This is the year we get that one for the thumb

Here we go.

The black and gold soldiers deserve this. Don't take it away, Microsoft. They worked too hard to get here, they deserve recognition and admiration.

Their bars close at 5:30, for fuck's sake.

Arm-Pit-sburgh is a broken city, a forgotten landscape with pieces of history tossed into gutters and alleys like yesterday's Gazette. The haunted still roam, but the industry will never catch up. In what once surely bustled and jumped with excitement, now it is filled with the slow human decay of Development. Churches converted to bars, train depots into hole-in-the-wall diners, and parks into shelters. The cruel hand of irony clutches the burly city by the neck, and it squeezes until the old feelings are gone, replaced by the Coastal Imagination, and the soft whisps of prairie wind.

They used to build fucking trains here, god dammit.

But they deserve this not out of pity. Fuck that. That's too easy. It's too easy to pull for the Yankees in the Desert World Series because the planes went into the towers. It's too easy to cuddle up with the Red and White Sox because - AWWWWWWWW - aren't they cute?!!? They haven't won in 86 YEARS!!! Here's a championship, you loveable band of misfits.

They deserve it because they're better than you. They're better fans than you. They live this life, and they make no reservations about their pride. They are singular in their mentality: Go Steelers. They form their entire existence out of their sports, they plan entire months around game-times, and they know more about their team than any place else.

And it's not noble. And they're not pious. And they eat huge sandwiches with coleslaw on them and drink beer out of aluminum bottles because their city is FLAT BROKE. But none of that matters. They are what they are, and they could plain give a shit if you care or not.

They can't keep the streets clean. And they can't keep their strip of bars open late because they just lose money. They have to serve everything with a Steelers theme just to compete with one another. The city dies, but it lives. It is a triumphant defiance to the New American Way. The old is swept away, but never really disappears. It echoes now, reverberating through time and the Monongahela, rippling it's crumbling facade. Progress doesn't have to be like it is everywhere else. The winds of change bring sweet notes of redemption and revitalization.

But don't tell these people. They care about Reed, Ben, Bill and all the rest. They love the Bus more than we'll ever know. They are not heroes, these footballers. They are just like the rest of them. They are representatives. They carry the black and gold flag north to the Canadian border. And if you take them lightly, they'll plant it in your turqouise-blue ass.

So belly up to the bar and order yourself a Rothlis-burger. Grab an Iron City to wash it down (don't you DARE forget to recycle). Make sure you order that burger "loaded". They'll be generous with the slaw, don't worry. And eat it in peace, perched next to off-duty cops and electricians. The conversation is dim, but don't be suckered in. They don't care for your dissenting opinion. We're not here to discuss the "chances". We're not here to discuss "what might happen".

We're here because "if all 22 men do exactly what they're supposed to do, they will be victorious".

Here we go.

Happy Fucking New Year….25 Days Late

So it has begun. 2006 is off to a rambling start. In the past three weeks I’ve drowned my liver, burned my lungs with various types of smoke, and was attacked by a rabid Guiness bottle. Well, truthfully, the Guiness bottle attacked me right after Christmas, but I had to spend New Years with a giant white middle finger. One thing at a time though.

Every new year seems to bring up resolutions, both new and old. One more thing to judge my failing life based on. Last year, for instance, I was to quit smoking.

“Hey, you got a light?”

The year before that it was to work out three days a week. Well, I guess if that doesn’t include the days that end in ‘day’ then I’ve been successful. I don’t even remember what I promised myself I’d do before that, but fuck that, I don’t give a shit. I hate resolutions, probably because I have no resolve, but nonetheless I hate them – of course I have one this year, but we won’t discuss that yet.

