Back On The Bus

Once again, the 7pm bus home becomes the loony wagon to wonderville. As I sit on the bus, quietly reading, a loud conversation breaks out behind me.

“Hey, what do you do for a living?”

“I’m in construction.”

“Shit yeah? Me too man.”

This conversation goes on until another gentleman gets on the bus, whom one of them apparently knows.

“Hey man, where you comin’ from?”

“I just came from the strip club”

At this point the guy sitting behind me chimes in and all hell breaks loose.

“Oh shit man, you just got back from a strip club? Man, I just got back from Vegas on fuckin’ Sunday!”

“No shit man? Vegas, huh? What’d you do out there?”

“Man, what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”

Yeah, no shit man. No shit.

“Yeah, but what kinda shit did you get into out there?”

“Man, like I said, what happens in Vegas stays there man.”

Jesus, must've either been something really wicked, or you're lying. I bet you're lying, swine!

They go back and forth like this for a few minutes, the construction guy changes gears a little.

“Yeah, but what would your wife say about that?”

Oops, wrong question.

“Man, what the fuck!? I ain’t got no wife, and what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Man, shit!”

Wait, where does it stay? It hasn't been clear.

“Shit, I mean your wife might take that, but I’m just some stranger on the bus, you can talk all kinds of shit and I wouldn’t care.”

“Man, who the fuck are you to talk about what my wife would say!? I mean, who the fuck are you tellin’ me what’s what?”

The strip club guy is laughing at this point. It scales up a bit, to the point where they were talking so loud I couldn’t read. I put my book away and tune in.

Then the lady gets involved.

Oh, this is gonna get gooood!

“Man, so what would you do up in Vegas?”

“I’d do all types of shit.”

“Like what?”

Yeah yeah! egg him on!

“Man I’d be going into all those strip joints and lookin’ at titties and shit. Then I’d go into those legal places where you can get ladies and I’d nail all the hottest ones.”

“I WISH I coulda done that. I WISH I coulda done that.”

“Shit, I’d be payin for that pussy. I got $50 on it if you know what I mean!”

“I’d be getting them $5 whores. $5 whores. Yeah, that’s what I’d be into”

Oh. My. God! Gold, solid gold. I love the man's honesty! Oh, and that last one was the guy who'd just come from the strip club!

At this point Stripper Joe gets off the bus and the conversation dies down. Captain Construction is now wondering how to get where he’s going – after he’s on the bus. He just keeps asking “does this go to the uptown station?” Of course he’s not directing his question towards anyone in particular so he has to ask about ten times before someone turns around and simply says “no.” The guy behind me and his lady get off at the next stop and all is good on the neighborhood bus.

Most of the time my bus rides home are quiet and relaxing, but when I take that 7pm bus home, there’s always shit happening. It’s great!

Thank you public transportation!

Home To The Cretins

When the air whips and turns, when the sand sings at eye-level and the gentle spray of desert water cools your head and sets your brain straight, that's when you know you're there.

No, fuck it. We'll be wearing shorts. 50 degrees is warm, you scumbags.

This will be my 8th trip to the Heartland, and each one of them has brought a renewal in values and an examination of priorities. You can't make gold without protons, neutrons and electrons, and you can't make Vegas without change cups, whiskey and Sports.

Depending on the crowd, the old girl can be quite a mean monster. I've come home with less than nothing a few times. Hell, one time I went, blew every cent I had, then borrowed 300 bucks from my friend and lost that. I wrote him post-dated checks, he cashed them, and they bounced. They got words for that.... they start with G and end with "etto".

I'm obsessed with what I call "street level" in Vegas. I believe the town exists in certain strata, and that tourists rarely step outside their specific caste. You won't see the pretenders from Stratosphere or Sahara stomping downtown, just like you wouldn't see me and my attorney bellying up to a 50 dollar table at the Luxor. Those days have passed. I'm not pretending anymore. I don't pay for pussy, either.

You see, down here, you get the real shit. Real impulses are fulfilled. Real emotions are thrown up like $1.99 eggs from Binions. Real tears flow, and real lies are told. "Hey man, my car ran out of gas and I need ten bucks to get out of here". Sure, hell, why not? Go put it on red, pal. I'll be right the fuck next to you, betting big black. And odd. In this town, there's no other way to bet.

Ghosts walk these streets. Mutants sweep them. Rookie cops ride bicycles, underage sluts bark at patrons outside strip clubs, and mexicans drink footballs of beer. Jesus Christ. It's fucking nirvana. Crushed velvet furniture fills backroom bars that are hidden from view, and plasma screens show you how you are making money. It's a river, this town. Money flows like vodka from a backpack dispenser. Time doesn't move here, and neither do lines, unless you put down two big boys on a point total over. But not those lines... those are for upstairs. You wonder why they put "vanity" mirrors in the suites. Yeah, I'm vain alright. Vain like a fox.

There's whores out there, and there's whores in here, and we're all whores, I guess. We come from towns nobody's heard of to meet, congregate, and push things to their limits. I suppose there's a reason for all this, there's some cosmic debate that pits this place against, say, the Garden of Eden. There's good, there's bad, and we struggle to define both of them, to somehow give it language, to identify and deconstruct it. And while that happens, we're asked for change, told another sob story, ignored by a dealer with a diamond ring bigger than my fist, amused by drunks singing along to lounge entertainers, and served chinese food at 4 in the morning. Because sweet mother in heaven, we'd have it no other way. This is where it is, where it breathes. That never-ending dream, that vision of perfection and utter decay. That ideal. It's here. Look around. See that? That's your fucking life. It's American Life.

