We were on the Golden State Freeway by this point. Old Town had been left behind and LA was the goal. She was tired, falling asleep to the hum of ol Bess as we rumbled down the 5. And the sun had already set, leaving the ocean crowned in a deep orange hue.
We were leaving a lot behind...more than a vacation destination, or a swanky hotel with comfortable chairs, or tasty food. It was the mindset that ended the year: struggling optimisim, with shit in the way. No need for historical comparisons - this is new territory. Risks can be taken, but there's no rules on calculation. Am I thinking too much? I must be, because she's all sleep, and this sunset is guiding me home.
We were talking about the new year; the things that will happen and things we want to happen. It is clear we've reached the age where we call the shots. If we live for ourselves and not so that others are pleased, then we will be happy no matter what we are doing. And who wouldn't be happier as the ocean slowly takes the sun from us to Hawaii?
This is the last year of the decade? TCB, man. TCB.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Thursday, November 06, 2008
We Can't Afford To Look This Cheap
Green's getting moved around these days, big stacks flowing and not much in the way of taxes, so I guess it's coming up triple cherry and we should all be happy. I know optimism is running high here in the Land Of Hot Dish, despite a dark cloud descending on my brethren the world-round. But that's not really what's this about. The machine will keep driving, fueled by credits and debits, but we're talking about cash deals here, big dollars and the big consequences. For the little guy.
I'm trying to be eyes-open about the whole thing, to see some sort of complete view, but I keep coming back to the feeling of being dragged down by the ignorance and apathy all around. Current situations dictate a sameness, rooting to one spot and riding out the coming white wave. And on its face, as long as there are some breaks, I can handle that. But the reward has to be there, I have to make it real. We mortgaged our winter, but at least we didn't mortgage our house. The cash creates relief, in that department at least. Hell the only point of staying is to eventually leave, and that makes perfect sense in this place. All the while though, I am accutely aware you have HEARD THIS TALK BEFORE. It's how we do it around here.
All I can do is what I used to do when I got in trouble in grade school, and that is assure the teacher with all of my conviction (and a lot of my acting) that I will make the appropriate changes, that we will do this and that we're doing what's best for the moment. I'd be hogg tied and painted blue if I didn't have moments of extreme anxiety though... certainly when looking around and seeing friends dress their children for Halloween (does nobody watch Myers Part 4 anymore? Cops Do It By The Book? Anybody?). It's not nerves, it's not regret, it's a swirling vortex of inaction, and if you look it dead in the eye, it can fucking wreck you like Medusa.
So what do we do? We revel in the cash, and we stash it. We create an environment conducive to future travels, we remind ourselves of our true destiny, and we wait. We can do that. It's not so bad, having a companion is absolutely essential. Conversations with those around us dead-end into matters of absolutely no importance, but that's fine. Yes, we will talk about recipes and television. Whatever. As long as Napier does not drift far from my mind. Tiny reminders, menu items at M&S pulled from the same Panama beaches we surfed on, dispatches from the outer rims that call to us, yes, but also tell us that they will STILL BE THERE.
What was that Eliot said? In a minute there is time for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse? Well, that's where we are. Stuck in that minute, but the seconds tick off, decisions to be made, just not right now.
Until that big bird lifts off and we find ourselves nose-first towards a shining shore of unknown adventure, we'll buy off the rack and order like we've been here before. Because we can be TWO things at the same time.
We can be here, and there.
I'm trying to be eyes-open about the whole thing, to see some sort of complete view, but I keep coming back to the feeling of being dragged down by the ignorance and apathy all around. Current situations dictate a sameness, rooting to one spot and riding out the coming white wave. And on its face, as long as there are some breaks, I can handle that. But the reward has to be there, I have to make it real. We mortgaged our winter, but at least we didn't mortgage our house. The cash creates relief, in that department at least. Hell the only point of staying is to eventually leave, and that makes perfect sense in this place. All the while though, I am accutely aware you have HEARD THIS TALK BEFORE. It's how we do it around here.
All I can do is what I used to do when I got in trouble in grade school, and that is assure the teacher with all of my conviction (and a lot of my acting) that I will make the appropriate changes, that we will do this and that we're doing what's best for the moment. I'd be hogg tied and painted blue if I didn't have moments of extreme anxiety though... certainly when looking around and seeing friends dress their children for Halloween (does nobody watch Myers Part 4 anymore? Cops Do It By The Book? Anybody?). It's not nerves, it's not regret, it's a swirling vortex of inaction, and if you look it dead in the eye, it can fucking wreck you like Medusa.
So what do we do? We revel in the cash, and we stash it. We create an environment conducive to future travels, we remind ourselves of our true destiny, and we wait. We can do that. It's not so bad, having a companion is absolutely essential. Conversations with those around us dead-end into matters of absolutely no importance, but that's fine. Yes, we will talk about recipes and television. Whatever. As long as Napier does not drift far from my mind. Tiny reminders, menu items at M&S pulled from the same Panama beaches we surfed on, dispatches from the outer rims that call to us, yes, but also tell us that they will STILL BE THERE.
What was that Eliot said? In a minute there is time for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse? Well, that's where we are. Stuck in that minute, but the seconds tick off, decisions to be made, just not right now.
Until that big bird lifts off and we find ourselves nose-first towards a shining shore of unknown adventure, we'll buy off the rack and order like we've been here before. Because we can be TWO things at the same time.
We can be here, and there.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
So, that's that?
So Dawson turns to Pink and asks him that at the edge of the football stadium. And in asking him that, it covers the night they just had. The school year they just had. And, most importantly, how the future (at least in the short term) will be.
In the land of Pacific Gold, what you do for a living is the second question when you meet someone. This is after "nice to meet you" or "oh, you bought the whisky" or "you were sleeping on the couch." When I said where I worked that's usually all it took. They knew of the companies, and that ended that. No one would ask any other questions, except girls at a bar because they figure you're buying from here on out.
For over eight years I was doing the same old shit. It was a job that many TV executives had at some point to get the experience to move on. Only, I noticed as time was moving that I wasn't moving on. I'd switch companies, but it was the same thing. One day earlier this year a bolt of knowledge hit my brain like a soft pillow: you're doing the same thing you were doing eight years ago, except you're paid a hell of a lot more. I stopped and realized that only one factor was going good - my wallet. My brain was the one starving.
