"Christmas Letter 2002 "
All right, I know this is terribly late, but I have been terribly busy. A lame excuse I know, certainly not the best I can offer. How about this instead: I have been spending too much time on strippers and booze to have completed this letter in a timely fashion. The police confiscated my computer as part of a sting against illegal buffalo pornography. There was a fire. A flood. A stampede. A tragic zeppelin accident. My fingers were broken saving a busload of orphans, nuns, grandmothers, puppies and Shamu from an evil gang of Osama bin Laden worshipers.
Or how about this: I suck. I’m slow and lazy and procrastination is more of a lifestyle than a hobby for me, and subsequently I simply didn’t get this out in time for Christmas.
And after spending nearly $200 on Christmas cards last year, funny as they might have been, since they were almost certainly destined for everyone’s dumpster, I decided to handle this year’s Christmas responsibilities a little more ecologically and more importantly, economically.
I have been receiving lots of year-end wrap-up letters lately, Christmas greetings detailing the comings and goings of my more distant friends. I watched my mother finishing a similar letter over Thanksgiving. So I got to thinking…what fun would we have if The Mighty Jimbo substituted his own twisted slant on a Christmas letter for my mother’s more traditional and certainly more tame version? Ooo, ooo, ooo, hilarity would surely ensue.
Sadly, her letters all went out before I had the opportunity to modify them, but I figured I could still manage to offend most of the same people if I just sent out my own letter.
And with that in mind, lemme tell you what has been happening in the Parisi household as of late…
It’s been an eventful time in the mirrored, irrigated, silicone-enlarged and culturally parched realm of Disney’s Southern California Fantasy Land. Not that I have spent much time here. My job pretending to know something about computers and even more about science and convincing significantly more qualified albeit significantly more gullible people to purchase computers I know nothing about to do science I know even less about has kept me traveling virtually non stop for almost two years. In fact, Jimbo has spent roughly two months of 2002 breathing compressed air and munching on stale packets of peanuts at 35000 feet. After 98 individual flights this year and approximately 300,000 frequent flier miles, I haven’t been able to sleep in a horizontal position for months. And I’ve grown hopelessly addicted to honey roast.
Of course, all the security screenings have been good for my love life. Really. I am beginning to feel like Steve Perry with all the lovin’, touchin’ and squeezin’ I’ve had at the security counter in the airport. My ass has been patted more times than Emit Smiths. I’ve been felt up more than Madonna passed out at a fraternity party. Hell, it’s the most action I’ve seen in years.
Despite all the random if not terribly romantic interludes in all the airports of the world, I did manage to find the time for what was at least for a moment or two the most successful relationship of my not-so-young-any-longer life. Until she dumped me. Here’s a thought: Never tell a Canadian woman that you think hockey is a sport for drunken, Neanderthal sociopaths on skates, and if it weren’t for the fights, hockey would be about as entertaining as watching dumb people skate - back and fourth and back and fourth and back and fourth.
But until I let my mouth get in the way, I was commuting to Canada and my love life was pretty close to wonderful. Yes, Canada. I did have to go to another country to find someone willing to and able (read masochistic and/or gullible) to date the not so mighty one. Maybe Canadians don’t know any better. They do watch hockey after all. I would date more women locally, but to be honest, I haven’t been all that successful with love here in SoCal. The nervous twitch and uncontrollable sneezing I get from my allergy to silicone has made dating the native platinum people quite difficult. And as most of you know, silicone supplements are required for women to survive in the state of California.
I am not climbing as much as I used to. I had attempted to climb El Capitan in Yosemite in 2001 but decided after getting just a few hundred feet off the ground that this climbing stuff was in fact really, really damn hard. Despite the bloody fingernails, the sunburn, the inflamed lungs from the smoky air, and the aching shoulders from hauling 40 pounds of climbing gear, two ropes, a 90 pound haul bag and my own skinny Italian ass, I was planning to stick it out to the top. Well, that was until nature’s first call at dawn after a long, long day on the rock. I looked at my climbing partner and asked, “you want me to shit where?” as he handed me a plastic baggie from Albertson’s and a sealed tube of PVC. I decided to head back to terra firma that morning.