You play the games, you make the bets, and you offer yourself as a sacrifice to Money. You hold your trips, raise your Qs, and bet the Dragon hand when you've got 3 pair. If you need advice, here, I have some. Free of charge...

Put everything you have on odd.

Midnight In A Perfect World

As I fell asleep the other night a thought occurred to me. “Am I a clone of a miscarriage?” I must be. I’m too fucked up not to be. Of course this thought came to me the same night I watched AeonFlux so I’m sure that had nothing to do with it. But really, think about that. What if you were a clone of a miscarriage? Jesus, wouldn’t that be a mind fuck. You got the good stuff from the bad one. You’d be Arnold except Danny Devito would be dead instead of short and fat. Fucked up. “Hey son, the first version of you failed so we just copied that failure and poof! There you were.” Gee, thanks Dad. Cock.

Karma is a tricky bitch

Some people believe in it, others think its hogwash. I tend to be a believer, but only skeptically. The shitty part of it is that even if you do something nice, you may have to endure a bunch of bad things before something good happens. And that’s how we think about it too. “Oh, all the bad stuff had nothing to do with that one good thing I did, but man, now that I got a free ounce of Green Hornet for free, life’s allriiight!” Me, I get pissed when something bad happens after I do something good. I swear into the heavens and tell God, “Hey you, listen up! We had a deal and you’ve just handed me the shitty end of the stick. I demand redemption!” Usually lighting strikes the tree next to me, which lets me know he heard me. The worst is when something bad happens while you’re doing something nice. The other night, The Lady Luck was kind enough to drive a fellow drunkard home after she had danced the two-step tango with gang of Tanqueray. It had been warm enough to keep the snow that fell in a slushy mix of ugly and worse, and then it got cold, like a dead witch’s titty. Of course the slush turned to ice like it always does in this frigid, barren waste of a winter land, and the driving got dicey. The Lady Luck’s Icemobile did a 180 and slammed rear-end style into a guard rail. She had been driving like a decent Minnesotan – if you know Minnesota, then you know the un-decent assholes that roam the roads in the winter – so she didn’t get hurt and the car remains drivable. If I hadn’t been half asleep when she got home I would have let God know what I thought about the hand he’d dealt her, but alas, sleep was to powerful.

Pat Bush? George Riley? Stan Van Clinton?

So this nonsense in Miami with Stan “stepping down” and Riley being “the most qualified option,” especially considering he has “a responsibility” to the organization is total garbage. There’s always a bullshit cover story and company line when a coach gets fired in professional sports. We all know that, and at some point in time someone takes the lid off and we find out what really happened. Boy, I can’t wait til the raccoons get into this trashcan. “Hey Pat, you want some more attention, errr?” Now don’t get me wrong, Riley is one of the better coaches in NBA history, what with the 4 rings he’s got. “Kiss ‘em bitch, kiss ‘em!” It’s not that Miami won’t be a better team with him at the helm, shit he built that team. It’s the way Stan “stepped down” but “will remain” with the organization. Sure, I’ll believe that. After getting into a Dog Fight.

Pass the Mad Dog, it’s onto round two

Stanley Williams And The Flying Idiot Parade

Every time something politically, socially, or morally strenuous is being debated, people flock. People for and against, stand up in support or defiance. The mild mannered speak their hearts, the aggressors are enraged, and the politicians skate around. “Victory Jazz , okay!”

The people with money or power get up on their soap box and make a stink, and the media is right there recording every juicy minute of it. The people who don’t have the money or the power, group together and come out in force to get their attention, and their point across. The media, once again, is there letting the rest of us sitting at our desks or on our couches know that there is civil uproar. The message? “Goddamn it! We Americans care!”

That’s all fine and dandy, but what really tweaks my hide are the celebrities. They get up to their podium and begin preaching what they believe in their fantasy world of the rich and crazy. They talk with confidence and conviction. They talk like they’re authorities on the subject at hand. They talk like they’re trying to paint a picture of themselves. They talk like everyone cares what they think

Here’s the thing. NO ONE DOES!

Well, I’m sure there’s somebody who really cares what Triple X thinks about the war in Iraq, but for the most part people like to form their own opinions. Or rather, I’d like to think so.

“Hey Hunnicut! Pass the syringe!”

In thinking about my feeling about celebrities getting up and preaching about certain political issues, the first thing that popped into my head – well, after the voices from the void – was “hey, they’re people, US citizens, most of them. They have just as much right to yell about something they feel strongly about as I do.”

As this thought line progressed I came to the conclusion that it’s not really their fault they’re plastered all over the television, internet, and newspapers. When anyone shares an opinion, they need an audience. You and I, our audiences are usually the scumbags we associate with, our co-workers, our readers, and our lawyers. Sure, you may know who I am, but your next door neighbor probably doesn’t, and certainly not Mike Wallace. “Dave who? You don’t mean Kliznuzki, the coach of the Doop Blue Boovers?”

