Tomorrow I start the new gig and I am wetter than a mating walrus with excitement. Much of my elation stems from the fact that my office is located in the titty-licous TAXI By Zeppelin Development. If Grandpa Broz were alive today he would be proud that I was bringing the Brozovich name back down to Globeville (from the 1930s through the 1970s, Globeville was the capitol of the Denver Slavic community and home to any handle ending in “vich” or “czk”). Being as my Great Uncle Al and Aunt Tillie still live in the old ‘hood, I might just have to hit them up for a sandwich and a WWII or rail yard story one day for lunch.
I am a burrito junkie. I used to make last call pilgrimages with my crew to the Original Chubby’s in Denver for some desayuno especial or a smothered beef and bean. Before the neighborhood gentrified, Chubby’s was not a good place for a lanky white guy with a shaved head and goatee to be at two in the morning. Chubby’s, you see, is a run-down burrito shack. Upon ordering you either took your meal home or you ate it off the hood of your car and watched the police arrest the perpetrators of a gang fight in the nearby 7-Eleven parking lot or bought a pack of Newports for a dollar from a guy that shoplifted them from the nearby 7-Eleven or ignored the pleas of female drinking companions from the back seat urging me to take them home. I was thrilled when Chipotles started popping up all over the Denver metro area. The burritos are big, tasty and inexpensive. But something was missing from these burritos. Something I could not put my finger on it until I started frequenting Illegal Pete’s. At the end of burrito-making process at Pete’s, they take a spoon and mix the ingredients of your burrito before wrapping it. This ensures an even distribution of flavor with every mouthful as opposed to a bite of just rice/sour cream/chicken/cheese. Illegal Pete’s is a fifteen minute walk from my office (ten if I take the mall shuttle) and I stroll by three Chipotles (including one directly across the street) just to get there. Shall I cross the Rubicon at Chipotle and ask them to start mixing my ingredients with a spoon upon wrapping my burrito? I should probably learn how to say, “Please mix it with a spoon” in Spanish just to cover all my bases.
On the corner of 16th and Welton a man by the name of Claude has been operating a shoe shine business for eight years. He has a small, tattered shine box and likes to yell at passersby regarding the nature of their footwear. I have been wanting to get a pair of my shoes shined by Claude for a couple of weeks now but he is usually swamped with the Mall lunch rush. Yesterday, I was finally able to get the shine I was desiring. Upon resting my foot on his shine box he immediately went into a sales pitch about a lifetime membership (he normally charges $6 a shine). A suit was skulking behind me with a bag of shoes for Claude to shine. The suit commented that Claude had been shining his shoes for years and he was the best there is. He added that paying a $60 Lifetime fee is money well spent. Claude told me after the suit walked off, “I charge assholes like that twice as much for a ‘lifetime’. For you? I’ll knock it down to $30. But don’t tell nobody.” I haggled him down to $20. Included in my lifetime membership is free shines anytime (plus tip), shoe drop-off (he will shine up to four pairs and call you when they are ready) and free shines for any ladies I bring to the shine box. During my shine Claude dropped some gems:
To a young kid with a pair of beat up brown loafers:
“Damn, man. How long you had them shoes?”
“Two weeks??! Shit. I hate to see what your underwear looks like.”
To a guy walking next to an attractive woman:
“Hey girl. Look how he treat his shoes. You think he gonna treat you any better?”
To a hot Asian woman in a mini-skirt:
“You look like my third ex-wife. I’ve only been married twice.”
As I walked off Claude called to me, “Thanks Lifetime! See you soon.” Indeed, my good man. Indeed.