Mind you, this was the WRONG place to be for a starving brain. And I can tell you this because I have been in the thick of it for this long - TV networks fear change. They fear it like being told they no longer are relevant (which is getting closer to being each day). They only know one way, and when that one way begins to fade, there's steep wallowing in failure. And even then, in those sour days, change does not come. Part of the reason why I went to this network (one that wanted you to stay at home for one week and watch all their shows but you were free to do whatever you wanted for the rest of the season) was that I was to be a part of the changing of late night programming. It never happened, and it wasn't ever close to happening. It was by no means a failure of anyone in my department. It was people who would have to accept that change and quite possibly become a victim of it.
Am I the victim now that I have left? I was inside, trying to change things for the better and found otherwise. New ideas were met with Disney-approved "performance plans" where you filled out countless surveys on your own work. Instead of testing new formats, I spent an afternoon letting a cartoon character tell me that checking mail on Yahoo is not approved Internet use. Oh, I think I made the right choice, don't you? Almost three years to the day (and documented here on the Gold) I walked out, happier than when I entered. That is sad. But it is also good, because I've, in the words of a wise man "had enough of the bullshit." It's time to live life.
In the land of Pacific Gold, what you do for a living is the second question when you meet someone. This is after "nice to meet you" or "oh, you bought the whisky" or "you were sleeping on the couch." When I said where I worked that's usually all it took. They knew of the companies, and that ended that. No one would ask any other questions, except girls at a bar because they figure you're buying from here on out.
For over eight years I was doing the same old shit. It was a job that many TV executives had at some point to get the experience to move on. Only, I noticed as time was moving that I wasn't moving on. I'd switch companies, but it was the same thing. One day earlier this year a bolt of knowledge hit my brain like a soft pillow: you're doing the same thing you were doing eight years ago, except you're paid a hell of a lot more. I stopped and realized that only one factor was going good - my wallet. My brain was the one starving.
Mind you, this was the WRONG place to be for a starving brain. And I can tell you this because I have been in the thick of it for this long - TV networks fear change. They fear it like being told they no longer are relevant (which is getting closer to being each day). They only know one way, and when that one way begins to fade, there's steep wallowing in failure. And even then, in those sour days, change does not come. Part of the reason why I went to this network (one that wanted you to stay at home for one week and watch all their shows but you were free to do whatever you wanted for the rest of the season) was that I was to be a part of the changing of late night programming. It never happened, and it wasn't ever close to happening. It was by no means a failure of anyone in my department. It was people who would have to accept that change and quite possibly become a victim of it.
Am I the victim now that I have left? I was inside, trying to change things for the better and found otherwise. New ideas were met with Disney-approved "performance plans" where you filled out countless surveys on your own work. Instead of testing new formats, I spent an afternoon letting a cartoon character tell me that checking mail on Yahoo is not approved Internet use. Oh, I think I made the right choice, don't you? Almost three years to the day (and documented here on the Gold) I walked out, happier than when I entered. That is sad. But it is also good, because I've, in the words of a wise man "had enough of the bullshit." It's time to live life.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Sports In The Heartland
The thing is, I'm not a masochist. Despite efforts to brand me as such, I enjoy giving pain as much as I enjoy taking it. I don't fit in with the pre-judged idea of a misery-seeking fan. I have priorities, and I have class. Used to be, I could look my teams square in the eye and level them up. A Wyse Old Owl once told me "He's an asshole, but he's a straight shooter, so I can't fault him". Goddamned right. I couldn't fault those teams of the past.
This ain't the past.
I see the future spinning away, lost in a vortex of pain and failed promises, the only hope being that management will Figure It Out, and that's not likely.
Let's just recap, shall we?
KG, Santana, Hunter and Favre. Gone within 14 months of each other. Nothing left to say, open sores, wounds that shouldn't heal.
To run it down, KG was the worst, followed by Santana, then Brett, then Big T. Excuses for each become heavier as you go on, but they never make sense. You can only replace Good Players with Good Players... you can't replace them with "cap relief". You'll win 20 games that way. Or 22, if you're the Timberwolves, and you catch Indiana on a day they don't care.
To begin, there ceases to exist a professional basketball team in this territory. They forfeited that on July 30, 2007. They gave up any claim they ever have to being a franchise, they traded away the only thing they had ever done right, they erased everything they had ever accomplished. They took a Good, and replaced it with a Walking Shit-heap. The destruction of the franchise was complete, and now all that's left is the contraction or the relocation. This one isn't going to last long. I just read in the Local Paper that Corey Brewer had "added some weight" this offseason. Gee, I sure hope he also added some "ability to play basketball without urine streaming down his leg".
The college football equivalent of the Vikings is just that, a failing bumbling franchise bound to play the opening of TCF Stadium to a stadium 3 quarters full of Hawkeye fans. Their coach is comically bad - I've heard him described as "intense" which sounds to me like "screaming at everyone as I call fullback dive once again". I sure wish this team could return to prominence again, but by hiring Brewster, they've given a message to the rest of the Big Ten that they can go ahead and send out the punt team for that week on their schedule for the next few years.
Speaking of pigskin, something ain't right with this Green and Gold, and I ain't talking quarterback. The cornerback has a broken spleen, and we're about due for WR injuries to start mounting. Johnny Jolly is definitely Jolly, and it's only going to take 9 wins to take the Central, but still. When Jon Gruden does you where it don't feel good, it, well, doesn't feel good. At least the coach is respectably overweight.
Gopher basketball is going to come around, mark my fucking words.
I don't acknowledge that a pro hockey team plays here, so we can skip that. Besides all the account managers from Eden Prairie who are more than willing to drop 150 per game to see the fucking Blackhawks, the main problem with the Wild are that they have no continuity between seasons besides Marion Gaborik, who has a perpetually broken dick. They traded their goalie in the middle of the season and he went on to the Cup with Edmonton. So, I guess management has a few things to think about.
