It’s this time of year that I begin to revert back to my normal schizophrenic self. It’s March. Fabulous, fabulous March. It’s in this month that I was born, Saint Patrick is celebrated all over the world, winter unwraps her chilly hands from around our necks, and spring training gets underway. Things really start to look up in March. Golf courses begin opening, the birds return to what once was a blistery, cold land, and Minnesota begins to more closely resemble the wonderful weather goldmine that is California. Of course I have yet to mention the greatest part of this beloved month. March Fucking Madness. Yeah, that’s right, the NCAA Tourney. There’s nothing on this planet that makes me happier than those two short weeks in March. They start with my birthday and end with the crowning of a national champion. Fuck the Superbowl. Fuck the NHL. Fuck the NBA – for now at least. This is the time when my attention to sports is at its peak. I’m tuned into and reading every little thing there is to read about each and every team as they get ready for their conference tournaments to begin. Selection Sunday can’t come soon enough. I’m checking and rechecking records and stats and RPI and everything there is to check to see who’s going to make it and who’s going to get left out. “Hey, are the Griz gonna repeat as Big Sky champs, or is Idaho gonna make a tourney run and wipe out their chances!?” Who fucking knows! That’s the beauty of it. At this point, yeah, there’s not really any reason for me to be trying to get my brackets together because they won’t be in place until March 12, but I don’t care, I NEED THIS SHIT! I’ve been down for a month because, in case you didn’t know, Minnesota sucks balls in February. But now the sun hangs in the sky a little longer – anybody see Nate Robinson in the dunk contest? Yeah, like that, except he played at the University of Washington and that’s the only reason I care what he does. Sure, we’ve got a few cold days here and there, but overall the jackets can be shed, and the shorts can be taken out of storage – yes Goldminers, some Minnesotans wear shorts when it’s 35 degrees out.
But really, who gives a fuck about the weather, Selection Sunday is two weeks away!!!
All I’m concerned with is what time what games are on so I can watch dreams get made and shattered, all while sitting at Runyon’s pouring Newcastle and Jameson down my neck hole. Nothing else matters. The conference tournaments are a warm up to the real shit, like getting some crack while you wait for payday so you can go out and get some China White. Hey, I fucking need something to get me through. It’s a great opportunity to see who’s playing well, who maybe has some magic, or which team’s head is too big, lending to a possible early upset that could win you the bucket of money at the end of the March rainbow. What? You don’t know what I’m talking about?
Okay, I’ll put it in terms you may understand. So you’re talking to Sol, a new drug dealer in town. What you really want is to get some top shelf Sneeze, but you’re not sure if Sol is the real deal, so you get a bag a Stankers to do some quality control before diving head first into $2000 a week contract. Got it? Good, lets move on.
That’s the funny thing about life. Totally meaningless shit to you, makes my whole life improve in a blink of an eye. Does that mean you’re better than I am? No, it just means you don’t know shit about shit and you’re idea of life success is my idea of complete and utter failure. But that’s fine, that’s why I don’t have your life.
March has always been an important month for me. At first, it was my birthday. I get presents and really, who doesn’t love getting presents? Fuckin’ A, I know I do. But as I got a little older, St Pat was my main excitement of the month. Back then, very little made me happier than get so drunk I couldn’t stand up for a week afterwards – and no, I’m not talking about gay sex with a leprechaun. I’m talking about ingesting so much green beer that your liver goes to Las Vegas for a week, just to get some time off. And that’s still one of my favorite past times, although I’m not in as good of shape as I was then, so really, the liver just turns hard and stops taking advice from Dr. Jameson and I’m left with the bill. Oh well. But, sometime in my late teens, early twenties, that all changed – sort of. In high school I had a hard time concentrating on the games because they were on during the day and well, I was in school – or rather in the vicinity of the school. But in college I discovered the lovely art of sitting around all day not going to school. Yeah, funny how that frees up a lot of time for other things, namely smoke and drink, but also for 12 hour stints in front of a television watching Americas top collegiate athletes play ball. Yeah, and I still do it. Of course I work the other stuff in too, mostly drinking more because I have three reasons to do it – or rather, three more reasons.
I was always told that as I got older my priorities would change. That’s true, but I don’t think this is what my Dad meant when he told me that.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
A matter of time...
Overheard in more than one place
Boy, it's really raining out there.
I know. I bet the traffic's bad everywhere.
Did you see the size of that puddle on Coldwater? It covered the entire car!
It's only been raining since, what, 2? 2:30?
I wonder if there's going to be mudslides.