First and foremost; it’s called lotion. Look into getting yourself some. The skin on your legs looks like the leather on a catchers mitt that hasn’t been oiled in twenty years. Your knees are more dry and calloused than a constructions worker’s hands. Aren’t all women supposed to be moisturizing themselves with fervor? My wife has at least twenty five tubes of lotion spread around in strategic locations. There must be five alone in her purse. After you are done stuffing your cake chute with that sandwich, walk down to the Walgreens and pick up some Jergens. Preferably with Aloe. That leads me into my next issue; your mouth. Are you hearing the shit that is coming out of it? Seriously. You live in Wash Park. I get it. The entire lunch crowd on 16th Street gets it. You loudly proclaimed it three times in casual conversation to your coworker as if it was a badge of honor. Congratulations. You live in an awesome neighborhood in a house that is one hundred years old, has shitty square footage, no garage, rusty plumbing and bad wiring that you cannot afford to update because you spend all your income on a ridiculous mortgage. I am really proud of you. What’s that you say? You need to get out and run around the park to lose some weight so you look good in a bikini this summer? You have child bearing hips and a sperm bag, honey. Even with a stringent exercise routine and a crash diet that does not allow you to eat your coworker’s leftover Reuben, nothing short of cutting your head off and putting it atop Jessica Alba’s body would make you look good in a bikini. Even then. Your mouth would still be attached to the head. I suppose we could sew your mouth shut. That would definitely make you more attractive. Still, it is your head. Your thoughts, opinions and twisted views on reality are still in there. That settles it, then. Even with your head atop Jessica Alba’s body, you still would not look good in a bikini. Finally, I direct this parting shot to the clueless gentleman sitting across from you. Please do not encourage her anymore. Your leading questions and weak compliments are only exacerbating the situation. Do you need a slump buster this bad? Just pay for sex with a transvestite hooker and get it over with. Nobody will fault you, man. Especially a guy just trying to read the paper and enjoy his Italian sub.
Tonight the wife and I will be attending the Gwen Stefani concert at the Pepsi Center and joining throngs of anorexic sorority sisters whacked out on Dexatrim, underage girls adorned in midriff shirts and flaming homosexual men badly singing, “This shit is bananas, B-A-N-A-N-A-S!” I bought her the tickets for Valentines Day after scoring a sweet deal on StubHub that will put us in the fifteenth row. This should be a close enough to turn the wife into a blubbering mess of drunken fan girl as well as fill my masturbatory database for a solid year after catching shots of dew and early morning fur from the Pussycat Dolls.
Post-Concert Update: A Gwen Stefani fan demographic I completely overlooked yesterday: lesbians. Namely, hardcore, golf coaching, femullet sporting, hardware store lesbians. We were lucky enough to sit next to a fun couple that fit into this aforementioned classification. Not only were they friendly, half drunk and had a great sense of humor; they enjoyed making out during most of Gwen’s ballads. I was saddened to learn the Pussycat Dolls were not opening (I was fed misinformation) and instead had to listen to the verbal abortion that is Lady Sovereign. Akon took the stage next and was solid all around save for the ten minutes he gave the mic to some Beyonce-wannabe hack signed to his label that sucked the life out of the crowd. Akon sang about the ghetto and being in love with strippers and made countless inquires to the female audience members while taking off a shirt saying, “Ladies are you ready for this?” Eventually he got rid of the shirt all together and informed us it was alright to do so because he goes to the gym and gets “his fitness right.” Gwen Stefani took the stage amid the piercing shrieks of thousands of middle school girls and proceeded to dominate the set. She was at her best when the show antics were at a minimum (she had a troupe of break dancers and Japanese girls doing all sorts of shit behind her) and did one song in the middle of the crowd (much to delight of the folks sitting in general admission). She accidentally called Colorado “Utah” in the middle of a song, but she made up for it by mocking herself for the slip up afterward and displaying her naked, shredded midriff and scantily-covered “mom” boobs for the rest of the night. Overall I would say it was a great performance. Walking out of the venue we ran into my best friend growing up and his girlfriend (he also bought her the tickets for Valentines Day) and we decided to stop into Brooklyn’s for “a drink.” After downing six beers each we then headed home.
