I know I’ve been slackin.  In my defense.  I’m a slacker.  That being said, some highlights from the last month.   

Christmas

I have to say, Holiday redux ’82 went off with nary a hitch.  It was admittedly creepy to listen to Bob and Karen casually discuss the merits of his seafood casserole in the same room (“You have to send me the recipe!”), knowing the history between the two.  I still find it hard to fathom.  These people spent 25 years together living under the same roof, had three children, a disastrous divorce of War of the Roses proportions, and still managed to peacefully coexist together in the same apartment for four days.  I guess after a certain amount of time passes, you get too emotionally removed to care about the past anymore? 

And of course Bennett was the primary factor behind it all.  As a disclaimer to what follows, I’m fully aware that talking about the life altering experience of children is probably to blogging/life-retrospectives what airplane food and white-men-can’t dance routines are to comedy (are ya ears ringin’ Sinbad?), but I still gotta toss in my two cents.  Sorry.  So first off,  Lord Bennett rules.  I guess it was a prerequisite that I was going to fall in love with my nephew, but…he’s so cool.  My favorite moment of the vacation was laying on the couch, watching the Pats-Jets game, while Bennett slept on my chest for about three hours.  And it didn’t matter what he did when I was holding him, I was sold the whole way.  A typical sequence would involve me picking him up, him making little half-disinterested giggling noises while simultaneously emptying his drawers in my lap with nothing save for an elf-like candy-cane jumper suit separating me from his feces, with a finale of projectile vomiting on my shoulder.  He’s essentially the physical embodiment of my dating experiences in NYC, yet I could’ve cared less.  This was my little guy.    

And now I finally understand the rationale behind what I consider to be parenting mistake number 101: not giving enough rope to your child when he/she is a teenager.  It didn’t strike me until this weekend how much you truly invest in a child.  For chirssakes my sister has to whip out her breasts every three hours to feed this little munchkin.  I had no idea they ate nearly this much.  And on a more disturbing note, after this weekend my sister’s boobies launched themselves into my top 5 “titties that I’ve seen the most in my lifetime” list.  Not good times.  But somewhat related:

The Top 5 Most Memorable Pair of Breasts I’ve Seen In My Lifetime  (with names spelled sdrawkcab to thrawrt any potential future Googling activity).  No particular order. 

1. rolyaT ylimE.  Have to give props to first pair I ever saw/felt.  I was an ambitious young 16 year-old.  And Emily’s solid B’s were a good inauguration.  Nothing much more to say here, but I just remember fumbling around with them like a complete rookie.  Nipples?  Erogenous zones?  What are those?  I’m touchin’ boobies!!!
2. The work girl.  Memorable because they’re the first surgically enhanced pair that I’ve had more than one night’s experience with.  As they say, you can take the girl out of California…but you can’t take the silicone implants out of the California Girl.  And hypothetically I never thought that I’d want them to.  But the plastic just makes shit awkward.  The first time we hit it, she pulled off her shirt and made a self-conscious announcement that I was about to proceed into un-natural terrority.  And I had to play the oblivious, “Really?”  angle and pretend like I didn’t know the difference between natural snack trays and two Petoskey Stones.  On the flipside, whenever there’s a lull in conversation I take full liberty to bust out with questions like “How did you decide what size you wanted?” and “How did you show the surgeon exactly what you were looking for?  Did you cup your hands?”  And yes, we’re still kind of together.  She’s an emotional basketcase, but I’ve taken it for granted at this point that all women are like onions.  As you get to know them better, you gradually pull apart the white layers of sanity until you reach that insane core that just makes you start to cry.   
3. nosnitraM yesdniL.  Without a doubt in my Top 2 natural pairs ever.  And I think the only time that I ever legitimately mistook breasts for pillows during a groggy, sleepless night.  They were that comfortable to lay my head into. 
4. Amy.  Get’s a special award for not only making the list with her name written uncoded, but also because I’ve never officially touched them before.  But Amy’s breasts are like the Statue of Liberty.  You spend the better part of your 20s living in the same vicinity, catch a glimpse every now and then, but never get the chance to climb the long winding stairway to the top. 
5. nietsknalB annalA.   Had to get some Jewish representation on this list for the diversity factor.  Equal opportunity exploitation up in this motherfucker.  And I also didn’t want to completely neglect my 2001-2003 era.  Alanna’s breasts were the only pair that I ever recall doing manual labor for.  Installing an air conditioner to be exact.       