I continued to climb fairly often despite my failure on El Capitan until an unfortunate mishap in Utah a month or so later nearly ended my climbing days permanently. After driving eight hours to reach a small little crag in St George, I quickly scaled a fun little fifty-foot wall and then promptly landed on my noggin after foolishly unclipping from the rope on my way back down. Luckily I was within fifteen feet of terra far too firma before opting for the express route to the bottom. Thirty minutes later I was in a tiny emergency room in St George, I had eight stitches and a baseball sized knot on the back of my bruised skull, and at least a hundred people who felt compelled to comment “at least they didn’t have to shave your head” after hearing of my predicament.
Even that little brain bounce didn’t slow me down too terribly. However, Gary, my climbing partner, did. Gary has more parts breaking on him then an ‘87 Yugo used in the Trans-Sahara rally. In the last few years Gary has been through at least six surgeries – each one of which keeps him off the climbing wall for at a minimum of six weeks. Well, at least that’s the way it’s supposed to work. Gary, a full fledged rock hound, can’t seem to keep himself away from the rock and inevitably is pulling hard within hours of exiting the ER, subsequently tearing all the shiny new tendons the surgeon just attached. He’s beginning to remind me of the knight from Monty Python extolling “it’s just a flesh wound” as he tries to scramble up sheer rock faces with two broken ankles, two torn biceps, and a couple rotator cuffs that have more scar tissue than Pamela Anderson’s nipples. He’s been carved up worse than a jack-o-lantern in the hands of Stevie Wonder. The man has had more parts replaced than Frankenstein’s Monster. All he is missing is the bolts in his neck – although I’m pretty sure he has plenty of metal infused into his skeleton from his shoulders down. But despite his all too regular trips under the knife and the six months a year he seems to spend in a sling or on crutches, the bugger can still climb like a spider monkey on steroids.
I’ve managed to stay entertained despite my infrequent visits to the crag. My friend Todd and I did a little Carnival trip to Rio this year. Fortunately for us, the rumors about Brazilian Girls and their famous bathing suits are true. Unfortunately for us it’s not just the skinny girls who wear them. To be truthful, it’s not just the women who wear them either. Bleah.
Regardless, it was a good time. We actually participated in one of the costumed samba schools in the nationally televised parade through the Sambodromo. Yep, somewhere out there someone has video of The Mighty Jimbo in full carnival regalia, feathered headdress and miniskirt complete. That’s all I need: more kinder to fuel the ever-present rumors that Jimbo has switched sexual sides.
This rumor, at least one lovely Canadian lady can confirm, is false. Of course, isn’t that the same excuse every lonely high school freshman used when his buddies asked him if he got any action over summer vacation. “Uh, yeah. I got a girlfriend. But she lives in Canada.”
One of my friends, however, did jump out of the closet this year. “Boo! I’m gay.” No one was particularly surprised by his admission. The stack of International Male catalogs he kept beside his bed was a dead giveaway ten years ago.
We are still trying to convince a terminally single friend of mine that he just might be gay as well. Tidy, fashionable, good looking, and he owns three (count them, THREE) cats. All he needs is a rainbow sticker on his NSX and he’s ready. He however is having nothing of it.
Can’t see how going gay could be worse for him. He has had a string of bad dating luck reminiscent of lil’ ol’ me. I’ve coached him well. I’m like Yoda when it comes to mastering the art of avoiding romantic involvement -whether I like it or not. And he’s become a skilled apprentice. It’s like he’s trying to claim the title now that I have relinquished it. We all used to talk about our romantic misadventures. Anyone who had endured the longest romantic dry spell was said to be in the Gobi Desert. I had spent so much time in the Gobi I had sand in my….well, never mind. You get the idea. For the first time I’m the one who of our little and still shrinking crew of bachelors that isn’t complaining about the weather.
Although I remain single I’m feeling a bit like an endangered species. No one has tagged my ear just yet, but finding wingmen for my socio-sexual sorties into the nightclubs of the world is becoming increasingly difficult. In fact, so many of my friends have been hitched that my social circle has gone through more changes than Michael Jackson’s nose. After hitting the dreaded third decade on this rock most of my friends decided it was time to settle down and invest in that suburban nightmare most people call a life. I have been invited to somewhere around sixteen weddings since 2000. That’s right. Sixteen.