I am enjoying the new job and the downtown Denver scene. Within a block of the office there are five coffee shops, four sandwich joints, a Chipotle, a flower vendor, a blind bum that likes to sing Isley Brothers tunes and the always lively 16th Street Mall. The mall is usually teaming with business executives connected to their ear piece cell phones like Lobot, statuesque women in six inch heels walking with mean swaggers, homeless panhandlers and disheveled, mentally ill crazies that yell and carry signs. The latter are by far the most entertaining. Yesterday a wild-eyed maniac sporting a wig that looked like a dumpster diving reward was walking down the mall with a sign that read “GESUS LOVES U.” He nearly got ran over by a shuttle bus as he was thrusting said sign into the faces of a nice looking gentleman and his two younger daughters who were participating in Bring Your Child To Work Day. This morning as I was looping around the building to the parking garage, a filthy homeless drug addict was flashing a two-way sign on the corner which read “HILLARY IS FIDEL” on one side and “JFK SHOT MARILYN” on the other. It was comforting to learn that even homeless drug addicts hate Hillary.
The working from home experiment officially ends on April 24 as I have accepted an Art Director position for a consulting firm in downtown Denver for a ridiculous amount of money. I learned many things during the home office endeavor:
- When not physically interacting with society on a regular basis I will not change my shorts until I squat down to pick something up and smell the essence of my own ass.
- When not physically interacting with society on a regular basis I will not shower until I squat down to pick something up and smell the essence of my own ass.
- When Divorce Court is on I will not turn it off. Preach on, Judge Toler. Preach on.
- There are times in life when porn is your enemy.
- I do not hate society as much as once initially thought.
- Conference calls are just as worthless as face to face meetings.
- Clients cannot tell when you are calling them from the bathroom.
- Clients cannot tell when you are surfing your RSS feeds instead of taking notes.
- Clients will not take you seriously if your “team” consists of anyone from India or the Philippines.
- Total hours (per week) put in at an office job during a normal work week: 42. Total hours (per week) put in at a home office job during a normal work week: 55.
- Working from home is a lot like bedding a really hot girl and then finding out that she is a lousy lay; at first you cannot believe its happening to you and then you realize its just a means to an end.
Today while meeting with a client at the downtown Tattered Cover, an unsavory character with crack pipe burns about his hands stopped me while exiting the store and asked for spare change in exchange for reciting one of his poems. I am opposed to giving street urchins any form of compensation (it is not in my nature to enable) so I agreed to the transaction with the caveat that if I did not like his poem he would receive no payment. He agreed, pulled out his mangled spiral notebook and began reciting prose. The poem was surprisingly good, rife with inflections of loss, pain, happiness, despair and hope. I gave him 47 cents, told him to stay off the rock and to keep working the poetry angle. He said thanks and then told me he had to catch a bus that was taking him to a drug test. After his drug test I am sure he was meeting up somewhere with his nymphomaniac girlfriend that has ‘Fuck My Whore Ass’ and ‘Fuck My Whore Pussy’ tattooed on her hips.
The wife and I celebrated our annual Thanksgiving tradition and ran in the Denver Turkey Trot this morning. The weather was beautiful and my legs and lungs felt good. My iPod crapped out on me during mile 3 and after numerous attempts to reboot the device, I am now faced with retiring the old girl for one of those new fangled jimmys. Soon we will be off to gorge on basted fowl and curse Jake Plummer as he fumble fucks around on the gridiron and causes our beloved Broncos lose two in a row to division rivals. Happy Thanksgiving.
I heard back from both companies I interviewed with last week. Company #1, located in Downtown Denver, gave me the “I just want to be friends” routine via email. Classy move. Maybe you should hire my ex-girlfriend She Who Will Not Be Named, Company #1. Like you, she is a cold-hearted bitch with no regard for social etiquette and would thrive within your corporate culture. Company #2, located near the Governors Mansion, offered me the position and I turned it down. Sure, it would be nice to start working again and sock away my severance booty towards a Mexican holiday with the wife, but something told me to stay away from that place. Perhaps it was the HR lady wearing sneakers, the invasive personal questions regarding my values or the “We do not use Macs” line that turned me off. All I know is that I ignored my instincts far too long while languishing at the data slaughterhouse and I refuse to ever do that again. In more interesting news, a neighboring town home burned down a few days ago. It appears as if the firewall did its job and kept the whole unit from succumbing to the flames. Good times.