Movies

With the extra free time I’ve had lately, I’ve rediscovered my love of cinema and have managed to see a good 4-5 movies over the last month that have made quite an impression on me. 

-          Brokeback Mountain:  Fantastic flic.  Not only did it spawn my favorite catch phrase of January (“I wish I knew how to quit you!!!), but I completely was able to overlook all the gay sex because my jaw was fully widened from start to finish from Heath Ledger’s performance.  I mean, this is the guy that did a frickin’ Knight’s Tale.  The only thing I could think about the entire movie was , This guy is absolutely just pulling this out of his ass…I’d say no pun intended, but you know me better than that. 

-          Match Point.  Without a doubt the closest I’ve ever come to pulling a Paul Reubens in a movie theatre.  Scarlett Johansson getting rubbed with baby oil?  At long last I was finally able to answer the question, “What’s it like to be sober and have an uninterrupted erection for 132 minutes?”   And the story was pretty solid too.  Very creatively written way to pull off a double murder.  Oh…spolier by the way.   

Vegas

I go to this godforsaken place about twice a year and always relearn the same 5 lessons:

-          I’m a horrendous gambler.  

-          I can’t find it in myself to hit on trashy club chicks anymore.

-          Spending 36 straight hours without going outside really clarifies how much of a loser you are. 

-          Deep fried foods cure all ails.    

-          All of this is worth it for the general ball-busting, and comedic routines you develop with your crew at blackjack tables.  You can’t put a price on the immaculate beauty of reenacting an imagined dialogue of Flavor Flav being late for a VH-1 production meeting with your homiez:

VH-1 guy:  (Looking disgustedly at watch)  Ok, Flavor.  Your tardiness is obviously becoming an issue here.  The meeting was to start promptly at noon, and here you are rolling in at 1:45pm.  What do you have to say for yourself? 

Flavor:  Flavoooor Flaaaaav!!!  Yo, sorry about that G.  I was jus’ commiserating with my bed dis morning and I lost track of the time holmes.  I promise it won’t happen again. 

VH-1 guy:  Well, this is the third time this month.  And Flavor.  Flavor.  Flavor.  You lost track of the time?  You lost track of the fucking time ?!?  YOU HAVE A 14-INCH DIAMETER CLOCK HANGING FROM YOUR NECK!

Flavor:  Yo G, ya know how the Flav rolls.  I wasn’t lookin’ at no mirror G.  Didn’t see that the hands had moved they selves to the noon position yo.

And then there’s the little catch phrases that have their origins rooted from someplace so innocuous, that still somehow work their way into your daily vernacular.  For the time being “Aztecs, What! What!”  is that phrase.  Originated from the Friendster profile of some blonde bimbo that I unsuccessfully contacted some months back.  It happened to be how she chose to describe her choice of higher education venues (ummm...San Diego State).  But it’s since transformed into a universal declaration of excitement.  AZTECS, WHAT, WHAT!     

It’s that time of year again.  That special time of year where Christians curiously ask, “What the fuck are Hanukkah and Kwanzaa anyway?”  Jews reply, “Why do my staff reporters care?”  And blacks continue to tirelessly push legislation to have it renamed Kwizzle.  Ho, dreidle, gangsta. 

But most importantly, in 7 short days I’ll be seeing my sweet little Bennett for the first time.  And I’m not just excited about the fact that he’s my first nephew.  Whatever.  I’m excited because he’s a magic baby.  Or as bevel’s husband accurately put it, he’s almost like a Christ figure.  Too much praise for a three-week old you may say?  Well Bennett’s done something that sacred vows, hormones, or the subtle momentum of routine could never accomplish.  He’ll be bringing Bob and Karen under the same roof for Christmas this year for the first time in my life*.  It’s amazing that 20 years of hostility and resentment can get brushed aside so that my parents can get maximum time with their first grandchild.  You hear those stories about couples having children to keep their marriage/relationship together right?  It would be so much more efficient if they just straight up had grandchildren instead.  What the fuck. 