Speaking of ice, the Gopher Hockey team is laughingly underachieving. Holy Cross, gotta have some. It hasn't been this bad since Wooger. What, is Bemidji State going to sweep the home and home? Can we get Iowa Tech up here for a game? Minnesota State has passed them in the rankings, and that's not even a real school. When UMD is putting the screws to you every year, well, it's time for Lucia to cut that mop.
That brings us to the Minnesota Motherfucking.
This is how a team should be built, a quality franchise jettisoning players at the right time and constantly thinking two or three moves ahead of the rest of the league. While Baltimore and Cincinnati flail about in a desperate attempt to put together a team that can win more than 80 games, the Twins fall ass backwards into a starting rotation with an average age of 25 years old, and a centerfielder who doesn't know that when he's playing indoors there is no wind. Their manager chews more seeds than he chews his players' asses, and he chews more snoose than that. Big Red, and he takes it by the pouch. The Right Fielder slides into the base head first like a little dickhead, so they call up Pipe Hittin Gangster from AAA, and he becomes Rickey Fuck Henderson for 3 months, and just when Cuddles is ready to come back, he fouls a ball off his foot, which causes him to miss another two months, to which Pipe Hittin Gangster says "I'm going to sport this Ice Cube beard and hit triples to the opposite field because obviously I don't care anymore". The Twins, quite simply, won games because they tried harder than the other teams, which is actually a rarity in these parts. It's one of those things that makes me happy to watch... this season. Next year, it ain't going to be so easy. Who wants to make a bet on Span trying that hard next year? Kubel? Fuck that, it's time to get paid.
I wish I had more to say about this, but I'm fading into the volcano, and there's a whole lot of black between me and the core. I wish I had it figured out, but I'm just a stupid fan. I'm tied to these teams, and one run playoff losses cannot break the binds.
This ain't the past.
I see the future spinning away, lost in a vortex of pain and failed promises, the only hope being that management will Figure It Out, and that's not likely.
Let's just recap, shall we?
KG, Santana, Hunter and Favre. Gone within 14 months of each other. Nothing left to say, open sores, wounds that shouldn't heal.
To run it down, KG was the worst, followed by Santana, then Brett, then Big T. Excuses for each become heavier as you go on, but they never make sense. You can only replace Good Players with Good Players... you can't replace them with "cap relief". You'll win 20 games that way. Or 22, if you're the Timberwolves, and you catch Indiana on a day they don't care.
To begin, there ceases to exist a professional basketball team in this territory. They forfeited that on July 30, 2007. They gave up any claim they ever have to being a franchise, they traded away the only thing they had ever done right, they erased everything they had ever accomplished. They took a Good, and replaced it with a Walking Shit-heap. The destruction of the franchise was complete, and now all that's left is the contraction or the relocation. This one isn't going to last long. I just read in the Local Paper that Corey Brewer had "added some weight" this offseason. Gee, I sure hope he also added some "ability to play basketball without urine streaming down his leg".
The college football equivalent of the Vikings is just that, a failing bumbling franchise bound to play the opening of TCF Stadium to a stadium 3 quarters full of Hawkeye fans. Their coach is comically bad - I've heard him described as "intense" which sounds to me like "screaming at everyone as I call fullback dive once again". I sure wish this team could return to prominence again, but by hiring Brewster, they've given a message to the rest of the Big Ten that they can go ahead and send out the punt team for that week on their schedule for the next few years.
Speaking of pigskin, something ain't right with this Green and Gold, and I ain't talking quarterback. The cornerback has a broken spleen, and we're about due for WR injuries to start mounting. Johnny Jolly is definitely Jolly, and it's only going to take 9 wins to take the Central, but still. When Jon Gruden does you where it don't feel good, it, well, doesn't feel good. At least the coach is respectably overweight.
Gopher basketball is going to come around, mark my fucking words.
I don't acknowledge that a pro hockey team plays here, so we can skip that. Besides all the account managers from Eden Prairie who are more than willing to drop 150 per game to see the fucking Blackhawks, the main problem with the Wild are that they have no continuity between seasons besides Marion Gaborik, who has a perpetually broken dick. They traded their goalie in the middle of the season and he went on to the Cup with Edmonton. So, I guess management has a few things to think about.
Speaking of ice, the Gopher Hockey team is laughingly underachieving. Holy Cross, gotta have some. It hasn't been this bad since Wooger. What, is Bemidji State going to sweep the home and home? Can we get Iowa Tech up here for a game? Minnesota State has passed them in the rankings, and that's not even a real school. When UMD is putting the screws to you every year, well, it's time for Lucia to cut that mop.
That brings us to the Minnesota Motherfucking.
This is how a team should be built, a quality franchise jettisoning players at the right time and constantly thinking two or three moves ahead of the rest of the league. While Baltimore and Cincinnati flail about in a desperate attempt to put together a team that can win more than 80 games, the Twins fall ass backwards into a starting rotation with an average age of 25 years old, and a centerfielder who doesn't know that when he's playing indoors there is no wind. Their manager chews more seeds than he chews his players' asses, and he chews more snoose than that. Big Red, and he takes it by the pouch. The Right Fielder slides into the base head first like a little dickhead, so they call up Pipe Hittin Gangster from AAA, and he becomes Rickey Fuck Henderson for 3 months, and just when Cuddles is ready to come back, he fouls a ball off his foot, which causes him to miss another two months, to which Pipe Hittin Gangster says "I'm going to sport this Ice Cube beard and hit triples to the opposite field because obviously I don't care anymore". The Twins, quite simply, won games because they tried harder than the other teams, which is actually a rarity in these parts. It's one of those things that makes me happy to watch... this season. Next year, it ain't going to be so easy. Who wants to make a bet on Span trying that hard next year? Kubel? Fuck that, it's time to get paid.
I wish I had more to say about this, but I'm fading into the volcano, and there's a whole lot of black between me and the core. I wish I had it figured out, but I'm just a stupid fan. I'm tied to these teams, and one run playoff losses cannot break the binds.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Big Birthday for the Gold
While this is two days early, I know by the weekend we'll be surrounded by NCAA football and empty Lowenbrau bottles. But, glory be! On Saturday, Pacific Gold (formerly California Gold) celebrates its 3rd birthday. Reflect on that for a moment. Yup. This blog was born out of a need to do the kind of writing stated in the description at the top, and allow the writing to sit and be enjoyed. No follow up posts filled with lame jokes or acknowledgement that the writer had no idea what the post was about. Nope, this would be a transmission for this way of life and only that. Sure, there were double posts on one day (stunting the earlier writer) but beyond that this blog has been easy livin. And that's the way to let your days slide. That, in conclusion, is Pacific Gold.
