Former DINK Downs Family Beer, Yields Pickaxe

February 23, 2011

Vogel Family Lounge, Ft. Collins, Colo.

3 p.m. to 9 p.m.

Notable Matter: My outfit. Scroll down.

Yep, I’m among the throng of adult kids moving back in with mom and dad. People who use words like mental health impairment (bi-polar nut) and custodial artist (janitor) call people like me the “Boomerang Generation,” which is the politically correct term for” loser.”

I don’t mind. My roommates are affable, they cater to my many needs and they like to drink.

Driven to Drink

Even though I live across the street from a barn and the air smells like horseshit, I think I’m cosmopolitan because I’m bilingual. However, you’d have to be an idiot to live in Colorado and not to pick up some Spanish. (I’m sorry, I meant mentally challenged.)

Unlike many in lazy individuals that are a part of the Boomerang Generation, I pay rent. I am an indentured servant.

My parents buy foreclosed houses, fix them up and sell them. A few days a week, I drive an old Ford (think Beverly Hillbillies) to wherever they’re working and spend quality time with paintbrushes, paint scrapers, shovels and caulk.

My work outfits are fantastic. Picture it. Cheap gray pants, seam on left leg sitting mid-calf, pit-stained long sleeve sorority shirt underneath dad’s old Broncos sweatshirt and ghetto, paint covered company jacket, work gloves and old school LIVESTRONG Nikes.

Yesterday I obliterated my shin with a Pickaxe and when I asked my brother if I could help him landscape he said:

“Yes, but could you please wipe off that white paint under your nose so it doesn’t look like you’ve been blowing lines all morning?”

No problem. I picked up a shovel, asked him how I could even out the oblique workout.

“Shovel from the right and then the left.”

Yeah right.


At 8 a.m. I laid out my bar plan. There’s a Mexican bar close to my house known for well, Mexicans, and bikers. Thanks to manual labor, I’ve perfected my dive bar look. I was so excited to roll into this bar after work but it was closed. What kind of dive bar doesn’t open until after 4 p.m.?

I was traumatized. I did not want to go home, shower, drive around and find a new spot. Thanks to my wonderful roommates, I didn’t have to. The roomies left a box of canned Tecate behind the garage door. Perfecto.

Refrigerated the box, brought a few cans to the front porch, took off my socks, made a face at the dirt jammed between my toes, turned my face to the sun and created my own white trash dive bar.

Without people to talk to or atmosphere to judge, I had no choice but to think.

Thoughts from the Vogel Family Lounge:

  1. Whatever happened to email chain letters? (Question later answered: Facebook)
  2. Why don’t we collect methane gas from cemeteries? Stick some pipes through the ground, link them through coffins, harvest the gas and light a few lamps?
  3. Who is Justin Beiber and why do people care about him?
  4. Should I take offense to my mom’s most recent out of the blue suggestion? Direct quote: “You should travel with condoms.”
  5. Why are the aps on my iPhone doing the jitterbug? I hate this phone.

4 Responses to “Former DINK Downs Family Beer, Yields Pickaxe”

  1. christine said

    This episode created a great picture in my head.

  2. Mom said

    Out of the blue comment? No. Out of context? Yes! You’ll be hearing from my attorney & I’m cutting off the flow of liquor to you-makes you tell tall tales! Love ya, Misrepresented mama

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