Dancing Into Oblivion

The first night he first met her he saw her dancing from afar at a party. Swaying drunkenly to some soft, emotionless, radio-friendly anthem that she later told him was deep and meaningful to her. As the empty pop music spoke to her, she turned the wood paneled basement into her private dance floor.

No one else at the party was dancing but that didn’t stop her. She moved across the musty carpet and people watched her as they absently drank watered down beer and cheap wine. Groups of drunk girls in dark corners took languid pulls from their cigarettes and whispered to one another. He imagined they were judging her because she seemed more free than they were.

She wasn’t smart, or unique, or even beautiful. But she seemed different.

He pulled her aside and struck up a conversation. Later she would tell him that night was filled with poetry and magic. In a dusty laundry room on a concrete floor, they came together over a pack of cigarettes and red Solo cups full of keg beer.

It started the way he imagined all great love affairs do. Late nights that turned into dark mornings where the reality of it all hung heavy in the dawn’s cold light. Long, sad conversations were spawned by the emptiness in the world around them. He never remembered anything they talked about of significance, but he felt in those moments she understood him. She loved listening to Mazzy Star and he pretended to love listening to Mazzy Star. They made love for hours and she often fell asleep afterwards. With her long legs intertwined with his and her dark hair flowing across his chest, he felt content for the briefest of moments. He enjoyed laying there in the darkness with her and listening to the soft hum of traffic while smelling her shampoo over the ashes of their Marlboro Reds.

When he was with her, his sadness and depression seemed to ease, so he lost himself in the time he spent with her and longed for more of it. He smothered her and she quietly slipped away. Those eyes that once appeared so warm and vivacious turned distant and he finally saw her for what she was: vacuous.

He soaked his heartache in alcohol, determined to drown the memory of her.

He stumbled down the steps of that basement not long after it ended and there she was, dancing alone. The lost faces around the room watched her and either yearned to be her newest conquest or pitied her. He looked around and realized the basement and those furious nights were never filled with magic or poetry. Disgusted, he walked back up the stairs and out into the cold night where the snow had just begun to fall.

Continue Reading

2008 Summer Olympics Diarrhea

I love me some Olympics. I love the history, the majesty, the competition, the pseudo-sport “athletes” doing lesbian modeling shoots, the underage Chinese gymnasts and the ridiculously shredded Dara Torres looking like she could punch through the ass of a thoroughbred race horse. I long for this Friday’s opening ceremony in Beijing where anti-rain rockets will be fired into the atmosphere and crippling pollution will destroy the lungs of the most well-conditioned athletes. I look forward to the 29th Games of Olympiad to watch the best of the world compete on a grand stage and ogle hot female Olympians. I am especially anticipating rooting for my wife’s childhood friend and one of Arvada, Colorado’s native sons Casey Malone, who will be representing the United States in discus for his second appearance in Olympic competition (and just in case he forgot, I wish to echo what I told him at his send-off picnic: “If you do not come home with a medal, Malone, do not come home” which loosely translates in Brozovich to, “You show them, Malone. You show the world.”) Let the Women’s Beach Volleyball, and the games, begin.

Continue Reading

Thug Life

My sister has been working as a county social worker for the past decade. Yesterday she was at the jail administering a training class for fellow county employees. While walking through the intake area, a young woman called out to her from the holding cell. The young woman asked my sister her name, where she went to high school and if I was her brother. After answering yes to all the young woman’s queries, she blurts out, “Oh my god! I used to date your brother! Tell him I said hello!” Hello back at you, crazy drugged-up bitch I used to date in high school. Be sure to tell your Mom that she still owes me gas money for driving you to softball practice during the summer of 1994.

Continue Reading

Hot Dog

Me: I bought some new skis last night.
Monica: Oh, nice.
Me: Notice the urban graphics that will illustrate how much of a non-conformist I am while skiing. Because that is important.
Monica: Keeping it street on the slopes?
Me: Right. Represent.
Monica: Represent Arvada?
Me: “I am riding for the water tower today, bitches.”
Monica: “This is for all the homeys that are working at the gas stations, getting their weed delivered to them that cannot enjoy the mountain today.”
Me: “This bump run is for my boys that drink too much beer, still live at home with their parents and work at Randy’s Pizza; sorry you did not make it, playas.”