So it will be a holiday season of many firsts for me.  My first ever Christmas outside of Saginaw.  My first Christmas and Christmas Eve under the same roof (Days Inn’s roof to be exact).  And my first Christmas in a second rate metropolitan area of plaid-clad flannel stunads and brisk Lake Michigan air.  But most importantly, my family will finally be………..whole again. 

In fact, I picture Bob and Karen slurping back too much (if you live on the Upper East Side, read:  “copious amounts”)  of my sister’s wicked egg nog (she makes it with lighter fluid) some night and having a conversation something like this:

Bob  Remember that one time when I sued you and we were in court for like, two years for custody of Skaler?  You were one feisty bitch back then!

Karen: Ha!  Oh yeah.  And you were all, “Karen’s an unfit parent and never spends anytime at home”.  And I was all, ”Fuck you Bob.”  And the judge was all,  “Order in the court” 

Well maybe if I could’ve gotten more alimony off your sorry ass I wouldn’tve had to work so damn much!  Speaking of work, how’s that whole GM retirement thing going these days anyway, huh, huh, huh?  Their bonds were downgraded to B recently right?  Nice.   Still rates better than your performance in the sack.  Do you still scream ‘Barry Goldwater’ right before you discharge?

Bob:  And remember that one fight we had in the living room when my anger boiled out of control and I whipped your grandmother’s antique porcelain vase against the mantle?   

Karen:  Yeah… that was irreplaceable.  More nog?      

Seriously, what’s it like to even have married parents?  It doesn’t seem natural to me (warning: in-opaque commentary of Skaler’s views on relationships). It reminds me of that old joke about appreciating the sanctity of your wedding night because you only get 3-4 chances to celebrate it in your life.  The natural course of marriage seems to be:

1. Have a big party where you invite your crew, wear a tux, and rank your best friends on a 1 to 5 scale and make them wear tuxedos too.
2. Forfeit two months of salary (although I hear it’s supposed to be three now?  What the fuck) and throw some ice on your lady’s finger. 
3. Make babies.  Accidentally. 
4. Become a slave to a routine of morning papers, undercooked breakfast, and uninteresting sexual intercourse.
5. With the same person.  Forever.
6. Oh fuck.  I’m not done growing and discovering myself yet.
7. Yeah?  You don’t like that?  Well this is who you married.  Get used to it!!!
8. Oh.  Not enough excitement?  I’ll show you some excitement buster. 
9. The corvette?  Oh, it’s nothing.  Just wanted something… a little racier. 
10. YOU DON’T KNOW ME!!!!
11. Why should you get half when you only gave me 12.5%?

I just don’t get how you come to a conclusion like: 

“That’s it.  I’m done.  You are without a doubt the best person I can spend the rest of my life with.”

I’ll constantly be seeking upgrade.  And unsurprisingly, I’ll constantly be single.  As far as I’m concerned, my parents are two random people that knocked it out one magical night, labored over my well-being for 22 years, and whom I owe a great debt of gratitude to being the person I am today.  But that’s really it.  I’ve learned from their follies and wastes of free time. 

But back to meeeee.  The work chica situation is still… chill.  I didn’t really think it could get any more low-maintenance than my beloved Anais, but I have a new contender.  My main reservation (red thought… not feather) is that she’s currently rating a perfect 10 out of 10 on the Wonder Bread sponsored plain-toast scale.  Everything else Is great.  I guess.

Shall I finish this with an overall retrospective on 2005 since it’s nearing year-end?  Worst.  Year.  Ever.  At least since ’91.  There were times in the early months that I wanted to hang myself with multiple velcro-intertwined Teva straps from my fifth floor fire escape grate.  I think I hid it fairly well, but I was absolutely miserable for the better part of January-August.  But the light has started to reshine over the last few months.  Work hours more stable, 200 channels on cable, and beef bits in my gravy on the ladle.

