The MB Transitions Into Obscurity

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?

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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.”

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Xmas 2005: Epilogue

The future wife and I have been wallowing in our own filth and muscular atrophy (Read: on vacation). When presented with the choice of showering, posting to the MB or watching three-star movies on cable television for the past three days, we have been going for the latter. Here is an incomplete list of the Christmas booty I tallied this year:

  • New golf bag.
  • Dark brown Donnie Brasco leather jacket.
  • Assorted sweaters not of the seasonal print and Cosby design variety.
  • Assorted button down shirts of the striped, metrosexual variety.
  • Colorado Avalanche hooded sweatshirt that will magically fix the team’s goaltending woes and teach Patrice Brisebois how to play defense.
  • The books Freakonomics, Teacher Man, Angels and Demons, Slapstick, His Excellency and Idiots At Work.

I will not be posting any 2005 retrospectives that include major news events, major life changing events, places I traveled to, New Years resolutions and any other end of the year bullshit cliches that populate most blogs. I will be spending the upcoming New Year holiday playing in an ice hockey tournament and toasting warm Canadian Hunter with a hirsute family member, his wife, Mister and Misses Chili Dog, Monica, her pretty boyfriend Matt and my beautiful future wife.

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Corey Feldman Does Not Cut The Meat Loaf

Me: Cory Feldman is itching to be in a rock opera.
Monica: When all else fails, try the rock opera.
Me:I got news for Corey Feldman. There is only one man that can pull of the rock opera and his name is Meat Loaf.
Monica: Well, you cannot blame him for trying.
Me: Oh yes I can. A rock opera is nothing to be trifled with. It takes equal parts falsetto voice, sequined jumpsuits, frilly man-blouses and rhinestone unitards.
Monica: And Corey Feldman does not fit that bill?
Me: No, my friend. He most certainly does not.
Monica: Certainly you jest, but did you see his frilly attire on the Surreal Life while getting hitched?
Me: No.
Monica: He wore a pirate shirt and man tights, Matty.
Me: Interesting.
Monica: Now, I realize you cannot fuck with the rock opera formula. I am just saying, for a fancy boy, Feldman fits the bill.
Me: You may have swayed me. One thing troubles me, however; can Feldman sing?
Monica: Does it matter?
Me: That settles it then. The time is nigh to write a rock opera for Corey Feldman. I will call it A Celebration of Corey. It will be the story of his life set to musical score: his childhood, Stand By Me (accompanied by a tear-jerking on-stage reunion with Wil Wheaton), his days on smack, The Lost Boys, the suppressed memories of Jacko molesting him, his marriage to stalkers and then, for the grand finale we will call Corey Oblivion, a duet with Mr. Corey Haim.
Monica: Yes!
Me: Now all I have to do is learn how write a music.

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Charge It To My Sodomy Card, Please

Monica: The Gay Card.
Me: That is funny.
Monica: “I would like to pay for it with my Platinum Rainbow, please.”
Me: For the homosexual that likes to advertise their sexuality with every purchase.
Monica: That is a really good tag line.
Me: Thanks. “I will take a pack of menthols and a box of Good ‘N Plentys. And yes, I am a homosexual.”

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Queen Of The Slump Buster

Me: I am going to post this.
Monica: Yikes. Anna Nicole is a train wreck. That is almost too bad to post. The Joe Namath fall from grace, now that was funny. Posting this would be like kicking a three-legged dog or getting footage of Courtney Love stoned and flashing her junk. Been there, done that.
Me: Good point. But the posting well is dry. I would apply this same logic if I ever needed a slump buster and was forced to pick up trash like her at a strip club. Inner monologue would go something like this: “Sure, she is a disaster. I mean she works at a strip club, a place where drug addicts, perverts and sex abuse victims work and hang out. But damn, I am in a serious dry spell here. I will just give her a handful of painkillers. Maybe then she will not cry after sex. Much.”
Monica: Fair enough. I just do not understand the allure is all. Of course, I do not have a penis either.
Me: Sometimes it is just as simple as “Hey, look at those fun bags!”

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A Vast Wasteland

My weekend was filled with disturbing programming flashing across the vast wasteland of television. On Friday night Monica brought over her fella and some Chinese food over and we all watched Monster. I thought Charlize Theron engaging in lesbianism would soften the disturbing nature of the film (even if said lesbianism was with Christina Ricci who is hot if you are into elf sluts with big foreheads) but I was dead wrong. I have three words for you: tire iron sodomy. (I was guilty of this hot-chick-doing-an-uncharacteristic-sex-act fallacy during Requiem For A Dream, too. I heard Jennifer Connelly took a double ended dildo up the chute and that sounded like something I would enjoy watching. First, I had to endure a smack addict’s arm amputation (his limb became black and gangrenous due to his love of the vein candy) and an old woman being committed to a mental health facility for her eating disorder and addiction to diet pills. When the scene finally arrived, it was more disturbing than hot).

