No Boarding

With the the fall of the first snow in Colorado, most of my fellow Denverites are preparing for a long winter of mountain sports. They're waxing their skis and sharpening their edges and tightening their boots to ready themselves for what they assume will be an "epic season". I, on the other hand, am doing nothing. That's because this year, I will not be snowboarding.

Growing up in Miami, my idea of a winter sport was sailing, windsurfing, or carjacking German tourists. When I moved to Colorado 14 years ago, I had barely seen snow, let alone rode 40 mph on it. Still, I tried to fit in. Living in Boulder, my only role models were bobos that drove Subarus and shopped at REI. They told me that, to be a Coloradan, I had to pick a mountain sport to pursue. Because I didn't want to look like a cast member of Hot Dog...The Movie, I settled on snowboarding.

Working on the mountain as a janitor, I mastered my craft. Soon, I was doing ollies and grabs and switches and spins. I affected the snowboarder drawl (lots of "dudes" and "bros" and "right ons"). I stopped showering and shaving and wearing deodorant. I became a nuisance to skiers. And in time, I was a full-fledged knuckle dragger. As the years passed, I went snowboarding each time the winter winds would blow. Eventually though, snowboarding started to blow.

It's not the sport, per se. It's everything that comes along with it - the traffic, the people, the cold, the altitude sickness, the sore muscles, the long underwear, the dripping mucous, the anal chafe, the bathroom inaccessibility, the long lines to get on the lifts, the high prices for sub-par food at the lodge, the unbearable crowds at the apres ski bar, etc. Essentially, snowboarding became more of a hassle than it's worth.

Still, for some reason, every year I continued to buy my season pass. I continued to sit in traffic for five hours to be cold for five hours to be tired as I sit in traffic again for five hours. I continued to stand in line with obnoxious kids and jeans-wearing Texans and those goddamn handicapped skiers and their goddamn handicapped ski chairs to go for a run where I fight with the same aforementioned assholes for space on the trails. I continued to subject my aging body to strains and sprains and bruises and pulls when I should be at home like the rest of the sane people in my demographic. Well, that's over now since, as I said, this year, I will not be snowboarding.

It feels great to say that. In July, I won't get anxious that I haven't purchased my overpriced Colorado Pass in time to get the early bird "discount". In September, I won't be pissed that I didn't get to Sniagrab in time to get the good gear so I won't look like a tool four months later. In November, I won't dread the fact that I haven't had my first day on the mountain despite the fact that early season runs are wrought with bare trails, rocks, and jerks that think they have to take advantage of early season runs.

In January, I won't have to wait with the herds of lemmings to get to and from The Eisenhower Tunnel. If I don't want to deal with traffic, I won't have to spend the highest prices of the year to stay in shitty accommodations that only out-of-towners should stay in during high season. In March, I won't have to question whether I should wear winter gear or summer gear and sweat or freeze depending upon which choice I make. In April, I won't have to be sad that it's 6 months until I can snowboard again.

Hey, snowboarding has been good to me. It gave me a reason to go to Aspen to harass Hunter S. Thompson and to hit on foreign au pairs and nannys. Ah, but now Hunter's dead and I'm married. It gave me a reason to go to Breckenridge to smoke weed with hippies and to watch third tier jam bands jam. Ah, but now I no longer get high and I've lost any of my remaining tolerance for cacophonous noodling. It gave me a reason to get out of Denver to avoid the chores my wife assigned me and to get away from the tedium of home. Ah, but now my wife is wise to my avoidance tactics and snowboarding has become even more tedious than being at home.

Snowboarding has also not been good to me. It's been the cause of broken ribs, busted discs, and squished balls. It's been the cause of wind burn, athlete's foot, and mildewy body odor. It's forced me to schedule my life around I-70's traffic trends. It's gotten me close to frost bite. It's given me the worst gas of my life (open mouth snowboarding and high altitude are not a good gastric combination). It's ruined hangovers by forcing me to get out of bed to partake in an activity that should never be partaken in hungover. And, It's kept me from doing important shit like gambling online, surfing porn, and stealing groceries.

Snowboarding is sort of like Guitar Hero. It' pretty cool at first, but after a while, it becomes lame and boring. Look, there's a reason Blacks and Asians and Mexicans don't partake in mountain sports. They're smart. I'm no white man. So, this year, I'm going to act like it. Gladly, I won't see you on the mountain!

Stealing from Grocery Stores

I'll say it loud and I'll say it proud - I steal from grocery stores!