I now own porn for the first time in my life.  I now also realize that I’m rambling.  My sleazebag, lascivious friend in the adult entertainment industry crashed at my pad last weekend.   And instead of bestowing me with the standard liter of Jamesons as a thank-you housewarming gift, I now own a copy of Internal Discharge Part II.  Now I put porn in the same department that I do marijuana.  I never seek it out.  But if it’s around…sure, I’ll indulge.  I tore off the cellophane and watched the feature knowing full well that I’d ruin whatever plot intricacies and lead ups were contained within Internal Discharge Part I, but I think I was still able to catch on fairly quickly.  Based on the intro, Part I must have ended with the long drawn out courtship of a young lass culminating with an agonizing decision between two strapping young lads of whom she just couldn’t decide between.  So she said fuck it.  One in the bush and one in the tush.  And orgasms for all.      

Honestly, turned the shit off after about 10 minutes and threw on NY1 to get the latest news on the subway strike.  Is that the surest sign that you’re over the hill?  You shun porn for transit news? 

I’m tired.  Tired of suckas all up in my grill when I’m just tryin’ to get a Rally burger.       

 --------------------

 *life = the portion of your life that you have memories of.  Typically 7 years and up. 

Less than 24 hours ago, I found myself atop a snow covered, three-story shale pile in the backwoods of the Burrowhead plantation at 4 in the morning drinking a Busch Light on the mountaintop with Dean, Teddy and Gus in 20 degree weather.  Kinda a perfect topper to a high school reunion weekend where my primary objective was to relive past pleasures with complete disregard for common sense or utility.  Sliding back down on the ass of my Replay jeans while cutting my hands on various thorned trees that I futiley grabbed on to for stability was the perfect ending.  The reunion itself was pretty mundane and standard.  We were stuck with a DJ that apparently misread the neon sign outdoors and mistook us for the class of 2002 as he took us through hits from Usher, Nelly and Aaliyah.  Not that I don’t love that shit, but this was the one night that I wanted to hear Nirvana, The Offspring and Sheryl Crow to take my ass back to ‘95. 

I highly suggest that everyone attend their 10-year high school reunion, but if anyone just wants the Cliff Notes version so that they can skip their own, I present what I imagine is a universal summary of …

The 7 people you meet at your 10-year high school reunion (with all apologies to Mitch Albom)

1. The “You used to diss me, now you wanna kiss me” girl.  I’ve discussed this phenomenon before.  Hell, they even devote entire episodes of the Tyra Banks show to it.  Between the ages of 18 and 28, Plain Jane transforms into Foxy Roxy and has the date of the reunion circled in thick red marker on her calendar months ahead of time so she can strut her stuff and show all the fellas just what they were missing out on by not giving her the time of day in American History class.  She went from the Beast of Biology, to the Belle of the Ball.  The Porker of Physics, to the Princess of the Palisades.  The Gargoyle of Gym to the Gem of the Garden.  Ok, I’ll stop.        
2. The shellshocked husband of the class whore.  Shellshocked because he can’t quite figure out why everyone’s giving him sympathetic looks all night like he just lost his entire family in a tragic blimp accident.  He loves his widdle sunshine, and he’s the only one in the room who has no idea what kind of scandalous past she had.  You almost want to put the poor bastard out of his misery and pass him a 700 word essay titled, “Penises in this banquet hall that your wife was acquainted with before she was of voting age.”  It’s ok though buddy.  I’m sure that you’re special.  Not a desperation/timing thing at all.    
3. The “I’ve changed, and I’ll show them just how much with my prominently displayed tattoos” girl.  This one does everything short of walking around all night with a sign around her neck that says “I lost all my inhibitions the moment I left the tyranny of my overly protective Christian family”.  That’s a mad long statement for a placard though.  So she sticks with the tats.  And displays them with a low-cut halter top.  This girl inevitably ends up hooking up with the….
4. Former high-school jock that’s since racked up 3 chins, 4 D.U.I.s and 5 court-mandated psychiatric evaluations.  Think of him as Al Bundy, minus the fire haired wife, and with access to all the mind-altering substances that made the conflict-free 90s such a fantastic decade to grow old in.  Painfully awkward to hold a conversation with, still humping girl’s legs like it’s ’99, and knocking over convention center furniture like bowling pins near open-bar closing time.                
5. The mildly mentally challenged guy that everyone used to rip on that turned into a fantastic human being.  This is the guy that just put together a good life for himself and makes you feel like complete shit for all the nuclear wedgies, stealing lunches and other assorted tomfoolery that you put him through back in the day.  The dude at my table that fit this profile did his time in the armed forces, works for a reputable family-owned company in my hometown, and still finds time on the side to be a volunteer fireman.  Seriously fucking broke my heart and made me feel about 13 inches tall.   
6. That black dude.  Even before the reunion starts, he’s already secured the awards for best dressed, best dancer, and most likely to get awkward off-to-the-side back-handed complimentary commentary from other crackas like, “Did you talk to Quevis?  He’s so cool and seems like he’s got his shit together!”  It’s like everyone expected him to walk in with an Uzi and a 40 and start dropping caps in people’s asses, and anything less is a reunion bonus and testament to good schooling.  Three cheers for the soft racism of the North.       
7. The materialistic asshole who moved to NYC, looks down on…basically everyone, and writes a blog ripping on people who aren’t like him.  Keep an eye out for this guy.  Chances are that he’ll be ridiculously good looking.       