While I write this in a monitoring cell, there are multiple forces in my field of vision. And wearing Brown Shades helps, but as I've found out the hard way that those specs can't deflect everything. I can wear these shades and still get onions in a Sloppy Joe. Onward.
Magic numbers are a real fucking tease. I keep thinking of how positive it is yet you only want it to go away. But the only way it can is for more success. I've tried and tried with analogies (about potato chips or new pairs of jeans) for this and nothing does it justice. But baseball is a sport with more math than just about anything else (possibly bowling physics) and that's what holds the interest of many people. For example, if you think a player (say, named Jones) shouldn't pinch hit because in these situations he is 2 for 24 all season and against left-handers he bats .190, that's one thing. Of course you could say the man has been a gigantic failure for over a year now and has trouble opening a new bar of soap, so there's another reason. An equally good one. Both true. So, the Cubs could win and keep winning, and they are in the playoffs. That's the easy way. But then if they lose but Milwaukee loses...or Houston, depending on current standings and blah blah blah. Keep it in gear, Lou, and you'll never have to pick up a tab again for the rest of your marlin-fishing days.
The Big Ten Football programs are going through early season reality checks. Some schools have decided to delay them until October, but they will arrive. You would think that being out here would tint my view, but it didn't take a genius to know before hand that Ohio State would not win against USC at any price. As I left a swanky restaurant on a rare jailbreak last Friday, I saw two van-loads of Ohio's finest entering the place. Decked out in red, they were magnets to talk (and soon, stacks of prime rib). "Hey! Go Big Ten!" My shouts led to confusion until they remembered that was a half-compliment so they smiled and gave a thumbs up. I think I was breaking their concentration - cheese garlic bread was their M.O. so I should understand. I told them we used to call "thick cut bacon" by it's old name "ham," but I was a stepping stone to this crowd's fuel. As I saw that game the following day (in those moments between a large commercial break) the check was as big as life. You and I know OSU wasn't a top 10 school before the game. Let the Hogs contradict themselves the following day. We walk away from the cashiers putting bills in the pocket.
The brigade will be swinging east to the great white north next week. Rare that I visit during a nice time of year, but this is a good thing. At least I'm hoping so. The stay will be brief; enough to feature lewd behavior and a case of Leine's. That's about all there can be. The sales pitch will be high, naturally, to return in December. However, I know better. When you think of that area it's usually the gold days. But Smiles and I can't go to Lincoln Del and then catch a Twins twi-night. Or relax with poorly made cocktails at Stadium Bowl. Or enjoy an Andy's Tap burger in Bloomington. All of those things are gone now, and a return during the suggested months would be a nightmarish carnival. And as the leaves turn to gold, we must return to it. We're moving on. The chops are ready for the tux, son!
While I write this in a monitoring cell, there are multiple forces in my field of vision. And wearing Brown Shades helps, but as I've found out the hard way that those specs can't deflect everything. I can wear these shades and still get onions in a Sloppy Joe. Onward.
Magic numbers are a real fucking tease. I keep thinking of how positive it is yet you only want it to go away. But the only way it can is for more success. I've tried and tried with analogies (about potato chips or new pairs of jeans) for this and nothing does it justice. But baseball is a sport with more math than just about anything else (possibly bowling physics) and that's what holds the interest of many people. For example, if you think a player (say, named Jones) shouldn't pinch hit because in these situations he is 2 for 24 all season and against left-handers he bats .190, that's one thing. Of course you could say the man has been a gigantic failure for over a year now and has trouble opening a new bar of soap, so there's another reason. An equally good one. Both true. So, the Cubs could win and keep winning, and they are in the playoffs. That's the easy way. But then if they lose but Milwaukee loses...or Houston, depending on current standings and blah blah blah. Keep it in gear, Lou, and you'll never have to pick up a tab again for the rest of your marlin-fishing days.
The Big Ten Football programs are going through early season reality checks. Some schools have decided to delay them until October, but they will arrive. You would think that being out here would tint my view, but it didn't take a genius to know before hand that Ohio State would not win against USC at any price. As I left a swanky restaurant on a rare jailbreak last Friday, I saw two van-loads of Ohio's finest entering the place. Decked out in red, they were magnets to talk (and soon, stacks of prime rib). "Hey! Go Big Ten!" My shouts led to confusion until they remembered that was a half-compliment so they smiled and gave a thumbs up. I think I was breaking their concentration - cheese garlic bread was their M.O. so I should understand. I told them we used to call "thick cut bacon" by it's old name "ham," but I was a stepping stone to this crowd's fuel. As I saw that game the following day (in those moments between a large commercial break) the check was as big as life. You and I know OSU wasn't a top 10 school before the game. Let the Hogs contradict themselves the following day. We walk away from the cashiers putting bills in the pocket.
The brigade will be swinging east to the great white north next week. Rare that I visit during a nice time of year, but this is a good thing. At least I'm hoping so. The stay will be brief; enough to feature lewd behavior and a case of Leine's. That's about all there can be. The sales pitch will be high, naturally, to return in December. However, I know better. When you think of that area it's usually the gold days. But Smiles and I can't go to Lincoln Del and then catch a Twins twi-night. Or relax with poorly made cocktails at Stadium Bowl. Or enjoy an Andy's Tap burger in Bloomington. All of those things are gone now, and a return during the suggested months would be a nightmarish carnival. And as the leaves turn to gold, we must return to it. We're moving on. The chops are ready for the tux, son!
Monday, September 08, 2008
The Great Get-Together, or "We Go To Falcon Heights Instead Of Getting A Passport"
The orgy is over, debris swept and trucked to the landfill not more than 5 miles away. The stands like fallen oaks, chopped to the ground and hauled away in Chevy products. The smell reducing from the lofty animal stench to the stink of modern life. Giant contraptions now transformed into stacks of metal, destined for god knows where. The land re-propriated, the sky higher and a deeper shade.