It's not that I have 7 starving children at home that I have to provide for and welfare doesn't give me enough aid to do so. It's not that I have a debilitating illness that keeps me from holding a steady job and my disability checks aren't large enough to put dinner on the table. It's not that I lost all my money in the economy that George W. Bush built.

No, I steal from grocery stores because I can.

Right after college, I had this roommate that worked at a Whole Foods precursor in Miami. While getting his master's degree, he earned extra cash ringing up overpriced gourmet meals, organic vegetables, vitamins, soaps, and other crap upscale health food stores charge insane amounts of money for. He and I made a deal. Every day or so, I would go in there and fill up a shopping cart with the most expensive shit in the place. Then, when I went to checkout, he would ring up $10.43 or some other sub-fifteen dollar sum. No questions asked.

In return, I would share the spoils with him when he got home. We'd barbecue Maine lobster and Kobe beef, we'd dip Beluga caviar and goose liver pate, we'd drink French wine and Belgian ale. It was glorious. Eventually, my roommate quit his job and he's now a high school principal. The store we robbed was acquired by Fresh Market for some crazy sum. I didn't get caught, my roommate didn't lose his job, and the store didn't go out of business. Truly, a victimless crime.

Later, when I moved out to Colorado, I got a job as a janitor at Eldora. At that time, I actually was hungry and I didn't have food (I spent my whole salary on weed and booze). One of my fellow janitors used to work at King Soopers. He told me that they had a policy - they would never prosecute anybody for eating inside the store. It was like this unspoken rule - anything consumed under their roof was free. For the rest of my tenure as a janitor, I spent most of my off time at King Soopers eating. Shit, I brought dates there. I hosted business lunches there. When my parents were in town, I took them out to dinner there. Not once did I get in trouble.

From those two experiences, I learned a few valuable lessons. First, for the most part, nobody notices when you steal from grocery stores. Second, except in extreme cases, nobody will punish you for stealing from grocery stores. Third, stealing from grocery stores hurts no one. And fourth, food stolen from grocery stores tastes really, really good.

So now, even though I no longer need to steal from grocery stores, I do it as much as I possibly can. And why not?

With my limited knowledge of economics and accounting, here's how I see it: Grocery stores know that people are going to steal from them. Subsequently, they mark up their prices to account for the presumed theft. That means that the people that don't steal pay for the people that do steal. Doesn't seem fair to me! I'm not going to let bums and indigents benefit from these one-sided policies at my expense. I want my piece of the pie -- if that pie is made by Safeway, even better.

When I go shopping, I immediately order some prosciutto and imported cheese from the deli. I make my way to the bakery where I grab that fancy bread, the stuff Mitch Hedberg talks about. I get the non-Kraft mustard from the condiment aisle and the organic lettuce and tomatoes from the produce section. I then consume a free delicious sandwich as I shop. That's just the beginning. Soon, I'm devouring eggs and donuts and Jello and pizza and meat, sort of like Belushi in Animal House. I eat everything I can. Hey, it's not like I'm gonna be arrested.

Next, I stuff small, but expensive items like olive oil, chopped garlic, macadamia nuts, and filet mignon inside potato chip snack packs, cereal samplers, fabric softener boxes, or anything with a little excess room in the packaging. Chances are, nobody will expect me to hide these products (macadamia nut theft is not yet a major epidemic). So, I pile them away. I also slide non-perishable items like razors, deodorant, early pregnancy tests, and Magnum XL Condoms into my jacket pockets. I don't really look like a thief (no mask, no striped shirt, no large sack over my shoulder), so nobody imagines that I have the Fort Knox of toiletries on my person.

Then, I throw large products like kitty litter, Gatorade, and toilet paper on to the bottom rack of the shopping cart. Upon checking out, no one ever looks at the bottom rack. They think you'll be honest and alert the checker to what's there. Honesty's for suckers. I just pretend that whatever's beneath eye level doesn't exist and I walk out of the store saving forty or fifty bucks. I rarely get caught doing this, but when I do, I claim ignorance. It's an obvious oversight because I, much like most checkers, don't look that low. Anyway, they got some fucking nerve charging twelve bucks for a 16-pack of toilet paper. It goes in your ass. It shouldn't cost that much.

If I don't have anything in the bottom rack, I head to the self-service checkout line. They expect us to ring up our food ourselves and not steal? Crazy! I pretend to run things over the scanner and make that little beep sound with my mouth. I'm the Larvelle Jones of shopping. When I "accidentally" miss some items, nobody knows any different. I love exploiting trust!

