When I started the MB back in 2000, my original intent was to showcase my resume and minuscule design portfolio. I had just made the transition from print design to web design and thought the purchase of the domain name would motivate me to learn more about designing and maintaining websites. It did.
In 2002, the MB transitioned from a professional showcase to a personal one. I started posting about all manner of nonsense, because, in case you have not realized by now, I have a lot to say about a lot of shit. In 2002 there was no Facebook. No Twitter. No MySpace. No news feeds. It actually took some doing to track down links and write about them. I was happy to do this because my job was mind-numbing and management at the data slaughterhouse had no idea what the hell I was up to. Soon, links, emails and IMs started flooding in from the likes of Jake, Michael, DJ, Kaye, Monica, CH, Gay Joe and Mark. Boredom loves company? I was happy to be posting regularly as it fueled my passion for creativity in ways that my career was not.
Enter Broz Design in November 2008 and my posting to the MB fizzling out. Maybe its because I am fulfilled professionally? Or because I would rather hang out with my kid than waste my time posting about a guy that got fucked to death by a horse? Or maybe it is time to take the MB into a new direction? I go with the latter. I have always dreamed about writing the Great American Novel but am no closer to that goal than I was last year. My New Years resolution for 2010 is to start using the MB to focus more on actually writing a book and get some ideas out into the ether. It may not lead to anything other than me doing what I have been wanting to do for some time and that is fine. It is not like you want to read about a horse fucking a guy to death, anyway. Right?
Mark: Have you heard of Art Brut? Euro-Indie rock band. Not bad. That would also be a good name for your next child other than Spilly.
Me: Did you stay up for the game and watch the grand slam?
Mark: I did not. Although I was there for Tulo’s unassisted triple play and that was dope.
Me: This was … doper? More dope? Dopest?
Long time friends of the MB, Mark and Sara, ruined their lives over the weekend. It was a lovely affair that went down at Red Rocks Amphitheater and included Apache Wedding blessings, drinking and revelry, an R2D2 cake and a slide show of two fine-looking youngsters in love. I understand your reasoning for putting us at the Smashing Pumpkins table, Mark, but were we at least considered for The Clash table? I must know. Congratulations (again) from the wife and I. Enjoy England/Scotland/Ireland. Also, something for you to consider.
Other stuff that fuels binge drinking in the West besides boredom:
- Soul-crushing employers.
- Fantasy football drafts.
- Buying in a seller’s market and selling in a buyer’s market.
- A donated garage refrigerator reserved exclusively for meat, alcohol and assorted citrus fruits that can be chopped up and put in alcohol.
- Five weeks of vacation time that needs be used up by January 1, 2007.
- Mark Husson’s sparse blog posting schedule.
- Your mom.
In a few short hours, I will be on a plane headed for Chicago and the 2005 HOW Design Conference. Once the conference concludes, the future wife and I will be hanging around the Windy City for a few days. We will be back in Denver next Thursday only to leave for Oregon the following Saturday to visit with our in-laws for the week. Posting will be minimal to none on the MB during this time. If you start going through withdrawals consider Jake, Boing Boing or Fleshbot your methadone. Especially Fleshbot. They have dirty pictures and stuff.
Mark: You need to sign up for the Gmail, Matt.
Me: I have enough internet email accounts. I am an internet email whore.
Mark: All you need is one; Gmail, baby.
Me: Sigh. You are so young.
Mark: Give me a break. 1000 Megabytes!
Me: I do not need that much space because I never save emails.
Mark: Well Gmail is out to change all that.
Me: Gmail sounds nice and everything, but I rarely use my internet accounts.
Mark: Well, it is a nice fucking service!
Me: Let me give you an insight into the internet emails I usually get (keep in mind I have a spam blocker). This morning, for example, I received a wonderful link regarding the sexual habits of lactating women. Sounds sexy, right?
Mark: Gmail would have caught that.
