It was a rare occasion in one respect, but a dubious one at that. The Soothsayer agreed to join me for fried spaghetti during mid-day, and it was my responsibility to bring the moonshine. It was surprisingly easy to smuggle in, and there it sat next to the bottle of Heinz 57.
Soothsayer finally arrived and took an additional moment to find my table. Not only was he lacking focus, his skin tone suggested he was low on drink.
"I thought we agreed on the honor system. You know they don't believe me when I walk in with the cymbal case. The host should be looking at you."
I could see right through him; he was trying to delay from discussing the real reason for this meeting: society gambling. I wanted to get an agreement from him before any money was exchanged.
"Wait," the Soothsayer protested "who wanted to meet this way? You or me?"
I had to lay down the truth to a man who was in denial for a reason beyond me. "You dunce, we need to agree on this. No one's been able to find you, and when they do, you remind all of an Emu in heat. Your only admittance was that you stole my empty Bayer bottle and stepped on it. You're as unresponsive as Steve Simpson. And now you want me to define the rules AGAIN?"
Sheepishly he unhanded the bottle of Early Times and mumbled something while taking a rip at a slice of bread. "First," I said, "you and I will gamble evenly and constantly on everything we see in society. And this will be for large amounts of money, firewood, alcohol, or all three."
The Soothsayer then set down his fork, and looked to his left. "You are not king of the salad bar anymore. And this is a game in which I shall humiliate you." Sadly, his visor slid backwards from his head as he said this, creating a hearty laugh from all who viewed it. I saw my chance, and exclaimed. "Out the window! The Acura. $150 he turns into the parking lot." Without looking the Soothsayer held up a ticket from a Jean, Nevada casino.
"South siders, World Series. I fucking told you, and you have the brain capacity of a brillo pad."
The Acura then turned, and cut into the parking lot. I received not a glance, smile, or scowl from the Soothsayer, but a small envelope.
"This will more than make up for it. Oh, and try that Apple Crisp."
You think I'm going to follow his suggestions for food, if even in season? Hell no, society gambling is on, and there is no overtime, no halftime, and no end of deal-making-possibilities. Back to heat city...
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Thursday, October 13, 2005
The Vikes are on the Move!
Now, if you ask a guy like me, there's nothing wrong with having...ah, a certain kind of party on a boat. I will neither confirm or deny if I've ever been involved in one. But when things go too far, and you're in the public eye, it can be big trouble. And when you're a team that's perfected fucking up, it's in your nature to drill yourself further into the ground until you hit layers of clay. Holy Mack! This Viking group sure is on a roll with this stuff. But despite the title of this entry, focusing on Denny Green's Jazz Fight Song for the team, we'll aim at the '80s.
Tommy Kramer sure liked to throw the ball. And once the Queens lost any real running back, he threw more. Now, if you've ever seen him throw you know that spirals aren't really his thing. Just get it to the receiver (or near him) as soon as possible, because you're about to get a helmet in the back. How a ball can vertically be thrown 20 yards defies time and space; don't ask me. But then again, I'm wowed by fish tanks so what do I know?
The word on the street back in '81-'82 was that Tommy was spending too much time on the 494 strip (back when you could). It sounds pretty swanky to me, and I don't see the problem. Neither did Tommy, until he went to rehab here in Orange, yet didn't tell anyone. Only a handful of the team knew, but not his wife or his agent. The apex of this includes a night in southwest Bloomington, and Tommy trying to walk a straight line for the cops...with no pants. Despite the DWIs, the team STILL hung on to him through the end of the decade before dumping him to New Orleans. I guess that's loyalty.
Is it the same loyalty that followed the team through mishandling of cocaine problems in the mid-80s? Was it the DWI's where players seemed only able to drive south, and at high speeds? Was it the player who was a registered sex offender, and the others arrested for sexual assault? When people think of rough, hellraising teams, the Raiders (any year) and the '85 Bears come to mind. Correct me if I'm wrong, Sandy, but these were not problems for said teams - especially for the Raiders: this lifestyle was a solution. You know who is the only member of the '85 Bears to get a DWI that season? DITKA. That's right.
Sure, this will blow over. Off season arrives, phony optimism installed. A few years from now (or months) something new will come up. And the fans, instead of telling this team they aren't going to buy tickets until they get it in fucking gear...well, they pass the box of donuts, fart, and wash those purple Zubaz one more time. Folks, this is a team this town deserves.
