Me: Thanks for the Xmas card.
Tanya: You are welcome.
Me: I teared up a little because it was so nice.
Tanya: Teared up on the inside, right? Because tearing up on the outside would make you gay.
Me: Yes. I bury all my emotions deep inside because otherwise I would be gay. I would rather drink through my emotional issues and kill a kid in a crosswalk DUI style then talk about my feelings.
Tanya: Sounds like the manly thing to do.
The wife knocked the Xmas gift exchange out of the park (again) by procuring me an official Tyler Durden leather jacket and This Is Spinal Tap Collectors Edition on DVD (“The question is how much more black could it be? And the answer is none. None more black.”) I got her jewelry and perfume. I am the best husband in the world. Aside from skidding our truck into a ditch and having my brother-in-law tow us out with his penile enhancing mega-vehicle and than having said skidded truck’s battery die on my parent’s driveway, our baby Jesus day went off without a hitch. As of post time I am sitting at PDX minutes from procuring a rental car and driving down to Eugene to spend the week with my wife’s family. We also plan to renew our love affair at the Heceta Head Lighthouse as the romance is dead in our marriage. Happy holidays, loyal readers of the MB. I hate all seven of you.
My Dad is a difficult man to buy presents for. When prodding him for gift ideas he usually mumbles, “I could use some golf balls” and than quickly changes the subject. Last year my Mom suggested we get him some new basketball gear for Christmas as Dad still rocks the Larry Bird Scrotum Fliers on the court. He kept the Dri-Fit shirts we bought and took back the baggy shorts. I am happy to report he is now tucking his Dri-Fit shirts into his High Thighs. I fired off on email to Mom this morning asking her what the old man could use and she replied with this gem:
The Greatest Hits of Air Supply and a small AM/FM radio for his office.
My Dad is a cyborg from the future sent back through time with only one mission: to keep the 1980s alive.
Christmas came and went without much aplomb; spirits were imbibed, holiday cookies were devoured, presents were opened, kittens went bezerker rage on their stockings and cousins in from Baghdad with an affinity for strip clubs and Heineken’s were entertained. The wife got me some new creative direction slippers to keep my feet warm while I command oversea subcontractors from afar and utilize new Apple products in the home office. It appears I will be getting screwed out of another work snow day tomorrow as the Kwanzaa Blizzard rolled into the metro area this afternoon to blanket the foot of snow not yet melted from the Hanukkah Blizzard.
Today, in the midst of Hanukkah Blizzard, I accepted a Creative Director position with a small design firm in Denver. I will be able to maintain the pants-free lifestyle I have grown accustomed over these past months, as my office will be in my home. I will occasionally venture out for a cup of coffee or a sandwich and maintain connectivity with the world via all form of modern technological accoutrement (cell phone, computer, IM, email, carrier pigeon). Other than that, society is officially dead to me. This career path is free of company-wide circle jerks with CEOs who receive Xmas cards from unemployed designers that lie about profits, revenues and layoffs. Once the roads are deemed safe by the governor again, I will be rolling up to the Apple Store to drop some coin on a new iMac and MacBook. Final unemployment statistics: 101 resumes sent and nine interviews all spanning three months, one week and one day.
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.
My three year-old nephew possesses toys similar to these. He does not own thee Fantastic 4 Electronic Thing Hands instead he has the Incredible Hulk Electronic Hands. He does not own the Revenge of the Sith Energy Beam Blaster but he does have the Revenge of the Sith Lightsabers. I am proud that my brother-in-law is raising his son in the danger zone. It is going to be a great Christmas for the boy; he will be receiving some Air Kicks Kickaroos Anti-Gravity Boots and the Camouflage Water Bomb Fun Kit from Uncle Matty. I may include a bag of glass, some oily rags and a pack of matches just for good measure.
Christmas came and went like my first college girlfriend; happy and magical in the beginning but quickly degenerating into a miserable coma-like limbo where my emotions froze and my body metabolized alcohol with the efficiency of a Nazi general. I made out with holiday gifts like two groping teenagers in a PG-13 movie. Aside from a pile of clothing and art supplies, I received high-ticket items from my lady (digital camera) and the parents (barbecue grill) and a most excellent scotch sampler from Jake (as I type this I am enjoying a nice glass of Oban). Posts in the next few weeks will be scant as I knock out a freelance gig, sexify the MB for 2005, snowshoe, play in a hockey tournament, polish off a scotch sampler and generally enjoy my time off from work. Peace on earth and all that shit. And fuck you, tsunamis.