Kaye: I never did Whipits but I can tell you that Whipits would not be my drug of choice. I would probably choose cocaine. Seems the most respectable of all the drugs. Me: Agreed. Meth is too white trash and destructive. Heroin is too involved. You need spoons. Cotton balls. Needles. Basically, you need a kit to get high. Kaye: I don’t want a kit. That’s for a professional junkie. I want to get high quickly. Me: Yep. All I want a is a dollar bill and a mirror. Or a hooker’s ass. Kaye: Nice. Me: Whores and strippers go better with coke, anyway. Kaye: Totally. Me: I like a drug I can do in the guise of taking a piss, too. “I have to take a piss”. Go into the bathroom. Take a snort. Flush the toilet. Bam! Go back out and party. Kaye: Ha! Me: Heroin is all about the setup. You need some time. An abandoned stairwell. Or a urine soaked mattress in a vacant lot somewhere. Kaye: You have really thought about this. Me: It’s what I do.
Today hippies, burnouts, college students and losers everywhere will be motivated to do something other than playing Call of Duty Black Ops and running down to area convenience stores for Snapples and bags of Funyons. That something will entail joining mass demonstrations to show the world that smoking weed is totally awesome.
Colorado essentially decriminalized marijuana in 2005 and dispensaries have been opening up all over the state ever since. Some have clever names like “Health Joint” or “Green Room” while others have less imaginative monikers like “Marijuana Store” or “Pot Shop”.
I am indifferent about marijuana and could care less if people smoke it or not. I wish the government would just legalize it (and every other drug) and be done with it. Tax it, sell it and put that money to use somewhere else. Like my pocket.
The wife and I braved freezing temperatures last night to watch game three of the National League Divisional Series in a four and a half hour affair that left our extremities numb. 50,000 faithful at Coors Field were in attendance, an impressive number considering the cold. Some highlights:
The Rockies organization once again fucked up some form of the post-season. The game started at ten after eight. We arrived at the gates at ten ‘till eight, happy we would be catching the first pitch. We waited outside Coors Field for forty five minutes in the cold. No announcements as to why tickets were not being taken. No signage explaining why there was a delay. Chants of “Let Us In,” almost degenerate into an angry mob poised to rush the gates and get into the game. My sweet wife even mentioned to me how easy it would be to get away with kidney-punching Phillies fan in the mayhem.
By the time we get to our seats, it is the bottom of the second inning and the Rockies are up 2-1. Fucking Rockies organization. I almost don’t enjoy my Rockies Dog and refreshing beer(s).
Our section is fun early on; good fans, good spirits and an overall good vibe. This situation changes as sobriety slips away and is replaced with stupidity. Once polite Phillies fans sitting a few sections below us become raging assholes and start picking fights. One of the fans is a fat white guy who has long dreadlocks. Insults are hurled his way. “Cut your hair, white Bob Marley,” and, “Got any weed?” and my personal favorite (because I said it), “Go home to your bottle of shampoo, hairbag.”
The couple in the row below us are stoned out of their mind. Through out the game, the guy eats slices of salami he has smuggled into the game via his coat pocket. No Ziploc. No brown bag. Literally eating slices of salami from his coat pocket.
The girl below us dances like she is at a rave every time music comes on. Her balance is so off I remark to the wife, “That girl is going to take a spill.” Within minutes of my comment, it happens. The crowd is on its feet after Carlos Gonzalez belts a solo shot to right field and the girl takes a head plant into the seats below her, flips over another row, lands on her head again and somehow manages to finish the maneuver with her ass in a seat four rows down. She looks confused, disoriented and possibly concussed. Her boyfriend expresses no concern and casually takes another slice of salami from his coat pocket.
We decide to head out in the bottom of the ninth as our infant son it at his grandparents and probably needs sleep. It kills us both considering Brad Lidge has been a nightmare closing ball games this season. By the time we arrive at the the car, the Rockies have lost 6-5, unable to cash in two walks.
Upon further reflection, I should have kidney-punched a Phillies fan to make my night more enjoyable. Especially the fat one with dreadlocks.