Tommy Kramer sure liked to throw the ball. And once the Queens lost any real running back, he threw more. Now, if you've ever seen him throw you know that spirals aren't really his thing. Just get it to the receiver (or near him) as soon as possible, because you're about to get a helmet in the back. How a ball can vertically be thrown 20 yards defies time and space; don't ask me. But then again, I'm wowed by fish tanks so what do I know?
The word on the street back in '81-'82 was that Tommy was spending too much time on the 494 strip (back when you could). It sounds pretty swanky to me, and I don't see the problem. Neither did Tommy, until he went to rehab here in Orange, yet didn't tell anyone. Only a handful of the team knew, but not his wife or his agent. The apex of this includes a night in southwest Bloomington, and Tommy trying to walk a straight line for the cops...with no pants. Despite the DWIs, the team STILL hung on to him through the end of the decade before dumping him to New Orleans. I guess that's loyalty.
Is it the same loyalty that followed the team through mishandling of cocaine problems in the mid-80s? Was it the DWI's where players seemed only able to drive south, and at high speeds? Was it the player who was a registered sex offender, and the others arrested for sexual assault? When people think of rough, hellraising teams, the Raiders (any year) and the '85 Bears come to mind. Correct me if I'm wrong, Sandy, but these were not problems for said teams - especially for the Raiders: this lifestyle was a solution. You know who is the only member of the '85 Bears to get a DWI that season? DITKA. That's right.
Sure, this will blow over. Off season arrives, phony optimism installed. A few years from now (or months) something new will come up. And the fans, instead of telling this team they aren't going to buy tickets until they get it in fucking gear...well, they pass the box of donuts, fart, and wash those purple Zubaz one more time. Folks, this is a team this town deserves.
Friday, October 07, 2005
The Long White Nightmare
Yeah, look at the tears. Just a runnin' down my face like some twisted Petty song. You may get your bloody noses (and, let's face it, most of them won't have a goddamned thing to do with the humidity), but I have to start wearing goddamned pants.
Pants. Did you hear me?
It creeps in slow, that understanding. It doesn't grip you at all, more just like an everlasting hum in the base of your brain. The cold numbs the rest. We pretend it doesn't exist. It does. We pretend to enjoy it. We don't. We make up all manner of colloquialisms to explain and give depth to its nature. It has no nature. A wiser man than myself once said "The dead know only one thing. It is better to be alive". Well, the cold know only one thing....
But we joke about it. We make it our own. "Hands off, Boston! This cold is much worse than yours! Na na na!" Like the first step for the Quitters, we admit we are powerless against it, but yet we internalize some bullshit machismo about our fear of it. At the end of the day, all it really means is lower resale value on cars, and less time for deals.
See, the thing is that looking at the Long White Nightmare as anything other than a huge pain in the sack is illogical. It reeks of ignorance. If you want to have a discussion about living in different areas of the world, that's fine. We can discuss the goods and the bads of each and every zipcode all across this hell-damned land. But what is it about this area that refuses to allow people to admit that this is just horseshit? Everyone wants to throw things like "It makes me appreciate the seasons more". I am going to go home tonight and root through my toolshed, and try like Jesus Christ to locate a tool by which to measure my "appreciation". I will bet you one million pesos that I do not find it. "I've got great memories of playing in snow when I was a kid on christmas" You weren't driving a shit-box with no heat then, were you? Parents gave you love and support, not like the cruel modern world, which would just as soon enlist your ass on a one-way rocket to Democracyland or charge you through the face to heat your fucking bungalow than tell you it's all going to be alright. Welcome to Dick Cheney's America.
And it's great to live here, and it's great to live other places, and things make sense and sometimes you go back in to a Hardee's to scream at the 16 year old behind the register because that Dr. Pepper was diet. But let's just be realistic about this thing... there is no escape. We can hide (don't worry, it's natural), we can do our best to combat the feeling of helplessness, but eventually, we all have to walk every one of the 12 steps.
And it's going to be ok. Let's just start by fucking admitting it.
If you need help, remember this simple equation:
Chief + Pants = Not Good
Pants. Did you hear me?