Over the years, I've stolen tens of thousands of dollars worth of food. I make a good living and, for all intents and purposes, I shouldn't steal anything. Well, I steal from grocery stores for reasons that go beyond frugality and avarice. I like to stick it to The Man. Yes, as the owner of a business, I could be perceived as The Man, but not The Man that owns grocery store chains. There's a Man hierarchy and I fall lower on that totem pole. Plus, in my business, I get it stuck to me all the time. I have clients that won't pay and employees that take advantage of my generous PTO policies. It's time for some payback! Stealing from grocery stores is my way to get paid, biatch!

On another note, in the grocery store parking lot, I don't appropriately put away my shopping cart. I just leave it dangling in the middle of the road and go on my merry way. You might think I do this to be an asshole. However, I actually do it out of benevolence. That's right! If I put my shopping cart in the designated shopping cart depository, the retards and the Mexicans and the old people whose job it is to collect carts won't have a job. I just can't have that on my conscience. See, I'm not all that bad.

Glad It's Over

In case you haven't heard, Barack Obama won the presidential election last night (I pride myself on reporting obscure news). It's a very good thing he didn't lose. Given his overriding lead in the polls, there would have been major riots if he would have lost. Shit, I would have rioted, not because I was angry that Obama was robbed, but because I need a new flat screen TV.

Interestingly enough though, there were some riots. At retirement communities and assisted living facilities throughout the Midwest, decrepit white men felt that the election was wrongfully snatched from one of their brothers. They refused to take their medications, they rammed their wheelchairs through windows, and they defecated in the streets. It was scary!

Like many Obama supporters, I was shooting off celebratory bullets from my illegally purchased handgun. It wasn't because I was ecstatic over Barack's victory. It was because I was relieved that this fucking election is finally over. It's been a long, draining race and it's time for things to get back to normal.

It's time to remove the election signs from our front lawns and put back our gnomes and flamingos and old sofas. It's time to peel off our political stickers and once again adorn our cars with witty slogans like, "If this van's a rockin', don't come a knockin'!" and "Honk if you're horny!" and "Jesus is coming, look busy!". It's time end to our donations to campaigns and return to spending money on important things like illicit drugs and prostitution and child support.

Remember what it was like before the election season went into full swing? Nobody gave a shit about politics. Nobody cared about poll results. Nobody knew the difference between Borat and Barack. Nobody watched Saturday Night Live. Nobody lusted after Campbell Brown or Arianna Huffington. Nobody wore rimless eyeglasses. Well, those days are back, baby!

Musicians, actors, and other retards who have no idea about national affairs, but think it's cool to support Obama, can return to being apathetic. D-list Republicans like Stephen Baldwin, John Ratzenberger, Robert Davi, and Andrew Shue can return to to irrelevance. Bill Ayers and Jeremiah Wright can return to domestic terrorism and America hating.

Extra, Entertainment Tonight, and every other entertainment news show can stop interviewing political figures and get back to reporting on important shit like the results of Paris Hilton's herpes test and The New Kids on the Block's historical reunion. Uninterrupted by weekly debates, we won't miss a single episode of titillating programs like Wife Swap, Are You Smarter Than a Fetus, and Law and Order: WTF. Without the endless barrage of political ads, we'll see more of those horrible Microsoft commercials that try to be as clever as Apple's, but fail miserably and make us all feel very uncomfortable.

For my part, after today, I will never mention anybody with the last name Palin ever again in my blog. Same goes for Joe the Plumber and every other obviously ineffective Republican pawn. Like in the old days, I'll write about significant issues like sharting, urinating, drinking, and being angry.

While I'm happy my candidate won, I'm going to miss having a foil to make fun of. I loved complaining about Bush. He was one funny fucking redneck. McCain and Palin would have given me that same joy.

Ah, but that's a small price to pay.

Now, Republicans will see what it feels like to be helpless, with the fate of their country resting in the hands of a president they didn't vote for. We won't have to be reminded of our inevitable mortality by McCain's corpse-like being. And, we won't have to hear Christian people talk about how refreshing Sarah Palin is. That's change we can believe in!

Teetotal Recall

So, I'm thinking about quitting drinking. Yes, you heard me right - after more than a quarter century of imbibing with reckless abandon, America's favorite lush is considering getting sober.

I had my first drink when I was 11. Of course, it was Manischewitz. I grabbed a discarded bottle from the trash after Rosh Hashana. It tasted like grape juice, except it made me feel better than anything Ocean Spray could ever serve up. I wanted more.