This past year has been rife with big happenings including planting a spawn in my wife’s womb and career upheaval. My mentor once said, “The best way to learn on how not to do things is by being around people who consistently fail and learning from their mistakes.” My former mentor was once fired from a job for looking at porn on his work computer, but that is neither here nor there. The point is he is right. I have a solid understanding on what not to do professionally provided by a bevy of past employers. I have great examples of unsuccessful parenting skills thanks to former friends and coworkers (i.e. buying your kids beer only if they “drink it at the house” does not keep them “safe”). I am hopeful I have learned enough from these bad examples to forge onward and do the right thing. If I have not learned enough, I look forward to an illustrious career as a bartender and snorting cocaine with my kids.
Friday. The wife and I attend the 2008 Punk Rocks show at Red Rocks. The band lineup includes NOFX, Mighty Mighty Bosstones, Bouncing Souls, Street Dogs and young Denver skate punks Frontside Five (the Circle Jerks are a no-show). I soon recognize how old I am when I breeze through beer lines in mere minutes. I soon learn that new punk kids like smoking weed way more than old punk kids. NOFX, Mighty Mighty Bosstones and Bouncing Souls are still awesome. The Street Dogs are the opposites of awesome due to an hour and a half set and a fifteen minute dissertation on who the Ramones are and why they are so important to punk music. The only way to make their set less cliche would have be for the lead singer to not remove his shirt before his Ramones tribute song only to reveal a strategically planned Ramones shirt underneath. I conclude that six hour concerts and $7 beers are not nearly as fun in my thirties as they were in my twenties.
Saturday. Enter the annual neighborhood pool luau. We represent a respectable drinking crew and my next door neighbor’s classic rock cover band melts faces. Our HOA is awesome because they allow (tolerate) my next door neighbor to wheel an ice-cold keg over to the pool to serve free beer. I soon realize that inflatable monkeys cannot sustain the belly-flop weight of a grown man from a diving board. Post-luau we torch a fire in the backyard pit and the wife provides ingredients for ‘smores. Three people fall asleep in their chairs. I conclude that staying up late and drinking until intoxication two nights in a row is not nearly as fun in my thirties as it was in my twenties.
Sunday. My annual fantasy football draft goes down in the living room. Being as this is the fifteenth year of my league’s existence and the same team owners have been in said league for the past six years, I expect the draft to take no more than two hours. Four hours and eight cases of beer later, the draft concludes after much humor, animosity and stupidity (this sums up my fantasy football league perfectly: upon the draft’s conclusion one team owner loudly proclaimed, “I have to get going. I am late for marriage counseling.”) Steak, potatoes and a gigantic apple pie from Costco are then decimated in less than twenty minutes. I conclude that sports gambling and NFL football viewing are not nearly as fun in my thirties as they were in my twenties.
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.
Photobombers are people who ruin seemingly nice pictures. Here are some of the best Photobombers from Facebook.
Sportsmanship is alive and well in female athletics. If it were dudes playing in that game the scenario would have played out something like this: Guy hits a jack. While rounding first base he blows out his knee. After making fun of the guy for blowing out his knee while rounding the bases on a home run, the opposing team feigns fake concern until trainers haul him off the field whereupon the umpire makes the proper ruling of a two-run single. The opposing team will later tell their grandchildren about some moron that shredded his ACL after going yard in a bourbon-soaked haze forty years later.
Moses tripping balls? That explains the whole wandering in the desert, Egyptian army is chasing us, parting the Red Sea, Burning Bush, Mount Sinai/Ten Commandments and Golden Calf business. That right there describes a fairly strong yet garden variety acid trip. Granted, the Exodus story is not as twisted and psychedelic as Fantasia what with the dancing elephants and hippos, but it definitely ranks up there.
Click here to see the reason why I am hooked on A&E’s Intervention (pun intended). Naked meth whore’s journals are eerily reminiscent of a former coworker of mine who was rumored to be on the pipe. She used to sketch magical spirals and write “NO” repeatedly in her notebooks during board meetings.