And to think, only a week ago you could've been eating Spam Curds on this very spot.
Nothing manifests itself more succinctly, no group of people come together in a more typical statement of their shared consciousness - the world over - than Minnesotans at The Fair. It is within this jungle of layered ideas, this labyrinth of confused morals, where the communal heart beats, where the outlook for our entire region radiates. If you see nothing else of this state, if you pre-suppose on nearly every manner of lifestyle, you honestly need nothing more than a 45 minute walk through this spectacle held every labor day weekend. Let no one call it a circus or a carnival. It is, quite simply, every single moment of midwestern life personified on a swatch of land large enough to build a football AND a baseball stadium.
Contradictions and livestock, that's pretty much the main theme here. The contradiction of life lived versus life wanted, and the utter swell of disgusting humanity pushing and herding themselves through various activities deemed fun by those with Money, who almost certainly live on a coast. The ideal self propped up in the form of health fairs and food education classes, standing starkly against the naked reality - the inability to steer away from the Cheese Curds. There is a mirror of information here, an attitude not of self but of reflection of self. Those in attendance are making their one venture into "the city", braving all of the usual dangers that come with being outside for more than an hour at a time, coming in contact with people who don't wear belts, keeping sure the wife is hydrated, the kids are placated, with the watchful eye always looking for the Dark Lurkers. Fanny packs optional, but not really. The reality of it is that The Fair is held on an old farm-field in Falcon Heights, a few miles down the road from the U of M feedlot aka St. Paul Campus. Nearby you can dine at Dino's or KFC, and the unknown maelstrom of Snelling Avenue cuts just to the west.
Contradictions and livestock.
We can look into that barn, but why specify it? It's everywhere, that life of complacency and subjectivity, that meager existence of family and stunted dreams. Like Rivers says, givin up and growin old and hopin there's a god. Cattle through the turnstiles, hogs with credit cards, fowl turned loose and clucking in line to the grandstand. The stink and the depravity lingering, the heat irrepressible. Lightning wouldn't zap away this rot. Floods must come by the thousands.
Still though, there is a shared moment in all of this, the sort of jolt that connects both time and space, and transcends preconceived notions. Ours comes during a wine tasting, coincidentally. The taste of The Grape hits just that right note, and the conversation turns to travels, to escape, to experience. One glance around the room confirms that we are here with a bunch of 30-something women named Stacy or Megan and their woefully stupid husbands, and we identify ourselves as outsiders, Dylan-esque, born without a home, with no direction there-to. Drifters, aimless, knowing not where they want to go but knowing definitely where they DON'T want to go, and that's right here. It's not all bad, any awakening ends up in the positive column. So if you're conscious of it, if you stand outside the bubble, then hell, yes, have another Leine's. It's not ironic and it's not unintentional. It's good goddamned beer. Swim with the pigs, but never walk in that pen without a map.
If you count yourself as an optimist - and why wouldn't you be? - you have to mine each situation for positivity. And in the midst of the swarming masses of Dumbness, to simply remind oneself of their own destiny is as refreshing as a fresh-squeezed lemonade.
High in sugar. But there's a fruit on the cup, so it's ok.
And to think, only a week ago you could've been eating Spam Curds on this very spot.
Nothing manifests itself more succinctly, no group of people come together in a more typical statement of their shared consciousness - the world over - than Minnesotans at The Fair. It is within this jungle of layered ideas, this labyrinth of confused morals, where the communal heart beats, where the outlook for our entire region radiates. If you see nothing else of this state, if you pre-suppose on nearly every manner of lifestyle, you honestly need nothing more than a 45 minute walk through this spectacle held every labor day weekend. Let no one call it a circus or a carnival. It is, quite simply, every single moment of midwestern life personified on a swatch of land large enough to build a football AND a baseball stadium.
Contradictions and livestock, that's pretty much the main theme here. The contradiction of life lived versus life wanted, and the utter swell of disgusting humanity pushing and herding themselves through various activities deemed fun by those with Money, who almost certainly live on a coast. The ideal self propped up in the form of health fairs and food education classes, standing starkly against the naked reality - the inability to steer away from the Cheese Curds. There is a mirror of information here, an attitude not of self but of reflection of self. Those in attendance are making their one venture into "the city", braving all of the usual dangers that come with being outside for more than an hour at a time, coming in contact with people who don't wear belts, keeping sure the wife is hydrated, the kids are placated, with the watchful eye always looking for the Dark Lurkers. Fanny packs optional, but not really. The reality of it is that The Fair is held on an old farm-field in Falcon Heights, a few miles down the road from the U of M feedlot aka St. Paul Campus. Nearby you can dine at Dino's or KFC, and the unknown maelstrom of Snelling Avenue cuts just to the west.
Contradictions and livestock.
We can look into that barn, but why specify it? It's everywhere, that life of complacency and subjectivity, that meager existence of family and stunted dreams. Like Rivers says, givin up and growin old and hopin there's a god. Cattle through the turnstiles, hogs with credit cards, fowl turned loose and clucking in line to the grandstand. The stink and the depravity lingering, the heat irrepressible. Lightning wouldn't zap away this rot. Floods must come by the thousands.
Still though, there is a shared moment in all of this, the sort of jolt that connects both time and space, and transcends preconceived notions. Ours comes during a wine tasting, coincidentally. The taste of The Grape hits just that right note, and the conversation turns to travels, to escape, to experience. One glance around the room confirms that we are here with a bunch of 30-something women named Stacy or Megan and their woefully stupid husbands, and we identify ourselves as outsiders, Dylan-esque, born without a home, with no direction there-to. Drifters, aimless, knowing not where they want to go but knowing definitely where they DON'T want to go, and that's right here. It's not all bad, any awakening ends up in the positive column. So if you're conscious of it, if you stand outside the bubble, then hell, yes, have another Leine's. It's not ironic and it's not unintentional. It's good goddamned beer. Swim with the pigs, but never walk in that pen without a map.
If you count yourself as an optimist - and why wouldn't you be? - you have to mine each situation for positivity. And in the midst of the swarming masses of Dumbness, to simply remind oneself of their own destiny is as refreshing as a fresh-squeezed lemonade.