Oh, and all the people who jumped on the romantic hand grenade back in the 90s, they have been pumping out squirming little bundles of poop faster than Detroit can make the SUVs to haul all of them around. Ten children were born to my friends and family since 2000. None of them are mine as far as I know. No paternity tests have come back conclusive, so I’m out of trouble for the time being.
Two of those little turd factories belong to my immediate family. Sherri’s daughter Summer Anna has recently turned two and Gianna Lauren, my brother’s beautiful baby, is only six months old.
And although I hate to admit it, I love those girls so much it makes my head hurt. Summer was a little devil in a diaper when she was a baby – wouldn’t go near me if I looked like Barney the dinosaur covered in nipples. But now that she is a toddler she is just devastatingly adorable. She is my baby, and I would hurl myself into oncoming traffic is she only asked. She carried the teddy bear I bought for her around all Christmas morning, and I felt like I had just walked on the moon. I was thrilled mostly cause I haven’t an idea as to what kind of gifts to buy for little girls. I’m just clueless in the toy store and even worse when picking out clothes. So here’s a suggestion to anyone in my family planning on squeezing more little Parisi people out into the world: How about a boy for crissake? Three girls? Three? I can only spend so much time in Claire’s Boutique before people start asking questions.
I met the most recent addition to my family, Gianna, for the first time this week, and like my two other nieces I fell head over heels in love with her. She giggles every time she sees me. I seem to have that effect on many women, but most of the older ones don’t wet their pants when I tickle them.
It’s just disgusting how much I love those girls. It’s the best part of unclehood. All the love, and no diapers to change.
The rest of my family is doing well. My mother has become quite enamored with her new hobby of horseback riding. It’s been a good diversion from her full time job nagging her children. It’s relatively safe too - despite her rapidly advancing age. She was a little disappointed to find out that her beloved horse Elmers, whoops I mean Elvis, is 76 years old and has in fact been dead for at least six months. My father had him stuffed, and we haven’t told her yet because we figure she can’t get hurt while riding a dead horse. When she purchased her noble if ancient steed she was told he was no more than six or seven. I suppose the horse-sized Depends should have been the first sign that something was awry. My parents learned that a horse’s age is best determined by examining their teeth. When Elm…ah… Elvis spit out those dentures they looked new enough so my parents had no problem with the purchase. Perhaps they should have been more careful. Caveat Emptor. My father’s equine investments have not been terribly successful either. His horse Butch is so bow-backed the poor horse’s belly is chafed by cattle guards. My father actually has to squat to mount him.
The two of them have done significantly better with their automobile investments. My mother is still tooling around town in her little two-seat convertible – painted a lovely shade of Chiquita yellow. It’s a helluva car but considering my mother’s tolerance to loud noises and cold air, the top hasn’t come down since the salesman showed her how to use it. My father, not to be outdone, went out and purchased the fastest Mercedes ever made. He is finding great pleasure in proving to all those Texan cowboys in Ford F-350s that his car can go faster than theirs. He isn’t too worried about speeding tickets since the police officers drive those same pickups too. Besides, with the open container laws in Texas the local heat out in rural McKinney are usually too drunk to follow anyway. They just shout “slow down Yankee!” and toss half empty Bud Light bottles at him.
Speaking of McKinney, my parents left their home in Plano for something a little less ah, cosmopolitan out in their new neighborhood. They are so far out in the sticks they are into the leaves. Let’s put it this way, you have to pass two outlet malls on the highway to get to their house. I think it’s technically in Oklahoma, but my parents don’t mind. Fewer Texans there.
Which in many ways is reason enough to move.
So that about wraps up recent events in the life of The Mighty Jimbo. I hope I haven’t burned too many bridges or chafed too many hides with this little digital diatribe. Remember, the tongue is always planted firmly in cheek - in whose cheek remains to be determined. This in my opinion is infinitely better than planting the nose in rear end.
Regardless, I hope 2003 brings me lots of adventures for you to laugh at and uncovers plenty of dirt for me to mock in next year’s wrap up. Smile lots, see the world with young eyes, and know that despite how it seems, it is just terrible how much I love all of you.