No, and fuck you.

The people with money and power usually have more drive for the spotlight, true, but they’re not usually the ones holding the cameras, pens and pads of paper. They may announce the press conference, but they don’t give the orders to the TV camera crew to “get the hell out there, this is gonna be fuckin’ great news!”

Sure, they may invite the attention, but they certainly aren’t in charge of it. Sometimes they use the attention to endear themselves to their fans or to raise awareness for their side of an issue. But who gives them this attention? Who allows them to think they can get up and speak and because they are who they are, it means something? The fans certainly have some responsibility because, as money paying entertainment hogs, we dictate how much they’re worth. To an extent.

The media is the ones that have their Soul Suckers pointed at these icons of pop culture. The cannons of visualization are what transpose these famous faces and voices into our homes. Who wants to be at the spot when John Wayne calls Bush a fucking pussy? They do! The media giants. Well, to be fair, everyone would want to see John Wayne call G Dubbs a pussy, but...

There’s this vicious circle of stupidity that surrounds any touchy issue. People get up in arms because someone else, somewhere else, disagrees with what they think. The fans feed the celebrities and make them famous, then the media helps spoon feed their egos by showing up to give them back to us at home. Then we feed the media moguls their ratings by watching and salivating over what Jessica Simpson might think about racism in the South. It’s goddamned ridiculous.

Now, I was going to finish this tirade with my opinion on the Tookie Williams case, but Christ am I tired of reading about it and presumably so are you.

Peace be with you, I need a drink.

A Foreign Film without rain

I was surrounded by New Yorkers. And, sadly, I couldn't have been more miserable. They arrived, ready to carry their "scene" (whatever that is) but by day 3 had readily embraced ours. Not mine, or someone else's, but the vibe. Unlike the first day, it was all about LA's virtues. It took someone I didn't know to say

"LA is the old New York!"

That brought a hearty laugh to some, sullen looks from others, and a reflection to myself. I already knew this get together was a mistake, that I shouldn't be there, that I had no idea how I was even invited, the usual. Funny how even the "hippest" people just stop churning the machine around 11PM. They asked what I'm doing for "the holidays." As far as they know, I'm going to Mentone, Alaska, my hometown. Stunned looks. I complimented one man's girlfriend on looking like "A proficient milk vending machine." More looks. No words. They walked away like undignified telephone hookers. I hit the bricks.

Damn it. Give me a Old Style. Fuck these people. Ronny and Monica at the boat club...well, they can stay, even if they don't know me. Can we just shoot the shit?

"Not in this neighborhood, bucko. Only Amstel Light here on Melrose."

Diet beer? Am I in Delta Phi Fatfuck? Is this a Nifty Fifties boat ride?

We left, finding an all-night Chinese restaurant that served up mean drink. Rum and Rice. Microphones and gold chains. The night was salvaged. Lesson, as always? Don't help those who are helpless.

Johnny San Gria To The Rescue

So I’m at the Dragon Beets show the other night, sitting back by the bar, where I can stay lit up like the season’s décor and smelling like a movie bum. Opening Akt just finished and I wasn’t really sure what they hell they had accomplished on stage, being as though they didn’t do much but look at me, presumably trying to pry into my mind. It was quiet, finally. My head throbbing from over exposure to the drink and the smoke – and we’re not talking the smoke you get at Ralph’s. Reeling madly into the void of grime, I realize something. Was I on stage? Maybe. What? This is crazy talk. I’ve been sitting on this stool since I arrived at…Well, I can’t remember exactly, but it’s been long enough to lose track of my cocktails. Where was I? Jesus! “Get this man another round of drinks!”

There’s a girl sitting next to me wearing a Wicked Warlordz t-shirt. She didn’t look old enough to be dumping booze down her throat like she was, let alone old enough to know who the hell those crazy fuckers were. She had a look in her eye like she’d just been on a date with the devil and he was so disturbed he hadn’t called her back. Without saying it, she asks me for a cigarette, I put it in her mouth and light it. “Thank you.” “God damn it, you talk too!?” I smile in acknowledgment and run to the bathroom. The sound of her voice awoke the demon in me. That hellish little beast that wakes up anytime someone evil decides to speak. “Get the hell out of my head devil woman!” I throw some water on my face, trying to get myself back together, and exit the bathroom. Okay, good, it’s safe now. I sat down at a table with a couple that apparently had missed the boat on rules against sex in public. Oh well, fuck ‘em, they’re fucking, right? The bouncer clearly doesn’t mind watching the show, but boy, he’s sure giving me an evil eye. “Don’t look at me like that fuckwad! I’ll shrink your brain!” He looks away, then moves on.

Lights drop, on with the show

The feline wearing alligator boots offers me another cocktail, I say yes. “Bring some for my friends too,” motioning to my fuck buddies at the table. She waddles off, tail swishing back and forth as she goes.

There’s something about the DB crew that gets me going. They’re so Goddamned evil on stage, and yet, their evil does not try to seep into my brain, at least not in the bad way. They share their violence, hatred, and plots to destroy the world with me, but in no way seem to want to destroy me, like all the rest. One by one the MCs come out of stage, spitting words fueled with a lunatic kind of psychoticism that I can’t begin to believe.