Saturday morning I made myself a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios and turned on the Olympics in the hopes of catching some Women’s Beach Volleyball (Holly McPeak. Yummy). Instead I get the a broadcast of the Gymnastics Trampoline. The competition goes as such: an athlete (use the term athlete loosely) does tricks on a trampoline for an Olympic medal. We need an international competition forum for this? There was a kid named Jimmy in my neighborhood who would have dominated this event in the early eighties. That fucking kid was a wild man on the trampoline. His signature move was jumping off the roof and going into a double flip. I was waiting for a tandem Gymnastics Trampoline event when two competitors had a seat war or played a game of crack the egg. You know this event is not taken seriously when commentators had this exchange:

Announcer #1: Oh! That miscue on the back flip there is going to cost him.
Announcer #2: Yes. What kind of experience do you have with this event?
Announcer #1: Well, I have been jumping on trampolines since I was eight years old.

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Groupie Love

Me: “Damn though mans I’m just tryin’ do me. If the record’s two mill’ I’m just tryin’ move three. Get a couple of chicks, get ’em to try to do E. Hopefully they’ll menage before I reach my garage.”
Monica: God bless the Jay-Z. I love him. I would be all sick ass groupie for him. Would you be a male whore/groupie for any band or singer?
Me: Gwen Stefani. The Go-Gos circa 1982. The Bangles circa 1986.
Monica: Susanna Hoffs was a sweet piece of ass.
Me: You (besides Jay-Z)?
Monica: Lenny Kravitz. Robert Plant circa 1978. Henry Rollins circa 1986.
Me: I had a thing for that one Heart sister back in the day. Not the cow but the one that played the Axe.
Monica: Nancy.
Me: That blond curly hair, running around in lingerie and busting out some riffs on “What About Love.”
Monica: Marvin Gaye. That would have been interesting.
Me: Even more interesting: Barry White.
Monica: Not Barry White. He’s a whale.
Me: Speaking of interesting, how about Janice Joplin? Ugly as sin and chasing the dragon. I would have just yelled at her until she serenaded me with some “Bobby McGee.”
Monica: Ha! Jimi Hendrix. You know he would have clogged a girl up something fierce…
Me: Er…?
Monica: …with drugs, not sperm.
Me: Whew. Thanks for clarifying. I would have tagged all of Bananarama.
Monica: I do not even remember them.
Me: Sure you do: “Leaving me here on my own, its a cruel. Cruel summ-aaaah.” Not summer, mind you, but summ-aaaah.
Monica: You complete me.
Me: Right back atcha, fruitcake.

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The Weekend That Was

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.

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The Original Wedding Crashers

Weddings are usually a source of happiness as two people commit and celebrate their love in a timeless ceremony amongst family and friends. They are also a great place to get rip-roaring drunk and fuck some shit up. While I never bit a man’s finger off or smeared cake on a child, I do recall (vaguely) one wedding I attended six years back:

  • The ceremony is in North Denver and I ride shotgun to it with my cousin, Monica. Both of our mothers asked us to show up early and help set up chairs. We arrive 20 minutes late because we had to stop for cigarettes.
  • Monica and I sit in the back of the church during the ceremony. We make crass comments about a family member’s hairpiece that gives him the appearance of a young Ringo Starr. Joking in a British accent I say things like, “Hey Paul, it’s time to get married.” Monica giggles like a dirty schoolgirl.
  • The ceremony ends and Monica and I realize the reception is at the Boettcher Mansion (near Golden, Colorado) nearly an hour away. We stop off at a local liquor where nobody speaks English before we begin the trek.
  • In the car we consume alcohol as quickly as possible. We smoke many cigarettes.
  • We arrive at the reception hall drunk. I sign the guestbook “Matt.” I have neither a gift nor a card for the couple. Nels and my sisters have saved us seats at a table. We proceed to the bar.
  • The greatest combination of words in the English language: open bar.
  • After dinner, our table is trashed and loud. Family and friends shush us. Nels and I decide to get a round of anisette shots for the table for the toast. We drink all the shots on the way back to the table and wind up going back for more.
  • The anisette shots are downed at the table before the toast even begins. Then we remember they bring around champagne for the toast. Instead of waiting for the caterers to pour us the bubbly, Monica acquires a bottle for our table and after taking the first pull proclaims, “No more for me. I have to drive home.”
  • The garter belt ceremony begins. Nels, my sister’s date Mike and I stand in the pit of bachelors. The garter is flung and gets caught in the chandelier. Nels and I decide to hoist Mike up to the chandelier to grab the garter. Our sense of balance is skewed thanks to the alcohol we have consumed and Mike nearly falls on his face as we lift him. Mike braces himself against the chandelier, grabs the garter and jumps down. The chandelier swings wildly for about five minutes. My grandmother looks scared.
  • I see a hot girl and ask my Mom if I am related to her. She says no. I ask hot girl to dance. At this point I have spilled liquor all over the front of my shirt and smell like a brewery but she says yes anyway. As we dance I sing the song being played loudly in her ear. When the dance is over she informs me she is leaving and gives me her phone number. As she walks away I blurt out, “You look hot, and I am not just saying because I am drunk.” (Days after the wedding I forget the number is in my pants pocket and it gets ruined in the wash).
  • Reception ends late. Nels and I talk the bartender in giving us some beers for the road. We smuggle them out in our dress pant pockets.
  • Monica ends up chauffeuring most of our drunken table home. We get stopped at a sobriety checkpoint. Luckily, Monica is now sober and passes with flying colors. I sit in the backseat staring blankly at her walking a straight line with an open beer in my hand and the remnants of a twelve pack at my feet. Much later I realize that if I were asked out of the backseat we would have all spent the night in lock-up.
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