Well, just to be safe, when I drive through the canyons, I'm going 15 miles per hour.
Good idea. You don't want to fall off the road. I'm going extra slow today, too. You never know.
The rain here sure makes people do strange things.
Like the Santa Ana winds.
Dude, we saw a girl who wasn't wearing a jacket - she was all wet and looked hot.
Was her car wasted?
Naw, she was just walking.
Man, wish I saw that.
I wonder if this place is gonna get flooded.
But it's only been raining since this afternoon.
I know, dude...man, I just wanna go home.
I heard they'll let us out early because people drive so bad in the rain.
Sweet! I know, man, people drive fuckin crazy out here.
All right, I'm out.
See ya, good look driving.
Thanks, watch out. I'm gonna blast past the traffic.
Ha ha.
Boy, it's really raining out there.
I know. I bet the traffic's bad everywhere.
Did you see the size of that puddle on Coldwater? It covered the entire car!
It's only been raining since, what, 2? 2:30?
I wonder if there's going to be mudslides.
Well, just to be safe, when I drive through the canyons, I'm going 15 miles per hour.
Good idea. You don't want to fall off the road. I'm going extra slow today, too. You never know.
The rain here sure makes people do strange things.
Like the Santa Ana winds.
Dude, we saw a girl who wasn't wearing a jacket - she was all wet and looked hot.
Was her car wasted?
Naw, she was just walking.
Man, wish I saw that.
I wonder if this place is gonna get flooded.
But it's only been raining since this afternoon.
I know, dude...man, I just wanna go home.
I heard they'll let us out early because people drive so bad in the rain.
Sweet! I know, man, people drive fuckin crazy out here.
All right, I'm out.
See ya, good look driving.
Thanks, watch out. I'm gonna blast past the traffic.
Ha ha.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
You And I, We Fit Together Like A Glove On Hand, That's Right
We all know how much I love public transportation, as it seems to weave in and out of my existence. My daily life is run by the number 4 bus. It controls when I go to work and when I get home. It decides whether I’m late or early or, God forbid, on time. It makes my decisions for me. When I drive, does it miss me? No, not at all. It has hundreds of others just like me to fill it’s seats and smudge it’s windows - wow, I guess Rick James was leaning on this window, or maybe Pat Riley. But that’s okay, I don’t touch the windows. I know better. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love my car. I treat it like shit and it still loves me, most of the time anyways. The bus though. It’s the bus that I can always rely on. The bus is where I go when I need to reassure myself that I indeed am not a total failure. It’s the bus that starts and ends my Monday through Friday.
Sometimes I read and sometimes I listen to some music - "When I make my move to her room it's the right time." Other times, I try to keep my attention on the lunatic sitting across from me, or the drunk guys behind me. Any way I do it, I’m always entertained. It’s like watching good reality TV, yes I know, oxy moron. The bus always provides. Sure, some of the seats are broken and you’re forced to steady yourself for fear of falling into the lap of the buyer for Target sitting next to you – by the way, she’s really fuckin’ hot. And when you’re not lucky enough to sit next to her, you’re stuck next to the mildly retarded guy who’s shaped like a grapefruit, wearing a backpack, and mumbling to you about who know what. But it’s all good. For every time you have to sit next to that guy, you get to either sit alone, spread out over two of those generously sized bench seats, or next to her. You just have to remind yourself that it’ll all work out. Man, yeah, she’s really hot.
No matter how much I love the bus, the bus doesn’t always love me back. Sometimes, when I’m happily rolling along, it decides it’s no longer interested in taking me all the way. It stops for a minute, beeps angrily at me, then dies. There I am, stuck on the side of the road with no hope of getting back on my bus. It’s sad, frustrating, and very stressful. Now, being a number of blocks from my house, I’m left to walk the rest of the way, deserted by my bus. I say my bus because I really to mean my bus. Is funny how busses work. They can sometimes take on the persona of a neighborhood.
“Yo man, what set you claimin!?”
“Ganton Motherfucker!”
It’s the same way with busses, albeit, to a lesser degree. There’s even website chat rooms dedicated to certain bus routes. At first I thought it was quite strange. That was until I had spent more than two years riding the same bus. Sure, my stop changed, but not the bus, not my trusty number 4. Yeah, people come and go, but not the bus and not me. Fuck the 6 yo, they’re a bunch a bitches! When you meet someone away from the bus who rides your bus, there’s an immediate connection. If they ride the same bus, they probably live in a neighborhood near you, but maybe not. Maybe the live in Edina, or Bloomington, but they ride your bus. It’s instant respect, even if they aren’t from your neighborhood.