“What the fuck? Can’t be!”

Back when I was kid, growing up in Minneapolis, there was always these two dudes that used to kick it on the corner. I’m pretty sure they didn’t have jobs and lord knows they didn’t have money to buy clothes – not yet anyways. Spilt 40oz at their feet, smokes in their mouths, and that Goddamned microphone. They were always talking into it. Even then, at the tender age of 11, I knew there was something wrong. Something so blatantly wrong that my mind couldn’t grasp what it was but I sure as shit knew it was there.

As I got older, I began to understand what it was. They were good for nothings. They didn’t do shit. No jobs – couldn’t have had them, they were always on the damn corner like fucking vultures just waiting for some poor hapless soul to get hit by a bus. “Hey guys, can I hang out with you?”

John Flakmasterson, James Gallactic, and on occasion, Benjamin Pennyworth became my friends, or rather, a trio of screw-ups that helped get me started in the world of the fucked. Thank God. I don’t know what would’ve happened had I not be introduced to the drink when I did. I may have ended up a banker, or worse, a novelist. Jesus! Having to write with all those rules? Following diagrams and plot lines that everyone knows works? Fuck man, my life would’ve ended a long time ago. My mind would’ve eaten itself from the inside and then I’d have been one of the fucking Bobsy Twins. But I digress….

As the last member of the Dragon Beets took his encore, I recognized him as one of the same assholes I grew up with. Of course he’s now known as Chief Hottstixx, but was once known as Flakmaster Jack. And instead of being a member of the Dragon Beets, he had been a founding member of the group Wicked Warlordz. Now, I hadn’t thought about this fucker in at least 10 years, since they hadn’t really been around since the early 90’s, and to see him here blew my fucking mind. “How did I not know? I thought I paid attention!?” Well shit, I guess not. Of course I’m sure smoke, snow, and booze had nothing to do with that.

“I gotta talk to that asshole, tell him what I think about him!”

I hand my lawyers business card to the security guard and he gives some gum-flap about how he knows me. “Oh you don’t know me asshole, you only wish you didn’t!” Tripping over a stack of adult content magazines, I make enough commotion to get these assholes attention. “Hey you fucks, I’m here, where should I go?” As it turns out, not only are they not surprised to see me, they sounded like they were expecting me. “You’re late!”

“What? What the Goddamned hell are you flapping about? You crazy asshole!”

Then, out of the corner of my eye I see her again. The Devil Woman. “What the hell are you doing here!? Shut your mouth!” She doesn’t seem phased at all. She continues her walk to the backstage bar. She’s wearing fucking pigtails now. “Oh-ho! The Devil thinks he’s crafty, huh!? Well, fuck that, I’m a step ahead!” I grab the scissors out of my back pocket and make for the bitch’s hair. “Yo! Jimmy!”

“How do you my name!?”

“Jimmy dude, it’s me, Chief.”

“Jesus Christ, when did you get here?”

Oh thank Christ, I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to tell him about the imposter on stage, Flakmaster Jack is back and he’s on the attack. “Chief watch out! Behind you!”

“What up Jim Timmons?”

“Who the Sam hell are you, and how do you know that name!? I want my Goddamned lawyer! NOW!!”

At that point I can’t recall exactly what happened, but next thing I know I’m on stage spitting lyrics like I know them – shit, maybe I even wrote them. I walk back off stage and sit on the couch, next to the Devil Woman, and things seem okay. “Excuse me, Dave?”

“Oh thank God. Good to see you Johnny. We need to talk.”

If the phone doesn't ring, you know it's me

This town is famous for attempting to destroy anything of a local historical value in the name of money. Even really old places have to get a face lift of some sort to get back in the game. Then, and only then, can we start talking about how great it's been through the years. We're talking about a strip of land where more wackos come each day in search of the dream - when the New Yorkers finally step aside or move back, that land has to be snatched. Hell, the kid who grilled up the tasty grub at Skooby's last night just arrived off a cow from WI, ready to make it in punk rock. Or, "video production." Of course. But Skoob's is such a place where that kind of talk gets you a reward. Another employee oh-so-casually mentioned that their storage room used to be The Masque. HAH??! The first punk club in Hollywood? Early gigs by Fear, Black Flag, X, Circle Jerks? Don't fuck with me, is this the Truth?

Well, it was. Places like this don't just spring up...plus, anything you read about them doesn't give an address. So, it was a quick (thankfully, this thing doesn't have many rides left) elevator trip to the basement of an old building. And there it is, it hits you. Graffiti. All over the place. "Boredom in the 80s." Shit about Blondie, the Germs. Even an old flyer or two is stuck on the wall. Shit, this was like stumbling on the Pyramids.

The more I walked around this legendary hell hole, the more I was figuring out what went where. The always-broken bathroom. The stage. The backstage. As full of history as it is, it makes sense for why it survived beyond all others - if you didn't know it was there, how in god's gray earth would you find this place?

A trip to Amoeba to find some of the bands that played this haunt didn't turn up so successful. The Germs Anthology was a pricey $17...a charge Minnesota Laughs debated but I knew had to be cheaper online (I was right). Just looking for these bands brought the old, fat punks out of the woodwork. As I stood by the X section:

"Dude, I saw them last year, they still rock." Oh, really? Ok. "Dude, that's a great album." I know. "Their first album, that shit rocks." Yes it does. Go eat something.