High in sugar. But there's a fruit on the cup, so it's ok.
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
You'd Think That By Talking That Much, Their Jowls Would Be Significantly Smaller
They're reaching into the dark now, plumbing the depths of the reptilian brain, probing for triggers in all of us. The game has regressed so far from what it once was that it is no longer a game, but rather an all-out cash grab. Consumers are woefully and purposefully ignorant, the media machine bends and twists them to whichever direction gets them to spend more money. Leeches, for demographics.
If you make a statement like "all data is good data", then you must be prepared to deal with the idea of dilution, and the limits of the human attention span. For if it's true that presenting every single piece of information, as innocuous as it may seem, is inherently a good thing, then how could it ever turn out bad? With human interaction? Surely. Any system that takes into account people that put cheese in their crust will be inevitably skewed, and probably toward the dumb side. So if info is good, then why is it bad?
It's bad because it's not a vacuum... it's presented in the same way a gameshow is. It's given to you over the same medium that you use to see images of places you'll never go, and beautiful people you would never meet. It's consumed like a talk show, like the People's Court, like Big Mike's Money Making Bonanza. We eat this information like the lunch buffet at Keith's Kettle. And that's just it. It's a blur, this info. It comes in with other pieces of meaningless trivia, and it's up to the old head to sort it all out, to prioritize.
The old head ain't so good anymore.
If you were to take in 5 pieces of "news" each day, you would have very little difficulty assigning them the appropriate importance. "Hmm, oil is trading for 145 dollars a barrel, which is more than 10 times what it was only 5 years ago. BUT WHAT'S THIS, THEY'RE CLOSING THE CULVERS?!?!?!" It shouldn't be that big of a problem. But now it's coming non-stop, the machine constantly bombarding you, like a drug dealer, cornering you, exploiting the weaknesses, closing the deal. So you don't watch CNN. Don't worry. Blogs will shove the inane down your throat. Think you can get away from MSN? Just try to open your email. Digg is rife with campaign propaganda, ESPN caters to the lowest of the low. In what they disguise as the race to get more info out, they have exposed themselves to the world as huge conglomerates with financial interests in nearly every nefarious act you could conduct in the field of journalism.
That's not the real shame though. Oh no.
The true shame is that we're just barely smart enough to see it happening, and definitely not motivated enough to do anything about it.
A teacher of mine once explained that no matter how stupid an infomercial seemed, no matter how useless the product was, that he could guarantee people were buying that product. He said the evidence was the fact that it was on television. If absolutely nobody was buying it, it would be pulled from the airwaves. And in fact, the most annoying ones, the Ron Popiel gadgets, were the BEST sellers, because they were ALWAYS on.
It's like that now. It's not necessarily ESPN's fault that they run a 30 minute piece over what Brett had for breakfast at the Steak n' Shake (hint: not what YOU would have). It's the consumers who are eating this shit up (not literally). It's the dolts who are going around blogging about it. It's the morons who are talking at the office about it, saying how "silly" it all is, and then dissecting it anyway. I've heard this exact conversation: "This whole Favre thing is getting ridiculous. I just want it all to go away. (pause) So who do you think he'll end up with?" I wonder why even complain about it? If you're going out like a zoo-fed lion, you might as well do like they do and accept it. They sleep 20 hours a day and get their steaks hand delivered. They don't pretend to be interested in doing anything else.
There is no shortage of examples of how dumb this country has become (see: Our President), and it's no surprise to see people revel in their ignorance and play the hand that the media deals to them. Just look at television programming, for fuck's sake. I sometimes think the only positive of ranting about this is to shed some light, however small, on the fact that it's HAPPENING. Hell, I don't even care about anyone else, just me. I just need to know that *I* am still smart enough to see it happening. I have to cut my brain on these thoughts, to organize my mind tracks into a workable playlist.
In the realm of brain laziness, I have to work out.
Of course, none of it matters anyway, because the long slow slide will bring us down to the muck eventually. Along the way, we're getting fewer and fewer things that make us happy, and even basic elements of life are now far too complicated for many people. When it costs 90 dollars a month for a decent cable package, something ain't right. But don't worry, because if you watch enough, and consume enough of that news, you'll be able to share something better than money. You'll have social currency.
Unfortunately, that's only worth as much as the people you share it with. And chances are, they're not very smart.
If you make a statement like "all data is good data", then you must be prepared to deal with the idea of dilution, and the limits of the human attention span. For if it's true that presenting every single piece of information, as innocuous as it may seem, is inherently a good thing, then how could it ever turn out bad? With human interaction? Surely. Any system that takes into account people that put cheese in their crust will be inevitably skewed, and probably toward the dumb side. So if info is good, then why is it bad?
It's bad because it's not a vacuum... it's presented in the same way a gameshow is. It's given to you over the same medium that you use to see images of places you'll never go, and beautiful people you would never meet. It's consumed like a talk show, like the People's Court, like Big Mike's Money Making Bonanza. We eat this information like the lunch buffet at Keith's Kettle. And that's just it. It's a blur, this info. It comes in with other pieces of meaningless trivia, and it's up to the old head to sort it all out, to prioritize.
The old head ain't so good anymore.
If you were to take in 5 pieces of "news" each day, you would have very little difficulty assigning them the appropriate importance. "Hmm, oil is trading for 145 dollars a barrel, which is more than 10 times what it was only 5 years ago. BUT WHAT'S THIS, THEY'RE CLOSING THE CULVERS?!?!?!" It shouldn't be that big of a problem. But now it's coming non-stop, the machine constantly bombarding you, like a drug dealer, cornering you, exploiting the weaknesses, closing the deal. So you don't watch CNN. Don't worry. Blogs will shove the inane down your throat. Think you can get away from MSN? Just try to open your email. Digg is rife with campaign propaganda, ESPN caters to the lowest of the low. In what they disguise as the race to get more info out, they have exposed themselves to the world as huge conglomerates with financial interests in nearly every nefarious act you could conduct in the field of journalism.
That's not the real shame though. Oh no.
The true shame is that we're just barely smart enough to see it happening, and definitely not motivated enough to do anything about it.