Me: You cannot catch a lactating woman, Mark. They are elusive. Like a Yeti. Or the Loch Ness Monster.
Last night after my hockey game (a 10-3 victory in which I tallied 2 assists and Mark was denied on a sick Temu Selanne-esque backhand chance) my sort of lady made a scrumptious dinner of Mediterranean chicken, fresh vegetables and wild rice. After we ate, we retired to the sofa and watched the Chicago Cubs win their first post-season series in 95 years. I enjoyed most aspects of the game except for the constant camera coverage of Kerry Wood’s wife sitting in the stands. After almost every pitch Kerry threw, Fox would cut to her crying and clutching her delicate little hands in front of her face. By the seventh inning, I had enough:
Me: (camera pans to Kerry Wood’s wife) Here we fucking go again. I am sick of seeing that bitch.
My Sort Of Lady: I know, Matty.
Matt: We do not need to see the gold-digging gutter trash Kerry married every time he strikes a guy out.
My Sort Of Lady: I agree. They probably would not put the camera on her if she were ugly.
Me: True. But how many professional athletes wives are ugly? Aside from Kurt Warner. His wife looks like hammered shit.
My Sort Of Lady: Good point.
Me: Look at all those player’s wives. They are like those high school cheerleaders that lettered only in cheer leading.
My Sort Of Lady: I do not think I could ever be a professional athletes wife.
Me: Me either. My tits are not big enough.
Friday. It is my birthday so I take the day off. I wake up, make some scrambled eggs and bacon and watch Clash of the Titans on the digital cable. My sort of lady and I play nine holes of golf. My sort of lady gives me clothes and candles that smell like pumpkin musk. We crack a Michelob Ultra and toast to my 28th year. After killing three Michelob Ultras each, My sort of lady and I realize that Michelob Ultras go down very smooth. My sort of lady departs to get ready for birthday festivities at Old Chicago. Kaye, Aaron and Johnny Ballgame stop by to check out the town home improvements. We leave for the pub where I drink the night away with family and friends, consuming only two shots (thanks to Monica and an old high school friend Rachel). For the first time in three years of birthday celebrations, I do not wind up face down in some skeezy parking lot in downtown Denver dry heaving on a tree.
Saturday. My sort of lady and I drive to Redstone (20 miles outside of Glenwood Springs) to attend the wedding of a childhood friend she has not talked to in six months. I soon find out why my sort of lady does not talk to aforementioned friend (the term bourgeois princess comes to mind.) Together, we know a total of three people at the wedding. We sit at our table and drink ourselves half blind. I begin to spin yarns to the gullible and uppity wedding guests. My best story begins when someone at the table asks me, “How long have you and your wife been together?” I reply “Six long years,” and then proceed to tell them how we met on the frozen sea ice of Antarctica where we were both studying botany and the psychoactive effects of blue-green algae on the human brain. I am sure to include my harrowing smack addiction and how my wife supported me through the dark times when I brought home filthy drug addicts to fuck and spike the vein with in our basement. I conclude the story with, “I am going to get a drink, anybody want one?” (I told you I am good at weddings.) My sort of lady and I dance. On the drive back to Denver, my sort of lady falls asleep somewhere near Glenwood Springs. She wakes up when I nudge her pulling into our town home complex. She stretches and proclaims, “That drive was so short.” I drove three hours in solitude.
Sunday. My sort of lady and I go for an early morning run as a pre-emptive strike against the assault our digestive tracts will face during the birthday celebration at my parents house. We arrive at my folks shortly after one in the afternoon and are presented with heaping plates of food. On the menu is stuffed shells (shell pasta filled with ricotta cheese and covered in homemade spaghetti sauce) and peach pie. My sisters get me candles that smell like vanilla musk, a candle holder (I begin to think the women in my life called forth a candle conspiracy for my 28th year) and a gift certificate to Old Navy. My parents float me duckets and two books: Ortho’s Home Improvement Encyclopedia and Techniques of the Great Masters of Art. We then head back to my sort of lady’s house and I fix her screen door and hang some mirrors on her walls. I play in a late hockey game and receive my first ever game misconduct penalty. Much like Claude Lemieux after boarding Kris Draper in 1996 and destroying his face, I stand by the hit.