The trip home wouldn't have been as amazing as earlier if Laughs didn't have to use the can. At that moment I looked across the street and to my amazement, the Pacific Theater, long since dead, was open. Lights on. Barricade gone. Hmmm...let's see. And see I did. Some smooth talking to the guy at the door about "digital projection testing" and we were in.

Suddenly, it's 1940. Well, maybe not, but it's all coming through my head. Giant movie palace. Times tough on the Boulevard in the 70s...they add screens in the balcony (?!). Earthquake hits. It's done. For years it sits unused. USC wants to test there - could it be open? Is it safe? LA says yes, but who'd want it? The plush carpets, if worn, are clearly of a bygone era. Chandeliers hang above me as wide hallways escort you anywhere. Oh - I see stairs down. Hmmm. Walking through there is a sight more impressive than a bathroom untouched since the 40s. (It had been cleaned up but not really used) Two giant fireplaces. And then...a banquet room, UNDERNEATH THE STREET. How in the hell did they find this? It's as if someone started to restore this place and just stopped halfway, finding everything. Oh, and the screen? The size of a football field.

You know, Trip, LA isn't the 70s anymore. Ay yingo, have I heard that tripe a billion times. But in an image-conscious town, it's hard to find. When you do, it's swank. When you uncover it...well, that's gold. California Gold.

Mongrel Meets His Maker

Last night I hopped on the number 4 bus after work and began my commute home. Nothing out of the ordinary. Traffic is a little lighter, as it's an hour later than I normally go home. My entertainment is the activity on the streets and my sound track is DJ Shadow. I'm relaxed, unwinding from another long Monday, then He gets on the bus. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, like a dog when a predator is near. The guy is wearing a Budweiser jacket, unkempt, and speaking loudly with a crazed look in his eye. He, we'll call him Bud, sits down across the isle from me and immediately calms down.

"Next Stop, MCTC"

A few people get off, more get on. A guy sits down next to Bud. The bus gets going again, I turn my attention back to the scenery outside, glancing nervously to the other side of the bus. As I'm swimming in my thoughts, I hear his voice. I look back over towards Bud again, and I see he's a little excited. I turn off my headphones just in time to hear Bud yelling about how Jesus wants him to die. “Jesus wanting you to die? Then why the hell did he put you on this bus with me!?”

The guy sitting next to Bud, then turns to the guy in front of me and makes a motion like smoking a three-footer. He's got a smile on his face. I assumed he was just making the "this guy is fucked up" signal. Bud continues his tirade about JC tightening the noose around his neck. Bud's seat buddy then gets up to go to the front of the bus, and that's when I see it. Bud is leaned over, with a lighter. "Holy shit! That guy's.." And the guy talking to the bus driver finishes my sentence for me. Hitting a crack pipe.

Now, I’ve done a lot of smoking and in a lot of crazy places. I mean, when you get the itch, you get the itch. Of course it’s not every day you see crack heads getting’ jarred up on the bus.

“Don’t you do it Jesus. Don’t let him at me! My mind’s already melting at the sight of this lunatic, don’t make me get the golf shoes out!”

Right at this moment, I look back outside and realize we're on Hennepin, not on Lyndale. The bus driver missed his merge onto Lyndale. “Great, someone else failing at their job – hey, you aren’t hitting the glass tube too, are you?”

Some people get off, and as the bus driver makes his way back to deal with Bud, he darts off the bus. “You ain’t never gonna catch no crack head.” Jesus man, this was fucked up, but now I can go back into my head and revel in my mental fodder, right? I wish...

We go up to Franklin and take a left back down to Lyndale. While we're stopped at the light, the bus driver is yelling out his window, to the people at the stop he missed. He seemed to be yelling for a long time, which can only mean, the people he was yelling at thought he was indeed a nut job. Finally, a couple people come across the street and hop on the bus. As we're pulling off the curb, an older woman runs up and furiously pounds on the door to be let in. She gets on, which causes us to miss the light. Not a big deal. A woman in the front of the bus gets up to offer her seat to the woman who just got on. The woman who got on the bus the gives that woman the dirtiest look I've ever seen an older woman give anyone, and that's when I see it. The fury in her eyes. “Jesus, not again, not another one!” She's insane. I see now that she closely resembles the crazy cat woman from the Simpson’s, except with glasses. She all but pushes the woman, who was nice enough to offer her a seat, down in an attempt to get to a seat further back. The nice woman is stunned. She's confused. She pauses, then makes her way back to her original seat.

At this point, we're back on Lyndale, there's no crack being smoked, and a few of us are rehashing the crazy rantings of Bud. The lady, who just happened to sit down next to Bud's old seat mate, turns to him and asks him what we're talking about. He tells her, and that did it. I'm not sure what happened, but she flips. "Shit! Goddamn it!"

All of us are stunned. Bud's old seat mate hadn't said anything offensive, he'd simply said "There was a guy on the bus smoking a crack pipe."

"Son of a bitch! I meant to get on the 2! Goddamn it!"