Ah, the bus. We’re linked together, regardless of what neighborhood I live in. We ride down the street, hand in hand, enjoying each others companionship. We get into fights, just like in every other relationship, but we always make up and right the ship – or bus if you will.
Ride or die you ask?
I’ll ride, thank you.
Sometimes I read and sometimes I listen to some music - "When I make my move to her room it's the right time." Other times, I try to keep my attention on the lunatic sitting across from me, or the drunk guys behind me. Any way I do it, I’m always entertained. It’s like watching good reality TV, yes I know, oxy moron. The bus always provides. Sure, some of the seats are broken and you’re forced to steady yourself for fear of falling into the lap of the buyer for Target sitting next to you – by the way, she’s really fuckin’ hot. And when you’re not lucky enough to sit next to her, you’re stuck next to the mildly retarded guy who’s shaped like a grapefruit, wearing a backpack, and mumbling to you about who know what. But it’s all good. For every time you have to sit next to that guy, you get to either sit alone, spread out over two of those generously sized bench seats, or next to her. You just have to remind yourself that it’ll all work out. Man, yeah, she’s really hot.
No matter how much I love the bus, the bus doesn’t always love me back. Sometimes, when I’m happily rolling along, it decides it’s no longer interested in taking me all the way. It stops for a minute, beeps angrily at me, then dies. There I am, stuck on the side of the road with no hope of getting back on my bus. It’s sad, frustrating, and very stressful. Now, being a number of blocks from my house, I’m left to walk the rest of the way, deserted by my bus. I say my bus because I really to mean my bus. Is funny how busses work. They can sometimes take on the persona of a neighborhood.
“Yo man, what set you claimin!?”
“Ganton Motherfucker!”
It’s the same way with busses, albeit, to a lesser degree. There’s even website chat rooms dedicated to certain bus routes. At first I thought it was quite strange. That was until I had spent more than two years riding the same bus. Sure, my stop changed, but not the bus, not my trusty number 4. Yeah, people come and go, but not the bus and not me. Fuck the 6 yo, they’re a bunch a bitches! When you meet someone away from the bus who rides your bus, there’s an immediate connection. If they ride the same bus, they probably live in a neighborhood near you, but maybe not. Maybe the live in Edina, or Bloomington, but they ride your bus. It’s instant respect, even if they aren’t from your neighborhood.
Ah, the bus. We’re linked together, regardless of what neighborhood I live in. We ride down the street, hand in hand, enjoying each others companionship. We get into fights, just like in every other relationship, but we always make up and right the ship – or bus if you will.
Ride or die you ask?
I’ll ride, thank you.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
The Rhythm of Southern California
They are everywhere, but not here. As I amble down hallways, Schlitz mug in hand, it doesn't even register. There's windows, and we work, we communicate, and that is life. However, working in visual media, the coast-to-coast TV in my office shows me people in the same field but in a completely different attitude.
A certain "day after day" vibe exists, but there's two ways of looking at it. Some, they have to make a train. They get off the elevator and are stuck there for a few hours. The visuals are bleak. They find solace in the bathroom and a small mirror - the drive is for time to pass. There's no feeling for the moment, it's to get PAST the moment. You hustle to get to your neighborhood that has "the best Hunan in the east side." And that's just the lucky ones. Lest we forget those who are stuck in Coney, sipping on Malt Duck, angry. The screwdriver is sharpened not as a weapon, but getting at least $23 worth of quarters from that piece of shit Laundromat.
The others, those that surround me and including myself, move in a similar speed. Instead of "making" transportation, there one tries to "beat" it. Where they have only a goal, the others have three ways. "No" cars around you is the kind of thing that a person tells others about. They smile, pleased of good fortune. And you smile, too, knowing it doesn't happen often. But the surroundings are markedly different. Here, they buy a bottle of Tropical Blend in February because you want a jump on that "savage" tan...you remember last February, and you want to take advantage. They drive to Brentwood for the same neighborhood lunch, but you're not going for the food so much as a possible O.J. sighting. You can look around, traveling back, and realize how little surrounds you to create anxiety or envy. How can such a large area, so complex and so popular, offer so may opportunities to avoid the dunces? Move from those dippin sauce lovers who spend a half an hour telling you about nothing. This is where the small mirror is abound so that you can get the MOST out of every moment.