2006 finds us in a very interesting world. There’s war and terrorism raging beautifully in the Middle East. The ship that is New Orleans is still trying to rebuild itself in spite having one of the worst leaders as its captain. Washington is unraveling as more rumors of widespread lying continue to bury the current administration. In short, it’s a fucked up world at the moment, but boy does it provide great entertainment. The Mayor of New Orleans finishes a sentence about the government being racist by making a racist comment himself. The President finishes his sentence about how he lied, by telling another lie. Maybe it’s because I pay more attention now, but it seems that right now we are in a very fragile political climate. I remember the past crises as coming up, being dealt with, then going away, most likely not to resurface until another generation has forgotten how to avoid such trouble. Now though, it seems like each issue that comes up is compounded by other, related problems. September 11th happens, we try to get Osama, we follow him into Iraq, then decide based on “intelligence” to oust Saddam because he has weapons of mass destruction. As the war rages on, it comes out that Bush lied, thus giving no immediate justification for attacking Iraq – we all know Saddam is bad, but not for the reasons we were given by our government. There just feels like there’s a lot of tension in the air these days, whether there is or not, I certainly feel it more now than I did when I was taking bong rips in college. But that’s a different story…

As For The Picture…

Well, funny story about that. A couple friends of mine got married on the 27th of December and they were kind enough to extend me an invitation. I, being the wonderful friend and booze hound that I am, accepted and attended their ceremony. It was nice and quick and they finished with a Native American prayer. The food was served buffet style and the booze was on the table next to the food. Well as I made my way up the line, another friend asked if I would be kind enough to cover him while he got some drinks. “Sure, why the hell not, I like serving drinks almost as much as I like pouring them down my throat.”

There’s a plethora of beer, booze and mixers to play with, so I’m having myself a grand ol’ time. A young lady asks for a Guiness. I compliment her on her selection and offer to open it for her. I reach for the bottle and it strikes. So quickly too. As soon as I touched the cap with the opener, the bottle grabbed my finger in it’s mouthful of glass teeth. I pulled my finger away quickly, but that’s all it took. Spouting blood from my finger I made for the kitchen, where I proceeded to clean out and bandage my wound. Of course, like the drunkard I am, I return to my post and finish the night by drinking more drinks than I served. After the reception, we went over to the bar across the street and kept the glasses full of fire water. Shortly after midnight I decide it’s time to leave, so I make my way back downtown to meet The Lady Luck for a couple drinks and a game of pool. The clock strikes bar time and we leave. I get home, remove the bandages, and I’m still bleeding like a hemophiliac. A stern look from her tells me it’s time to go to the emergency room. “Damn you devil woman, you can’t make me go see him, I’ll sick my lawyers on you!”

My protests are futile, mostly because at this point I agree with her. Fortunately this is a Tuesday night, so the ER is quiet and I’m back to see the Doc before I can blink. “Doc, she got me, got me good.” A puzzled look. “I tried to open the nice girl’s beer for her and it bit me.” A more puzzled look. “The bottle man, the bottle.” I’m pretty sure that at this point he’s convinced I’m insane, but then I tell him how it all went down and we move on. Six shots, seven stitches, and three hours later Doc finishes up. He offers me a prescription on the way out. My eyebrows go up until he tells me it’s for Tylenol 3.

“That shit’s for pussies, can’t even get a good buzz going off that.”

I thank the kind doctor and go home to bed.

It’s healed now, but I’m gonna have a nice scar to remember that wedding for a long, long time. And I still drink Guiness, just not out of the bottle.

And So We Go…

As the thunderheads roll in on this new year, mine’s off to an interesting start. I look forward to watching the fucked up climate we’re in develop and take us to the promised land, wherever that is.

Hey Doc, pass me the painkillers.

Quit selling me a car

All right, true, I haven't bought a lot of cars in my time. I was "given" one (the price was so low it was insane), a giant beast with wood paneling that was your best friend on the road except when it snowed or rained, or it needed gas, or had to start in weather below 40 degrees. The next car, my current car, was purchased so easily considering I wanted the car, they wanted to sell it, and it's been good ever since.

But the tried and true approach of any salesman, once they kind of have you in, is to keep the positive reinforcement. Uncle Rico knew what he was talking about. "So, we're feeling good about this 24 piece set?" Rico knew that if he made it known and agreed that EVERYONE in the room (including you) already thought this was a winner, well, all we have left is the deal.

So why do I bring this up? It's that people (the same people I seem to have to interact with on a daily basis) think this works when we're talking about my time. For instance, here's a recent e mail from someone who didn't have plans with me because I was unavailable the night she was free - a fact that was already stated twice in a previous phone call.

"So, we still on for Wednesday?"

NO, Rudy Russo, we are NOT on for Wednesday. We never were. And you know this, man. So let's fucking save each other this entire scene and admit that things didn't work out, you were unable to flex...Bottom Line: You didn't get what you wanted and it pisses you off.