And then she runs to the front of the bus. When I say she ran, I mean she ran, or at least as well as you can through a packed bus. She berates the bus driver for a minute and he lets her off the bus. A few blocks later, I get off the bus and make my way home.

Whew, home sweet home, my ride on the Twilight Zone Bus is over. For today.

No time for second thoughts

It is beyond stereotype to consider this town as "body conscious." I guess it's one thing that pleases the locals as we fight on each day - that for every hungry person who's pressing novelty-sized chocolate-filled candy canes to their ample bosom at Sav-On Drugs, there's another who could just as well be a hooker, or a hooker's friend, or a hooker's roommate, looking through the aisles, confused as hell, not wanting anyone to know. Sorry, honey, we don't sell chicken broth. But it's this ying and yang that keeps things even.

Myself? Well, I had a father who slowly ballooned as time wore on as my motivation. As he finished plate two of Salmon Loaf, I'd be told "You know, I used to be slim like you." And it made no sense, this food logic: eat what's on your plate. Each and every walking log cabin is rip and roar to tell stories of "when I grew up" and how you had 12 war babies around you and there was one spring goose in the middle and if you didn't eat your Farina, by god, some other scamp would. Fine. Posty, you can eat my chicken skin. I don't care. I'm full.

Self-imposed rules do you absolutely no good when you don't live by them. A buddy had to hit that shithole Bob's Big Boy for a slice of their chocolate fudge cake. He made it sound like a big deal, but truth be told, he eats like he's about to get the firing squad in 10 minutes. So there I sit, looking at a greasy menu, knowing I'm not hungry in any way. Well, a scoop of ice cream with hot fudge can't be bad, right? That's not much. And it was, of course. This was a serving size for someone who sweats when they sleep. I didn't even finish it.

Sure enough, round 12:30AM, I take a big dump. Whew, now I feel better. Uh oh...it's warm in here. And then, sure enough, my brain told me those sad, sad words.

"You know, this is coming back."

No. No no no no no. Shit. (Honk) MY LIFE SUCKS I HATE THIS AGHGHGH FUCKING FOOD AHGHGH I'M NEVER EATING AGAIN.

Tiny Dancer was disgusted but not disgusted enough to offer this sage advice. "Why are you honking in the sink?" BECAUSE I HATE PUTTING MY FACE NEAR THE TOILET OH WHY GOD THIS SUCKS.

She's right, of course. One prayer to the American Standard god, and we were through. A good long night's sleep. I wake up, refreshed. Confused. Full of gas and life. Turn on the ball game, and pass the fortune cookies. We're at square zero again.

So, I'm more than happy to pass along the remaining foods to those with a zesty appetite, the remaining garlic bread, pie, potato skin. In LA's quest to be thin, my mind is giving me a deceptive advantage. Just don't ask if I want more.

Midnight Fistfight In Lost Nation, Iowa

Friday Night

As I'm making my way from Minneapolis to Clinton, Iowa, rocking out to the newest release from System of a Down, snow storm brewing, I realized something; I hate driving in the midwest, especially at night, between the months of November and April.

Here I am, flying down I-218, snow blowing, with a dirty windshield, and no grape Kool-aide in the sprayers. A truck flies by, throwing up a dusty cloud of snow. My first thought is, Jesus, If I was stoned I'd have driven off into the corn fields, never to return to the mental reality of the now.

"Hey Johnny, toss that bowl up here, let's roll!"

I blink, the truck is gone, and I'm left with Serg singing about blue skies fading.

I hit Cedar Rapids about 11:30pm, just in time too, cuz the road and corn fields were beginning to look one and the same. There is a smell in Cedar Rapids like almost no other in the country. Quaker Oats is on my right, my alma mater on my left, and the scent of cereal in the air. I'm cruising down I-380 and for a minute, the orange tone of the street lights hit the snow and it looks and smells like I'm floating through a cloud of Cap'n Crunch. "Man, I'm hungry! Mom! Where's the damn milk!?"

Jesus I'm tired.

"Wake up asshole, you're still an hour out!"

Shaking the cobwebs and voices out of my head, I exit onto I-30. Only 77 more miles of this barren, snow covered drive through the Wasteland.

"Boy, I really could use a sip of the crazy bird right about now."

I arrive at my hotel in Clinton about 1:30am. The lady at the counter looks at me suspiciously, like maybe this guy's flying on the Night Train, ready to crash land in the great flatlands. I get my room key and move my car around the building. "Three tacos for $3!? That's a deal!" Lasiters. This must be the center of the Clinton universe. Outside there are three rusted out, late 80s, Ford Broncos. The grossly oversized wheels tell me they belong to corn-fed, barley-fueled country boys. A breed to be avoided unless you're in the mood to drown your liver in whiskey and turn the bar into a scene from a certain Patrick Swayze movie. To top it off, I'm laying in bed, watching shitty TV, when the herd of SUV's starts to stampede. Off they went, glass packs and all, leaving me in a cloud of bassy resonance.

Lights out, off to dreamland, where it rains whiskey and we sleep on a bed of tobacco and cheeb.