Continue Reading

Blood Alcohol Blues

I have heard many urban legends on how to pass a breathalyzer test while intoxicated. My favorite came from a friend in high school who was convinced that sucking on a penny after a night of hard drinking would magically erase the alcohol on your breath (it is a suburban thing, holmes, you would not understand). Whenever he was leaving a party befuddled, he would pop a penny in his mouth, start sucking on it and confidently strut out to his car to drive home. Unfortunately, he was never pulled over so his theory was never tested. It could have been worse, I suppose. He could have been stuffing his own feces in his mouth in an attempt to foil the test.

Continue Reading

Suburban Debauchery

Arvada, Colorado is the place where I grew up, attended school, played little league baseball, rode my bike to the swimming pool during the summer and went to Cub Scout meetings. Arvada is also the place where I developed a penchant for whiskey, made a living on girls with low self-esteem and watched alcohol-fueled punks fight almost every weekend. It is the same place where Silvia Johnson, self-proclaimed “cool mom,” just got busted for providing teenagers with drugs, booze and sexual favors.

Yeah. That’s my hometown.

Continue Reading

Anxiety In A-Town

I just ran into my neighbor outside. In the process of exchanging pleasantries he mentioned that he is on medication for high anxiety. He works as a chef at a locally owned pizza restaurant and I am having a hard time believing he has that much to be anxious about. Unless they just hired a guy from Little Caesars who has more experience.

Continue Reading

Ten Year High School Reunion: Epilogue

Over the weekend I celebrated my ten year high school reunion. Festivities spanned the entire weekend, capping off with an adult prom on Saturday evening. I chose only to subject my lady and I to the Friday night homecoming game and post-homecoming game drinks with former classmates. Here is a breakdown of said evening:

  • Number of former classmates I did not recognize due to an excessive weight gain: Three.
  • Number of former classmates I did not recognize due to an excessive weight loss: One.
  • Number of former classmates who had to, “Go get something out of their car” then came back smelling like marijuana: Three.
  • Number of former classmates who had just “Gotten something out of their car” that thought my lady went to our high school and graduated with us: One.
  • Number of former classmates I had to convince that this website was not pornography: Three.
  • Number of former classmates that look like Anton LaVey, founder of the Church of Satan: One.
  • Number of former classmates that look like Lou Ferrigno: One.
  • Number of former classmates that were wearing a trendy GAP-style stripped shirt: Five.
  • Number of former classmates that are working in real estate: Four.
  • Number of former classmates that are working in real estate that got pissed I did not use them to sell my town home: Three.
  • Number of former classmates I told, “My lady is only in it for the dick” to: Two.
  • Number of former classmates I told “You did not like me because I am white” to: One.
  • Number of former classmates I gave my business card to: Twelve.
  • Number of former classmates I gave my business card to that I expect to hear from: Zero.
  • Number of years I hope to see the majority of my former classmates in: Ten.
Continue Reading

Bizarro Ned Flanders

I lived next door to some shady neighbors growing up. My parents are clean and meticulous people, so the house to the west of us was an eyesore, the proverbial yin to our yang. The neighbors were a poster family for dysfunction; drug abuse, domestic violence, unsupervised children, cross-dressing (yes, you read that correctly) and lacking in diligence for basic lawn care, car detailing and home improvement (crimes which in my father’s mind should be punishable by death). Sometimes the dysfunction spilled over into our driveway, as the unsupervised neighbor kids would hang out with us while we washed our cars or played basketball. We did not mind much; they were nice kids and could not help that their father was inside shooting smack and wearing their mother’s nightgowns. Still, you knew it was just a matter of time before the girl became a sexually promiscuous drug addict and the boy started hanging out with juvenile delinquents and stealing car stereos. My neighbors were a sad but necessary lesson to learn about life; no matter how safe you think you are, you are always close to danger.

Be careful working for Dick Cheney, Inc, cousin Mark. Kuwait City might be safe, but do not trust the neighborhood. Once I get your address a crate of contraband smut and whiskey will be imminent.

Continue Reading