In Junior High, I raided the liquor cabinets of the single mothers of the friends who were dumb enough to let me sleep over. In High School, I convinced the panhandling bums who hung out in front of Circle K to buy me Mad Dog and Mickey's Big Mouth for a slight surcharge. In college, I used the ID of a light-skinned 48 year-old black man to drink more alcohol than every character in Mad Men. Sure, I smoked pot and took pills and did psychedelics, but none of them stuck. It was booze that treated me right. My liquor love affair was cemented.

Until I turned 25, booze and I had a great relationship. We'd spend our days and nights together. We'd enjoy every moment we had, alone and with friends. It was a match made in heaven. In the morning, I never regretted a thing (after a little Gatorade and a few Tylenols). Yeah, there were some hook-ups with unsavory ladies. Yeah, there were the occasional brawls where I was left bloody and broken. Yeah, there were the times I'd pass out and get magic markered by my friends. Still, the hooch and I got along just fine.

After 25 though, things things started to change.

First, I got a DUI. You know the worst thing about a DUI? It's not the fines or the alcohol classes or the community service or the prison time. No, it's the fact that you can't drink and drive. Oh, how I used to love drunk driving. Nothing was better than being ripped, rolling down the highway, and following those squiggly little lines in the middle of the road. Well, that's over and done with. Now, anytime I want to drink and drive, I have to think twice. If I go out, I have to convince someone to drive me or, even worse, I have to find a cab. Not fun.

Next, they made it illegal to smoke in bars. Shit, that's what bars are about - drinking and smoking. They go together like liver cirrhosis and lung cancer. Bars minus smoking equals a horrible time. Plus, without the savory scent of smoke, every bar smells like farts and body odor. Again, not fun.

Then, my body fell apart.

At about 30, my bowels got irritable and my liver got sensitive. It became a chore just to put down a liter of whiskey or two. Acid reflux reared its ugly head with every sip I took. Heartburn became my new chaser. Nausea became my new euphoria. And the hangovers...

They say there's this gene that causes some Jewish people to have worse hangovers than goyim. I thought I didn't have that gene, but I realized I was wrong, very wrong. My hangovers are wicked. Fatigue and migraines and depression and gas and sharting. When I'm hungover, I'm like a mental patient that just ate Mexican food. I'm angry, I'm irrational, and I defecate everywhere. Worse, It takes me days and days to recover from my hangovers. Then, as soon as I'm recovered, I'm back to drinking, which causes my next marathon hangover.

Recently, I created rules to lessen the pain of partaking. I don't drink before sundown and I don't drink on school nights. Sounds smart, huh? Well, following the rules, I get drunker on weekends and I stay out later than ever. No help. Plus, I haven't seen a non-hungover weekend day in years. Is drinking becoming more work than it's worth?

What would life be like as a teetotaler? Well, I assume it would be a lot easier. My mornings would be glorious, birds chirping and sun shining. No more leaning over the toilet for an hour followed by sitting on the toilet for another hour. No more wishing I was dead. No more cravings for KFC and Alka-Seltzer.

I wouldn't have to apologize to anybody for being an asshole. I wouldn't have to resolve ridiculous fights with my wife. I wouldn't have random scrapes or bruises or burns on my body. I'd open my wallet and there'd actually be money in there from the night before. I could give that money to charity, or at least spend it on porn. My mind would be clear. I could read the classics. I could finish my novel. I could learn guitar. I could contribute to society, or at least watch more porn. Man, it sounds great, huh?

Hold on there, bub! There's another side to this story, though.

If I didn't drink, I'd never be drunk. I'd never have that sweet sense of sweetness that only a buzz can provide. I'd never have those warm moments where nothing matters other than peeing and ordering another drink. I'd never have those drawn out conversations that only make sense when you're under the influence (zen and the art of bukakke, Small Wonder vs. Robocop, etc.). I'd never have those uncontrollable urges to act on really ridiculous ideas like vandalizing a cop car or throwing ice at a gang member or joining The National Guard.

I'd have to go to places I hate without alcohol to make them better. I'd have to talk to people I hate without alcohol to make them more bearable. There's nothing worse than drunk people when you're sober, so I'd probably never go out. Then, I'd never have stories of senseless fights or of being overly surly or of sharting. I wouldn't be able to write this blog.

Fuck, just thinking about life without alcohol makes me want to have a drink. Who am I kidding? I can't quit drinking. There's too much to love about it. Sure, it's tough on your body and it makes you act like an idiot and and it's expensive. And sure it hurts the next day and it makes you tired all week and it causes numerous problems with your close relationships. That's not as much of a problem as being a loser who has no fun. Life hands us choices and I choose booze. Long live you, my old friend liquor!!!