Hell, even if you shit on your roots, you’re still providing much needed fertilizer for that gangly stump to someday blossom into a thick, burgeoning redwood.  That’s my story and I’m sticking with it.  

Just got done watching the latest My Name Is Earl.  The “club burning” scene from this episode, has to be the funniest minute of television I’ve seen this decade.  But anyway, you don’t come here for television show reviews, you come here for…

First date stories.  Had one yesterday - and even though it was just one - I just know in my heart that this is the kinda girl I’m gonna see every day, will always be close to, and see a bright future full of endless mornings having coffee and reading the Wall Street Journal together.  Either the Skaler turned into a hopeless romantic overnight…or is dating a co-worker.  

The inevitability of me dating a colleague was inevitable.  But now that I realize all the side benefits that come with it, I can’t believe I haven’t done this all my life.  I can see why it’s so easy for people to end up together in the workplace.  I’ve basically now been able to fill the gaping hole that’s been missing from my dating life all these years.  Being able to mesh it with my fantasy of being a CIA double agent.  Not that I was dropping caps in people’s asses when I was out on Tuesday (still strictly a solo weekend activity), but attempting to be covert about everything lends a certain sense of artificial excitement to the proceedings.  Planning staggered exits, e-mailing each other with just a sliver of a window open in case someone’s over your shoulder, and not saying a word to each other when you pass by in the office – knowing full well that you’re having an intimate gathering later the same evening.  Good stuff.  My company is just a bully and cafeteria short of being a middle school, so these types of precautions are completely necessary to stay out of the weekly newsletter.        

And she’s just completely against Skaler NYC type.  She’s actually nice and….sweet.     It’s kinda throwing me off a little bit.  Even stranger, I find myself reacting the same way.  I’ve used so many fucking emoticons in my e-mails over the last week that my right parand key has worn to a nub.  And most importantly – since she’s only lived here for 1 year, all of it in an apartment with her ex-boyfriend save the last 2 weeks - I can confidently say with 32% certainty that she’s never slept with zulu.  Big bonus.    

Whenever I’m getting to know someone new in my life, it’s always interesting to see in retrospect which one of my 9 persona slices I happened  (or felt most comfortable) to throw out first as “Skaler”.  My usual standard?  My funny, derisive side of course.  And it’s always gotten me the most mileage.  But I’ve been going purely heart with this one.  It’s a new and interesting experience.  I think the last thing she would ever call me would be “funny”.  And I can’t quite figure out why I’m not coming with my goofy side.  Or even more remarkably, that the lack of it is getting me somewhere.  The last adjective I would ever apply to myself is “self-conscious”, but at the same time I’m always fully conscious of the first impression I’m giving off.  I guess it’s just you want someone to immediately know all of your sides.  And be able to be as familiar with all of them as your closest friends are - right off the bat.  To use a baseball analogy, it was like I used the knuckle ball and slider the whole night – and I have a decent knuckler and slider – but I just didn’t have the right opportunity to use the curveball that night.  And I have such a great curveball.  But the situation just didn’t call for it.