A teacher of mine once explained that no matter how stupid an infomercial seemed, no matter how useless the product was, that he could guarantee people were buying that product. He said the evidence was the fact that it was on television. If absolutely nobody was buying it, it would be pulled from the airwaves. And in fact, the most annoying ones, the Ron Popiel gadgets, were the BEST sellers, because they were ALWAYS on.
It's like that now. It's not necessarily ESPN's fault that they run a 30 minute piece over what Brett had for breakfast at the Steak n' Shake (hint: not what YOU would have). It's the consumers who are eating this shit up (not literally). It's the dolts who are going around blogging about it. It's the morons who are talking at the office about it, saying how "silly" it all is, and then dissecting it anyway. I've heard this exact conversation: "This whole Favre thing is getting ridiculous. I just want it all to go away. (pause) So who do you think he'll end up with?" I wonder why even complain about it? If you're going out like a zoo-fed lion, you might as well do like they do and accept it. They sleep 20 hours a day and get their steaks hand delivered. They don't pretend to be interested in doing anything else.
There is no shortage of examples of how dumb this country has become (see: Our President), and it's no surprise to see people revel in their ignorance and play the hand that the media deals to them. Just look at television programming, for fuck's sake. I sometimes think the only positive of ranting about this is to shed some light, however small, on the fact that it's HAPPENING. Hell, I don't even care about anyone else, just me. I just need to know that *I* am still smart enough to see it happening. I have to cut my brain on these thoughts, to organize my mind tracks into a workable playlist.
In the realm of brain laziness, I have to work out.
Of course, none of it matters anyway, because the long slow slide will bring us down to the muck eventually. Along the way, we're getting fewer and fewer things that make us happy, and even basic elements of life are now far too complicated for many people. When it costs 90 dollars a month for a decent cable package, something ain't right. But don't worry, because if you watch enough, and consume enough of that news, you'll be able to share something better than money. You'll have social currency.
Unfortunately, that's only worth as much as the people you share it with. And chances are, they're not very smart.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Good talk, son
You know, I haven't had much of a chance to talk to you man to man, Russ. Well, I've only been a man a few days, dad.
(chuckles) You're growing up so damn fast. I spent the last 15 years developing newer food additives, I guess I've missed an awful lot. First, I didn't want to take this vacation, but now, I'm glad I did. It's given me chance to spend a lot more time with you and...uh...Audrey.
It's been real fun for me, too, dad. Really. Except for Aunt Edna.
Oh, she doesn't mean to be a pain in the rump. Just the way she is. Let's not let it spoil our fun, huh?
I wont. You know, maybe she'd be a nicer person if she had a family of her own. Instead of always having to glom on to someone else's.
You're a pretty bright little guy. Excuse me...MAN. (sigh) You know what I want to do? When I was your age my dad shared a beer with me and I thought it was the best thing in the world. Yeah, when I was a boy, just about every summer we took a vacation. And, you know, in 18 years we never had fun. BUT, now I have my own family, and well, we're on our own vacation, and you know something, Russ?
What, Dad?
We're gonna have fun. Gonna have fun. Hey! Don't let your mother smell that beer on your breath. She'll take it out on me. WELL, I'd better get a move on if I want to get us out of here by dark.
Good talk, son.
Good talk, Dad.
Monday, June 30, 2008
The Sordid Summer
In the days when The DZA lived out here in Goldville (actually, a few years before that) we once thought back to what seems to be the last time we respectively had fun back in the great white north. And that was a summer that's now 10 years old. A decade is a long time, and a look back will show great disparity to how life is now. But it also shows how far we've come.
For me (as with most) The Golden State was still that goal - the one thing that was in the way of everything else. But you can't come out here unprepared. If you do, you usually end up becoming a lady of the evening or selling socks at an intersection within 3 months. So, part by part you put it together until the Lincoln Continental is ready to roll. That's what this summer did for me. But it's totally incorrect to look at it that clinically, because that's not what it was about in sum.
I came home thinking my summer job would be learning how to work audio at the Twins games. Did I have any real interest in this? Not really. But a couple contacts brought it up casually and it paid. All I can say about it was this - it wasn't at the stadium. It was some faceless production studio in the "warehouse district" where this group did the pre-game show. As a very polite man showed me over and over and over again how to set up the board before you even do anything, I quickly realized I'd never see dollar one from this job. (I wasn't going to be paid until I started working on my own anyway). It was boring as shit. When Mike Max shows up and is also bored, that's all I needed to know.
But hell, it wasn't even the end of May. I went to a party and met two ladies who went to school with me & I'd never met. They lived in St. Paul, which is key for part two. This contact also got me a job interning at KTCA on a public affairs show. NOW we're getting somewhere. You don't know how much work atmosphere can differ until you go to public television. And hey, this place was in an area of the cities where I'd never really been. Not only did that open up interesting dives and people, it was more blitzed nights. Triple Margaritas at 1AM is one way to go through life. And if you don't have much of a care for the world, I suggest it. Those post-show Friday summer nights with them were usually a chase for such excitement.
And even then I needed cash. I eventually ended up as a host in a swanky Bloomington restaurant that no longer exists. Built to service the travelers in to visit Met Stadium, this place decided to stop decorating in 1978. Good for me and them. So the menu hadn't updated in 20 years. Who cares? But my other job that occasionally paid was a trip to no man's land. It was a weekly drive on Mondays to Maple Grove. Monday was wrestling night then, and it was at a man's house where promos were shot for a new minor-league wrestling company. One man, armed with phone numbers of everyone who's anyone, made the deals. Another guy (think Kurt from Boogie Nights) turned his RV into a production truck, with his basement wired. Plug it in, and we go. Some could have laughed at how lowdown this was, but it was also a testament to "against all odds." One of their big summer blowouts was at a county fair somewhere in south east Minnesota. "Would you be able to go?" Where's the keys?