Hair of The Mug

It's that time of the year again, the glorious month where I grow my Octobeard.

Usually, when I grow a beard, it's a very organized process. I plan and I trim and I shape. I use Just for Men Beard Formula to get rid of what I call the Miller Half Moon (the gray inverted arch that grows on the bottom of my chin, making me look like Dennis Miller). I brush out the knots and I even out the length. All of this work results in a beautifully designed beard, sort of like James Brolin's.

When I grow an Octobeard, on the other hand, I do nothing. I leave my beard unkempt and wiry and gray. I let it blossom like an unencumbered weed. Eventually, I start looking like Rick Rubin or Zach Galifianakis.

Why, you may ask, do I grow the Octobeard? First, I want Winter to know that I'm not afraid of it -- if the weather gets unseasonably cold, I'll have an extra layer of fur to protect my mug. Second, I have to be prepared in case I decide on a Halloween costume that requires facial hair -- if I want to be Serpico or Mr. Whipple or Captain Lou Albano, I won't have to use that synthetic shit. And third, I grow the Octobeard because I can!

Facial hair is the one thing men have that women don't (other than penises, prostates, testicles, chest hair, and an appreciation for Maxim Magazine). Sure, some women, mostly of Israeli, Italian, or Middle Eastern decent, have facial hair. They are, however, encouraged to get rid of it (by the way, I recommend waxing over bleaching any day - nobody wants to kiss a hairy lip, even if it is blond). And, no woman (except maybe some circus freaks or morbidly obese senior citizens) has facial hair to the extent that men do.

So, we cherish our facial hair. We embrace it. We experiment with it. I've had a mustache, a goatee, a vandyke, a soul patch, and mutton chops, and that was just last month. Facial hair allows us to assert our individuality and it allows us to look ridiculous. Those are two things men love.

To some, having facial hair defines them. What would ZZ Top be without their beards? What would Scott Ian be without his billy goatee? What would John Oates be without his mustache? No hippie worth his weight in weed would be caught without some sort of beard. Suburban dads who worship MMA fighters usually favor the close cut goatee. Mustaches are the staple of cops, cowboys, and queers.

If you're not a cop, a cowboy, or a queer, mustaches are funny (unless it's an ironic mustache which has been played out by hipsters from Williamsburg). Offering mustache rides is ALWAYS funny. Y'know what else is funny - guys that don't have any hair on their head that make up for it on their face. They look like they're upside down. I also enjoy laughing at guys who can't grow facial hair. They ARE less male. They're the same guys that don't have chest hair or an adam's apple. Sad, but also funny!

In addition to being the butt of endless jokes, facial hair can be very useful. It can cover up zits and moles and pock marks. In my humble opinion, Bill Murray should have as much facial hair as he can find. If one had a cleft lip as a child, facial hair can cover that up too, just like Stacy Keach. Strangely though, Joaquin Phoenix has chosen to let his cleft lip exist naked. Not a good move. Facial hair can also eliminate the need for such commonplace nuisances as face washing, nose hair trimming, and tanning.

Good facial hair is hard to come by. I once got into a fight for admiring a dude's facial hair at a bar. He thought I was clowning him. I wasn't. I admire lots of men for their facial hair: Kenny Rogers, Burt Reynolds, George Michael, Abe Lincoln, and even Adolf Hitler. The Hitler mustache is on its way back. Sure it's got some PR problems, but if you call it The Chaplin, you can rock that shit hard!

Good facial hair is also found on the non-famous. This guy is sporting the half beard. Nice! I'd like to popularize cheek polkadots or the underbeard. I'd also like to shave everything off, then grow it all back, dye it orange, and become Alf. Alf knew how to wear his facial hair. Some people don't.

A facial offender is a guy who wears his facial hair in such a wrong way that he should be stripped of the privilege of growing facial hair. Aging hipsters that sport the soul patch are facial offenders. Tools with Backstreet Beards (beards favored by The Backstreet Boys) are facial offenders.

The Amish are facial offenders. They have no style, so don't try to look like them. That means you, James Hettfield! Wearers of the business beard are facial offenders. If it looks good at work, it should be shaved. Anybody with a Todd Palin goatee is a facial offender. Tight goatees are to the nineties what mustaches are to the eighties. They're relics of a bygone era that should not be brought back until they can be ironic.

I, fortunately, am not a facial offender. Also fortunately, my wife likes me to have stubble at all times. Essentially, I'm always one step away from growing facial hair. How sweet is that? Now, I just have to get creative and one day, I may make it into The Facial Hair Society. Dare to dream!