Saturday Afternoon

After spending most of the morning sitting in my hotel room, watching TV and smoking like I could lose the ability any minute, I got myself all gussied up and hit the road for Grand Mound, Iowa. Now, why in God's name you'd call a city 'Grand Mound' is lost to me. I've always thought of a mound as a pile of shit leftover from somthing else. Someones unwanted leftovers, but certainly in no way grand. I guess a mound of Green Hornet would be grand, but let's be realistic here, we're in Iowa. I presume you're asking yourself why the hell would you go to Grand Mound? I know, I asked myself the same damn thing.

Well, weddings will bring to you strange and amazing places, some more strange or amazing than others. The risk with weddings is that you cannot choose where they take place, you're at the mercy of a greater power - like when you've just finished a QP of the stinkweed and you're walking through the store on a mission for food. Who knows where you're end up. Cookies? Chips? Shit, maybe some ice cream! You won't know until you get there. The suspense is killing me!

Point being, I had no choice but to go to the mound which is grand.

Saturday Night

It takes me an hour to get to the round mound of grandness, with an ETA of 40 minutes. Great, so I roll in the door at 2 minutes to the wedding, flirt with the bridesmaids waiting to make their way down the isle, and slide into the back row, groom-side. Throughout the whole wedding, the only thing I was thinking was "I wonder what would happen if those ceiling fans fell? Would they keep spinning as they fell? What kind of damage would that do?"

Yeah, I'm a sick bastard - and fuck you for agreeing with me!

The ceremony itself was quick and beautiful, like a happy ending at an Asian massage parlor, then it was back out into the snowy wonderland that is middle-of-nowhere, Iowa. I head all the way back through town, to the other side of Clinton to Vista Grande, the location of the reception. A buddy says to me, as we're out back making like Jamaicans, "This ain't no big vista, it's just a stupid hill." So true.

I sit at the bar for another two hours, trying to put the blaze in my stomach out with firewater, and then take off. No glorious exit, no fireworks. As a matter of fact, I hoodwinked the lot of them and dipped out the back door.

I got back to my hotel in one piece, talked to my lawyer, wrote this:

"Weddings are really interesting. One, the couples you see, your first question should be, "Do you really mean it?" Stats say 50% yes, I say 80% no, but I'm biased, which is why I'm not married now, but that's a different story."

Then went to bed. Five hours in the car the next day and I was sleeping back in my castle.

Lookin' Down The Barrell Of A Gun...

When I walked into Franklin Liquor at 7:45 last night, I had three goals.

First, was to acquire a fifth of Wild Turkey. The second was to procure a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20. And the final, much more respectable goal, was to get a 12 of beer. Now, before you judge my life a complete failure, please know that these purchases were film props. We'll call them "character development" items.

As I'm walking across the store, holding my bottle of Kiwi-Lime Mad Dog, looking for my Wild Turkey, I hear, "Oh man, Mad Dog!" My soul is crushed. I'm not naive enough to think no one will see me carrying my embarrassing prize, but I had hoped no one would talk to me about it.

"Stop talking to me asshole, I'm better than this! Right?"

The guy, who looked like a cross between Buzz Aldron and Buzz Lightyear, began reminiscing the days he used to drink Mad Dog, "out back at the train yard." Yikes! I immediately go into defensive mode, "movie prop, man, movie prop." He either doesn't hear me, or chooses to ignore me, and continues the conversation with a buddy of his. I find my Wild Turkey, a fifth mind you, and make my way to the checkout counter. I'm half way out the door when I remember I had forgotten to get my the beer. I leave my keep with the cashier and make my way back to the cooler to grab some Summit Winter Ale - so delicious(and respectable)! My second total comes to $13, which reminds me of my first total - $14. Ouch.

This got me thinking this morning.

Over the past few years I've become more and more of an alcohol snob. If I'm drinking whiskey, it's Jameson. Tequila? It's Patron. Beer is a bit more open, but I run away from the Bud and Miller products of the world. Most of the time. Well, okay, maybe half the time. That's not to say I necessarily judge anyone based on what they're drinking, but it does leave me with certain impressions of who they might be - at least when they drink. C'mon, we've all seen the guy who's just polished off a liter of Wild Turkey, the look of fire in his eyes, just looking for a fight.

Back away man, just back away.

I was thinking about all the horrible things that people drink. Apple-tinis, boxed wine, ANYTHING with Red Bull in it. I was thinking about this as well as my conversation with Mr. Train Yard, and started thinking about the horrible things I've consumed over the years.
My first drink was red wine - I think it was a good red wine - out of a Cherry Coke can, walking around my neighborhood in 8th grade.

Me: "Man, this fucking awful!"

Johnny San Gria: "Who cares! We gettin' lit tonight!"

The next was some Tequila mixed with Kick. Remember Kick? It was to Mt Dew what Jolt was to Cola. We called it 'Kick-tila' and it was awful. It was so bad that, while one of my friends was laying in the middle of the street passing out, me and another spent 35 minutes trying to divide 5 into 80. We didn't figure it out until the booze wore off the next afternoon. It's 16.

Speaking of...

When I was 16, a buddy of mine had a party and we raided his parents liquor cabinet while they were out of town. His family was not a drinking family, so the pickins were slim. I don't recall all what was there, but there certainly weren't any makings for Singapor Slings or Sidecars. We tried a lot of things. We drank a lot of Baileys straight and some screwdrivers, which, under the circumstances, were respectable. There was a lot of evil consumed that night as well. The worst? Peach brandy and Pepsi. You haven't tried anything until you've tried Peach Pepsi. Wow, just awful.