Do you want to take these souvenir cups home?
No, I have enough.
Why not?
I already have about 20 cups. I live alone. I have no need for other cups.
Oh. Well, I thought you'd want these. I saved them.
Well, thank you for thinking of me.
(Uh oh, backup arrives)
What's the matter?
Well, Trip doesn't want these cups.
Why not?
I have enough cups.

And on and on it goes. And it's never "Oh, Trip, we're feeling good about that bottle of Rum I was going to give you, right?" Nope. It's always shit I don't need: people who want to make their problems mine, people wanting to give me things I don't want, people not wanting to do tasks and trying to get me to do them. That shit plain doesn't work.

It'll happen again. Some yahoo will try to get me to think I've agreed to some jangle entry-level tripe. No need to play dirty, just keep the honesty. A small war broke out, one of which you caused, and you lost. Reminds me of my days covering the Falkland Islands, except you don't see me responding to the call by sending a boat that will take WEEKS to get there.

Yup, you'll have to do it. Solo. Me? Oh, I'll be wearing a judge's robe, drinking from a spiked juice box, fixing the record player again as my plans are in full swing.

The Guts

It's coming. The war looms on the horizon and the best lack all convictions. Mere anarchy is about to be loosed upon this little world.

We cannot hold it. We can give way to it, we can fight it, but the guts will be scattered. No, more accurately, they will be killed. They will all die, all these scumbag degenerates. This rotting pile of human waste will be cleaned away, swept to other areas, where it will continue to fester. You can't fight them, but you can move them, easily. They are going to be here forever... in one form or another. You push them from The Club, they'll land at The Shoe. You push them from the Shoe, watch out Silver Saloon. They're coming your way.

And at the end of it all, when this downtown goes through its "renovation", the Powers will have sapped the lifeforce from this place. They will have taken what was once beautiful, strange and magnificent, and turned it into a cruise with neon. Not many people will notice. Kids will walk the streets, gladly holding their father's hand as they sing a song about the funny bear who greeted them at the Big Wheel. Mom will put the mascara back into her purse and retrieve a pamphlet informing her and her kind of the next Big Belly Busting ComedyZone show at the building with the cascading lights.

And somewhere, Moses will die.

But fuck all that, let's get into this thing. The mentality of this place is becoming suffocating. The thoughts and conversations of the damned have penetrated my thoughts, and no doubt, the battle lines have been drawn all around us. We're at a serious disconnect here. The negativity is running high... we cannot even hold dialogue anymore. The broke scum just go deeper, they hide in their caverns of insufficient self-worth. "Right on brother! My name's Jack from California. I'm trying to quit smoking.... would you mind if I had one of your cigarettes?" Jesus Christ, of course not. With a statement like that, I'd be a fool not to.

The Message is one of those guys who is just flat out going to end up getting the shit kicked out of him in front of some pawn shop one night. The guy doing the kicking might pull a knife or he might not - it's irrelevant. The point is that eventually, the bill comes due on all the gab. And also, like Ice Cube said, eventually he's going to need to cut that jerry juice and get a ball-head. Because the locks keep dripping, and when you talk like he does, you put a sign on yourself. Bet all you want, cheer however you please, but when you call people out, you get a name. And a name to us is just a way of identifying you. To others, those who slam fists down onto tables because they want to go to jail, your name is your certificate. Cube would call it the Death Certificate.

They're not all like that though. Most are caricatures of lost life, of ambitions broken and remade into more modest goals. Dollar hotdogs at Fremont, ham and eggs in the basement, 4 finger omelets in the Great Moments room. They stay low, under the radar. When the Club closed, they were the great silent majority. They're here now, but they are nameless. They occupy their space, occasionally asking for smokes or berating a waitress, but they are the ultimate in expendable. With all due respect, they are the reason places like this close. They bet their 2 dollar shows, they fill the air with stench and foul language, and they eventually try to steal someone's wallet on Fremont. Just hope it's not yours.