Friday. Work late to complete a corporate Flash presentation that nobody will pay attention to. After work, I play in a coed softball game where my team wins 26-4 and the opposing team’s third baseman catches a ground ball with her face and breaks her nose. Immediately following the game a torrential downpour ensues and I sprint to my car leaving my glove on the field. I roll to Tyler’s house and play College Football with the Slushy Gutter Crew. At one point in the evening Tyler pours me either a glass of bourbon, scotch, or whiskey. I drink it and proceed to kick his ass with Virginia Tech 30-14. On the way home I realize that I left my mitt on the softball field.
Saturday. I attend my company picnic and run the corporate Flash presentation I put in long hours over. Surprisingly, people pay attention, laugh and tell me good job. After the presentation the picnic continues at a nearby park with a luau theme and a pig roasting. I eat heaping platefuls of swine and mingle with coworkers. Jake, Gay Joe and I make fun of some pasty kid trying to play football. We call him “Mary” and giggle like the dickheads we are. Joe tells us about his homosexual encounters the previous evening. Hula dancers many years past their prime shake their asses for our amusement. I volunteer to dance with them, throwing my inhibitions into the wind like Kevin Bacon in Footloose. I perform a dance with pom-poms and hip gyrations. I win the grand prize in the company raffle (a $200 gift certificate to the Flagstaff House). After the picnic, I attend a lesbian wedding with Monica, Kaye, Aaron, Nels and Kerry. We quickly become the obnoxious drunk table at the reception. A plant is passed around and the recipient of said plant gives a toast. A diverse blend of people wishes the couple well including a militant lesbian with an attitude problem and a sexual predator with disheveled hair holding a kid that liked to hit people in the face. I share my toast with the happy couple, lifting my glass and saying, “Here’s to eating pussy.” They laugh hysterically. I love the lesbians and wish them the best. We roll to Monica’s crib for a nightcap. I discover Kaye does not like playing drinking games with me. Monica informs me she picked up my softball glove up after our game. This makes me happy.
Sunday. I wake up at noon with a screaming hangover. I pour a glass of water and take ibuprofen. I watch Panic Room on digital cable. I drink a glass of water. I make a trip to Home Depot to buy some sandpaper and steel wool. I drink a glass of water. I strip paint for four hours. I drink three glasses of water. My Mom calls and invites me to dinner. I drink a glass of water. I drive to my parents house and eat spaghetti and garlic bread for dinner. We discuss home improvement. I go home to play a game of College Football. Colorado State beats Wyoming 21-3. Nels picks me up for our hockey game. I tally a hat trick and an assist. I drink seven glasses of water. Mark throws a shoe at Nels’s face. I come home and take a shower. I go to sleep. If anyone asks me what I did this weekend, I will say, “Nothing.”
Mark: I am going to get a haircut so I can trick this girl into thinking I am good looking. Today will be my “I am a good/funny/nice guy day.” I may ask her out this Friday.
Me: Do it. Say something witty.
Mark: Like what?
Me: Like, “Are you into sodomy? Because I certainly am not.”
Me: “And if your sitting there thinking I am into butt sex, then we should to end this relationship right now.” Or tell her, “I do not wear underwear. But if I do, it is usually something tasteless, like a turquoise thong. Which look funny on me because of my hirsute bikini line.” Something along those lines. That stuff is gold.
Mark: Is it? She might not get it.
Me: She seems dumb. That is good.
Mark: No, she is not dumb. She is a biology major.
Me: She seems smart. That is good. You are Rocky and I am Mickey in this scenario. “Go in there and tear her head off, Mark.”