It creeps in slow, that understanding. It doesn't grip you at all, more just like an everlasting hum in the base of your brain. The cold numbs the rest. We pretend it doesn't exist. It does. We pretend to enjoy it. We don't. We make up all manner of colloquialisms to explain and give depth to its nature. It has no nature. A wiser man than myself once said "The dead know only one thing. It is better to be alive". Well, the cold know only one thing....
But we joke about it. We make it our own. "Hands off, Boston! This cold is much worse than yours! Na na na!" Like the first step for the Quitters, we admit we are powerless against it, but yet we internalize some bullshit machismo about our fear of it. At the end of the day, all it really means is lower resale value on cars, and less time for deals.
See, the thing is that looking at the Long White Nightmare as anything other than a huge pain in the sack is illogical. It reeks of ignorance. If you want to have a discussion about living in different areas of the world, that's fine. We can discuss the goods and the bads of each and every zipcode all across this hell-damned land. But what is it about this area that refuses to allow people to admit that this is just horseshit? Everyone wants to throw things like "It makes me appreciate the seasons more". I am going to go home tonight and root through my toolshed, and try like Jesus Christ to locate a tool by which to measure my "appreciation". I will bet you one million pesos that I do not find it. "I've got great memories of playing in snow when I was a kid on christmas" You weren't driving a shit-box with no heat then, were you? Parents gave you love and support, not like the cruel modern world, which would just as soon enlist your ass on a one-way rocket to Democracyland or charge you through the face to heat your fucking bungalow than tell you it's all going to be alright. Welcome to Dick Cheney's America.
And it's great to live here, and it's great to live other places, and things make sense and sometimes you go back in to a Hardee's to scream at the 16 year old behind the register because that Dr. Pepper was diet. But let's just be realistic about this thing... there is no escape. We can hide (don't worry, it's natural), we can do our best to combat the feeling of helplessness, but eventually, we all have to walk every one of the 12 steps.
And it's going to be ok. Let's just start by fucking admitting it.
If you need help, remember this simple equation:
Chief + Pants = Not Good
Here come those Santa Ana winds again
Steely Dan sang it. For the past week I have lived it. To say it hasn't hit even the most casual freak is ignoring the fierce breath of Mama Earth. 5-10% humidity be damned. Physical activity was considered futile due to the cotton-mouth daze I was subjected to tolerate. Knowing this (after becoming a victim of it), I needed an evening to take stock of where we stand.
Did I break my nose again? Is that's what has happened? Am I going to look like someone from the "B" line of the St. Louis Blues? Or is it these winds? It's so dry up there, powder turns to paste. Some people get upset when those things happen. When someone coughs and things go elsewhere...you're driving, and you have to put out a fire with a bottle of Heineken. We're going to have to stick to Jimmy Beam. He'll make it work. But it'll be a duo, swimming buddy - there's no fiesta this weekend. Nature is having none of it.
You can call me Howard Beale. We're a week away from a network, and the skeptics to well wishers all have their own feelings on Walt's empire. Look, I had people telling me they were buying a certain Japanese brand because I worked here. I'm never going to see Monsters, Inc. Ever. So, with that understood, let's try to change things. In the words of Zappa, "I can fix it, but I need to get inside."
Ay, the cargo just arrived. The pasta exploded in this box...its authenticity is already in question. I've got this stuff all over; it's ruined the T shit. I'm not even touching the cap or golf balls.
Let's toss that ball around, get some air before we turn to sand.
Did I break my nose again? Is that's what has happened? Am I going to look like someone from the "B" line of the St. Louis Blues? Or is it these winds? It's so dry up there, powder turns to paste. Some people get upset when those things happen. When someone coughs and things go elsewhere...you're driving, and you have to put out a fire with a bottle of Heineken. We're going to have to stick to Jimmy Beam. He'll make it work. But it'll be a duo, swimming buddy - there's no fiesta this weekend. Nature is having none of it.
You can call me Howard Beale. We're a week away from a network, and the skeptics to well wishers all have their own feelings on Walt's empire. Look, I had people telling me they were buying a certain Japanese brand because I worked here. I'm never going to see Monsters, Inc. Ever. So, with that understood, let's try to change things. In the words of Zappa, "I can fix it, but I need to get inside."
Ay, the cargo just arrived. The pasta exploded in this box...its authenticity is already in question. I've got this stuff all over; it's ruined the T shit. I'm not even touching the cap or golf balls.
Let's toss that ball around, get some air before we turn to sand.
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