Sitting directly in front of me is one of the smallest asian men I have ever seen. He talks about things very quietly, but occasionally, he watches a missed basket and screams out "Fixed!" Apparently, the entire NBA is fixed, with everyone in on the take. It's funny in a way, because he maintains a smile throughout the whole thing, but he also represents something here. He represents that paranoia, that internal gas that comes with being a Gambler. We all feel it... Kobe makes it more real than others. But there is a palpable sense that We Don't Know What's Really Going On. And it hurts. Blackjack dealers can hide cards, and Pai-Gow is just plain stilted towards the house, but in sports, we feel free. We don't want to think that the man behind the curtain makes all the calls, that he determines who wins and who eats nachos from the Plaza snack bar. But it's always there. Rather than hide from it, Fixed has decided to embrace it. If they're going to fix the game, god damn it, he's going to call them on it. Doesn't make him a winner, but it does make him a person, which is more important than just about anything here.

You can see it everywhere you go. It never ceases, only grows stronger. The battle between the Clean and the Real. There is a middle ground. It's called Dep, Dizz, B'n P, and Chief. We are here to observe it all. We are here to understand it, to celebrate it, and to offer a bridge from one side to the other. We're just as comfortable listening to Talk About It talk about it as we are seeing the big superfans #99 Wisconsin dyed-in-the wool homers sit quietly and root their Badgers to certain victory against the scumbags from N'Western. I mean, what's the goddamned point anyway? It's all nothing... it's all some grand game that's going to continue to churn and froth maniacs and cast-offs into the night sky like so much fairy dust, so why worry?

Am I worried about getting my wallet stolen by someone who just dumped a hog on the Bears? Yeah, as much as usual. Am I a bit uneasy about a late-night trek to the Fitz for gamblin and eatin? Sure, you never know what the shadows hold. But the biggest thing that worries me is the re-allocation. These things, they are on foreign turf. Softball wanders into the Nugget with his protege, and everyone stands at attention. What is going on here? What's a scumbag in windpants doing in a nice place like this? Hell, these guys sitting behind me bought land in the 50s for 5 grand an acre, now they're selling it for 150,000. I guess they are right to be smoking cigars right now. But Softball is never right. It's his kind that make the Barrick machine stronger.

You can't rip the guts out of this place, it's true. But you can rip this whole place out, and you can replace it with a brand of fun that is better described in an US Weekly than "Young Roomates" flyers in newspaper dispensers. The game is on now, and we have no way of fighting it. They're killing my Vegas, destroying it one supersized lunch at a time. Yes, that's right.... cater to them. Make them comfortable. Give them the comedy shows and the slot tournaments. More food, that will do it. The sex, ah, there's the rub. How to get rid of it? Put it everywhere, incorporate it, but don't let the horses stray too far from their television. I Dream of Jeannie machines in every corner. Hit them up for the Player's Club, get the info, lower the rates, kill the sportsbooks. Shed the scum, keep the Money.

And so it goes. A little bit more is chipped away from the fading Golden Dome. And these bastards don't even put it on their helmets. I suppose it's inevitable, this progress.

But that doesn't mean I have to wear pants yet.

By the grace of god, there go I

At midnight last night, my surroundings were in disarray. Clothing, for a weekend hunt to Las Vegas, was everywhere. There were crackers deeply embedded in the carpet. The bottle of James Beam was on its side and (thankfully) not spilling. The mail, it's piling up. After that first bill from Sierra Ski Ranch (I've never even BEEN to Sacramento, so they've got the wrong guy, but it's such a fucking mess I want nothing to do with it) I just stopped paying attention to my surroundings.

About 20 minutes later, I was vacuuming the crackers out of the floor, instantly turning it to a shop-vac. The wondrous machine didn't seem to mind. The Beam was salvaged with deft-if drunk-hands, and I felt like I just fucking built a ship in the god damned thing. And then this LV anticipation hit me like a long, feel-good fart.

Toss...turn. That can't be it. Turned on the air. (Shit, did I leave it on? LA Gas Co, you can have my wallet). And then, as the sun shined, I woke up on the floor. So, let's sum up.
1) My mind openly left me at some point.
2) At some point I said "fuck this" to the bed.
3) My attempt to stay awake didn't take.
4) I am at an advantage in my war with the Gas Co (Those schysters already "mis-read" me to the tune of $64, so they can wait) considering I had the air on, and my place is simply going to get colder naturally, thus, it won't turn on. Right, keep repeating that.
5) Let me bet on Old Dominion, while holding an Irish Coffee, wearing shades indoors, asking Potsy where he wants to go for Lunch #2.

I have work to do.