Imagine drinking sweet giant urine, mixed with carbonated rubbing alcohol.

Yeah.

I've done a lot of horrible drinking over the years. I drank a case of 3.2 Red Dog on the corner of a busy intersection at 3am, many cases of Busch Light, even saw the bottom of a couple bottles of Wild Irish Rose - both the red and the white. I've done keg stands of warm Olde Stlye on the porch, the morning after a night of swimming with a school of Beam Sharks. Bacardi 151 right out of the bottle? Check. Puked into the nearest receptacle - aka The Floor - an instant later? Check. Not to mention that my love of malt liquor has led me to consume so many Mickey's 40oz that I've lost count.

I guess the point of this whole thing is that no matter where we are in life, we can't ever let go of where we've come from. I was slightly embarrassed at first to purchase the Mad Dog and a fifth of Wild Turkey, but then I realized that I need to be proud of my bad alcohol history. I need to embrace it's trashiness and my desperate need to get shitty at a time when it only made me more awkward.

Come.

Sit.

And lets enjoy a box of Franzia, a fifth of Hawkeye Vodka, and stories we should be proud of rather than embarrassed by.

Cheers!

Just To Be Clear: I'm Not A Clipper Hater

So the Minneapolis Lakers won a championship, then moved out to sunny Los Angeles to soak up the sun and bask in the glow of so many adoring fans. They’ve spent the better part of three decades beating up on their step brothers, the Clippers. Now, as the Lakers begin to slide into nothingness, the Clip ship is finally sailing – versus sitting in port with a 35-foot hole in her bow. They’re off to the best start in franchise history and, maybe more importantly, have 5 more wins than their better brother. The fans are also showing this trend. Laker game crowds always feature the biggest of the big names in Hollywood. Jack Nicholson and Dyan Cannon have been seen courtside since before God was born. All your top tier celebrities have spent at least a couple nights watching the Lakers play hoops. Of course, when those Lakers go on the road, those same fans do as well. The light go down, then come back up, but for the Clippers instead. Now, rest assured, they play in LA as well, so they get their fair share of celebrities too. Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey showed up regularly until their 'Reality TV' relationship when sour. Ashton Kutcher has been spotted in the crowd as well. These are your second tier entertainers. They don’t have the name or the acclaim as many of their Laker-fan counter parts, but they’re climbing, making their way to center stage. They’re stepping into their own, “Gettin’ Some Kiiid,” as one man may say. As is their team.

But will it last?

That brings us back to Minneapolis. Instead of Lakers, they’re Timberwolves, and instead of winning championships, they’re going through a rebuilding phase. But let’s shy away from the Lakers and focus more on those wiley Clippers. They failed to make the playoffs last year, just like the Wolves. They had an active off season, just like the Wolves – hell involving the Wolves. They’ve even improved the team attitude, just like the Wolves. “Dude! They’re like twins dude!” The one thing they did that the Wolves didn’t do, was to improve the talent on their team. But the Wolves did that two years ago, remember? It involved a familiar face in Sam Cassell, the man T-Hud anointed “2 S’s and 2 L’s.” The Fourth Quarter Kid, Mr. Ice In His Veins himself. Remember how well that worked? It got them into a match up with – hey – the mighty Los Angeles Lakers in the Western Conference Finals. They lost, as you may remember, but boy was there hope. Hope for the next year, hope for another Midwest Division Championship, hope for a #1 seed in the playoffs. Hope for an elusive Championship ring for God Almighty Himself (That’s Kevin Garnett for those who didn’t know that). And what happened? Cassell bitched, Spree fed his kids, and Flip Saunders got labeled scapegoat. Now, a year after all the hope and expectations have faded, making the playoffs even seems like an extreme long shot.

How does this concern the Clippers?

Well, I’ve got two words. Sam. Cassell. Yeah, your off season acquisition. Boy, he looks good, doesn’t he? He’s just what the Clips needed, right?

Yeah, maybe. For one season anyways.

Has he helped revitalize the laughing stock of professional sports organizations? Sure, this year. Has he held up his claims of being healthy and still being a very dangerous player? Absolutely. So far. Will he help them get into the playoffs? He certainly won’t hurt their chances of achieving that goal. Will he be around in the future, to continue the Clippers growth as a franchise? Absolutely not. He wants a contract extension he won’t get. He wants to get paid more than his team will even consider. He’s playing on a team where a veteran point guard is not in the plans of the future. He’ll bitch, he’ll complain, and muck up the positive feelings in that locker room, until the Clips are right back at square one: Not playoff bound, lucky to get 41 wins, and again, the laughing stock of professional sports. Of course before he does all that he’ll get hurt. Bad hip, bad back, whatever it is, it’ll break. And with it, so will the spirits of the Clippers. They’ll crash land just like they did last year. I’m sorry to say that, but it’s true.

And so the Clippers fans, like their team, will slide into the background and play second fiddle to their big brother. The Hollywood stars will be center stage in Staples, while all the up and comers will be there on Laker nights off.

Clippers fans, you’ve just been Punk’d.

Again.

Just like Wolves fans a year ago.

Enjoy it while it lasts.