quick visit and I can't help but get involved. I like you so much and I know you like me too in your own way.

Every so often we end the night together and I wake up in the morning knowing you only by your absence. All that remains is a lingering odor and the beginnings of a heaping serving of self loathing with a side of headache. This morning was no different. Despite all of this, I still come back. I'm loyal to a fault in this relationship and I'll be GOD DAMNED if I know why because, while the good times are the best, the bad times couldn't be much fucking worse.

Maybe it's because you're black and I'm painfully white. I'm no bigot, I'm just trying to understand why exactly it is that we clash. Perhaps it's because you are German. I know those folks are particularly surly, but, then again, I have dealings with other Germans on a regular basis that never turn out quite so poorly. It could be the fact that you are so sweet, almost like candy, but after a while, even that gets played out and I start looking for someone with a little more of a bite.

Were that I could say that we are finished, but we both know it wouldn't be true. It would only serve to embarrass the two of us. Me because I would come crawling back even the very same day and you because you know you would take me back in a second. Having no convictions is not an enviable quality.

I guess this is pretty futile, but I just wanted to get it out in the open, you know, so we're both on the same page and all. So, Jagermeister, next time I run into you, we both know where we stand. I know all of your tricks and I know how it will be the next day. Just don't get upset if one night I decide to stray a little. I know that you and Jameson are something of rivals. Jameson and I, on the other hand, remain close.

To Hell With Ranch Dressing

2008-02-20T21:30:00.001-07:00

FUCK RANCH DRESSING!

There, now it's out in the open. I know that to most red blooded Americans, I have tapped out the unthinkable on this keyboard. I also know that most red blooded Americans are complete fucking idiots with absolutely zero taste and class, specifically those who unabashedly refer to themselves as red blooded Americans, but I'm getting off topic.

Fuck ranch dressing. I have been a waiter for most of my working life and I have had to deal with all sorts of disgusting requests from customers over the years. That said, ordering a well done, $30 steak is enough of an enigma, but, looking at me like I am the asshole for not automatically bringing you a heaping cup of ranch dressing to dunk your overpriced, now, beef jerky into is unspeakable.

While the above was an isolated incident, it was significant enough to elicit this response. It baffles me the foods that you bastards slather in SALAD dressing. You mix it with mashed potatoes, pour it on sandwiches and when you do use it as intended, fucking float your salad on a lake of it and then soak the rest up with the bread on the table, lick your salt swollen fingers and beg for more.

Don't you people enjoy the taste of FOOD? I know I do. Naturally occurring flavors are to be savored, enjoyed and sometimes even despised. It's nice to know which flavors you respond to positively and negatively. However, it is not permissable to try and fool yourself into enjoying unappealing foods by drowning them in a fucking vat of white, liquid shit.

Now, don't peg me as some sort of foodie (by the way, fuck the word foodie too) who has his too big head burried up his own pretentious ass. I am not. I use ketchup on my french fries, I put sugar on my crispix and I do like the occaisional veggie tray with a fine garden herb dip. I am not on a soap box telling people that they shouldn't use sauces. There is an entire class of chefs who do nothing but make sauce. They are called sauciers and I would never presume to put these fine people out of work.

I suppose all I am asking is for you people to have some fucking self respect and maybe a hint of shame. Next time your obese ass demands a keg of ranch in which to immerse your chicken breast, I will take that as an agreement that you will not be sending your food back to be re-cooked because we both know that you are not quailfied to make that type of decision.