That's the two ways to live. There's two ways for life: The Right Way and All The Way. You don't have to be here to know it. Make it happen. Me? Every day isn't a winner. But it could always be worse. All it takes is making deals, and it isn't a worry. So that's the update from Dealville. We march on like madness.
A certain "day after day" vibe exists, but there's two ways of looking at it. Some, they have to make a train. They get off the elevator and are stuck there for a few hours. The visuals are bleak. They find solace in the bathroom and a small mirror - the drive is for time to pass. There's no feeling for the moment, it's to get PAST the moment. You hustle to get to your neighborhood that has "the best Hunan in the east side." And that's just the lucky ones. Lest we forget those who are stuck in Coney, sipping on Malt Duck, angry. The screwdriver is sharpened not as a weapon, but getting at least $23 worth of quarters from that piece of shit Laundromat.
The others, those that surround me and including myself, move in a similar speed. Instead of "making" transportation, there one tries to "beat" it. Where they have only a goal, the others have three ways. "No" cars around you is the kind of thing that a person tells others about. They smile, pleased of good fortune. And you smile, too, knowing it doesn't happen often. But the surroundings are markedly different. Here, they buy a bottle of Tropical Blend in February because you want a jump on that "savage" tan...you remember last February, and you want to take advantage. They drive to Brentwood for the same neighborhood lunch, but you're not going for the food so much as a possible O.J. sighting. You can look around, traveling back, and realize how little surrounds you to create anxiety or envy. How can such a large area, so complex and so popular, offer so may opportunities to avoid the dunces? Move from those dippin sauce lovers who spend a half an hour telling you about nothing. This is where the small mirror is abound so that you can get the MOST out of every moment.
That's the two ways to live. There's two ways for life: The Right Way and All The Way. You don't have to be here to know it. Make it happen. Me? Every day isn't a winner. But it could always be worse. All it takes is making deals, and it isn't a worry. So that's the update from Dealville. We march on like madness.
Monday, February 06, 2006
That Smell
Ohhh, that smell. Can't you smell that smell?
The smell is a lingering one. It arrived yesterday, about 8PM Gold Time. It wafted in from the East like a hundred angry, dirty crows. And the next thing I knew, a legitimate Brown Crown sat over the city. I was left to do my own musings...what exactly was it that had gone against the jet stream to hover over us?
After a while, I began to notice a scent and recognize it. It smelled of canned beer and sausage. Maybe I left the window open in the kitchen. At that moment, the color of the crown turned to rust, and then moved north east, to specifically hover over Pasadena. At then it all made sense.
26 years ago was the last time the Steel City felt this way (with it taking part in Super Bowl XIV, which is essentially the most gold Super Bowl ever). Or felt close to that way, at least. When you win your 4th in 6 years, it's not the same as first in 26. But the ghosts of big games past, the combination of sausage, Iron City Beer, Pull Tabs, Mustaches, towels, and polka sat and hung over Pasadena. The memories of the last big win were there, if ever so briefly. Then, like a lingering fart, it shot back east, returning to its musty home.
They'll talk about how the team is a gritty bunch, that millionaire players are "blue collar guys." The type who "take their lunchpail to work." I don't need phony baloney analogies, guys. I don't need people pretending Hines Ward is a nice guy. Give me the fans. It means more to them. Tonight, I raise my can of Hamms to you.
The smell is a lingering one. It arrived yesterday, about 8PM Gold Time. It wafted in from the East like a hundred angry, dirty crows. And the next thing I knew, a legitimate Brown Crown sat over the city. I was left to do my own musings...what exactly was it that had gone against the jet stream to hover over us?
After a while, I began to notice a scent and recognize it. It smelled of canned beer and sausage. Maybe I left the window open in the kitchen. At that moment, the color of the crown turned to rust, and then moved north east, to specifically hover over Pasadena. At then it all made sense.
26 years ago was the last time the Steel City felt this way (with it taking part in Super Bowl XIV, which is essentially the most gold Super Bowl ever). Or felt close to that way, at least. When you win your 4th in 6 years, it's not the same as first in 26. But the ghosts of big games past, the combination of sausage, Iron City Beer, Pull Tabs, Mustaches, towels, and polka sat and hung over Pasadena. The memories of the last big win were there, if ever so briefly. Then, like a lingering fart, it shot back east, returning to its musty home.
They'll talk about how the team is a gritty bunch, that millionaire players are "blue collar guys." The type who "take their lunchpail to work." I don't need phony baloney analogies, guys. I don't need people pretending Hines Ward is a nice guy. Give me the fans. It means more to them. Tonight, I raise my can of Hamms to you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)