On a Thursday morning I drove the late, lamented Olds Custom Cruiser to wherever the hell this was, about 2 hours south. Right on the river. By 11AM I was helping him set up cameras while others set up the ring. At noon I munched on sandwiches made by gorgeous farm girls who seemed ready to get me into a hayloft and even more ready into trouble with their father's rifle. But I had the whole day to clown around in the ring, talk to animals, and look at the rundown of who won & when. To my surprise, I was going to direct half the matches. News to me...and with zero rehearsal no less. But right as I talked to the camera men (1 of his friends and his two kids) I unknowingly made the mistake of telling jokes just to lighten the mood. (How was I supposed to know he'd hear this feed?) Anyway, as the matches were about to start we noticed there were no turnbuckles. Armed with only duct tape from a farmer and my speed into the ring surrounded by crowd of about 500 (a highlight of the summer) they were secured so that these men could be tossed into the corner. The crowd couldn't figure out the difference.
There were other moments, too. I remember sitting on a roof on July 4th yelling pro-USA statements to confused onlookers on the street. (I can and can't remember how I could be put into such a state to do that.) Throwing bags of chips to beach-goers while Nim Nam Gnam drove the KQRS van with 70's Heart songs blaring. Having the real "Spaulding Smails" call me long distance to ask for my new phone number (the one he just called; life imitating art there). Selling Darneys amidst the mania and madness. Filming Rise, which was as much an excuse to go to my old neighborhood as it was to celebrate Herb Alpert.
We all know when things are hitting. It's even more fun when it's the unexpected. And it was an early-afternoon drive in St. Paul, as the only car on Shepherd Road, listening to J.P. Walk and thinking of the classic film Angels Live in My Town did I realize that it was all happening. The beginning of gold. And it is a long road, and no, it's not easy. But when you see gold in the distance, it's all you need to keep on truckin'.
For me (as with most) The Golden State was still that goal - the one thing that was in the way of everything else. But you can't come out here unprepared. If you do, you usually end up becoming a lady of the evening or selling socks at an intersection within 3 months. So, part by part you put it together until the Lincoln Continental is ready to roll. That's what this summer did for me. But it's totally incorrect to look at it that clinically, because that's not what it was about in sum.
I came home thinking my summer job would be learning how to work audio at the Twins games. Did I have any real interest in this? Not really. But a couple contacts brought it up casually and it paid. All I can say about it was this - it wasn't at the stadium. It was some faceless production studio in the "warehouse district" where this group did the pre-game show. As a very polite man showed me over and over and over again how to set up the board before you even do anything, I quickly realized I'd never see dollar one from this job. (I wasn't going to be paid until I started working on my own anyway). It was boring as shit. When Mike Max shows up and is also bored, that's all I needed to know.
But hell, it wasn't even the end of May. I went to a party and met two ladies who went to school with me & I'd never met. They lived in St. Paul, which is key for part two. This contact also got me a job interning at KTCA on a public affairs show. NOW we're getting somewhere. You don't know how much work atmosphere can differ until you go to public television. And hey, this place was in an area of the cities where I'd never really been. Not only did that open up interesting dives and people, it was more blitzed nights. Triple Margaritas at 1AM is one way to go through life. And if you don't have much of a care for the world, I suggest it. Those post-show Friday summer nights with them were usually a chase for such excitement.
And even then I needed cash. I eventually ended up as a host in a swanky Bloomington restaurant that no longer exists. Built to service the travelers in to visit Met Stadium, this place decided to stop decorating in 1978. Good for me and them. So the menu hadn't updated in 20 years. Who cares? But my other job that occasionally paid was a trip to no man's land. It was a weekly drive on Mondays to Maple Grove. Monday was wrestling night then, and it was at a man's house where promos were shot for a new minor-league wrestling company. One man, armed with phone numbers of everyone who's anyone, made the deals. Another guy (think Kurt from Boogie Nights) turned his RV into a production truck, with his basement wired. Plug it in, and we go. Some could have laughed at how lowdown this was, but it was also a testament to "against all odds." One of their big summer blowouts was at a county fair somewhere in south east Minnesota. "Would you be able to go?" Where's the keys?
On a Thursday morning I drove the late, lamented Olds Custom Cruiser to wherever the hell this was, about 2 hours south. Right on the river. By 11AM I was helping him set up cameras while others set up the ring. At noon I munched on sandwiches made by gorgeous farm girls who seemed ready to get me into a hayloft and even more ready into trouble with their father's rifle. But I had the whole day to clown around in the ring, talk to animals, and look at the rundown of who won & when. To my surprise, I was going to direct half the matches. News to me...and with zero rehearsal no less. But right as I talked to the camera men (1 of his friends and his two kids) I unknowingly made the mistake of telling jokes just to lighten the mood. (How was I supposed to know he'd hear this feed?) Anyway, as the matches were about to start we noticed there were no turnbuckles. Armed with only duct tape from a farmer and my speed into the ring surrounded by crowd of about 500 (a highlight of the summer) they were secured so that these men could be tossed into the corner. The crowd couldn't figure out the difference.
There were other moments, too. I remember sitting on a roof on July 4th yelling pro-USA statements to confused onlookers on the street. (I can and can't remember how I could be put into such a state to do that.) Throwing bags of chips to beach-goers while Nim Nam Gnam drove the KQRS van with 70's Heart songs blaring. Having the real "Spaulding Smails" call me long distance to ask for my new phone number (the one he just called; life imitating art there). Selling Darneys amidst the mania and madness. Filming Rise, which was as much an excuse to go to my old neighborhood as it was to celebrate Herb Alpert.
We all know when things are hitting. It's even more fun when it's the unexpected. And it was an early-afternoon drive in St. Paul, as the only car on Shepherd Road, listening to J.P. Walk and thinking of the classic film Angels Live in My Town did I realize that it was all happening. The beginning of gold. And it is a long road, and no, it's not easy. But when you see gold in the distance, it's all you need to keep on truckin'.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Monday, May 05, 2008
Run for the Rose Colored Glasses
This past Saturday was picture perfect - sunny and warm, a slight breeze...everything that sends signals to your brain to get outside immediately. But it was Derby Day and the lady had just called from Las Vegas - where are we putting the money? Despite doing research for a living I hadn't even casually viewed the field. There was talk of trifectas and other collections, but we agreed to treat this like roulette and see what happens.
So, I figured I'd view some of the coverage and see what I could learn. Maybe they would mention something that would be such an advantage it could alter our wagers. After an opening written by the intern: "The pageantry...the hats...the mint juleps...the crazy infield..." Tom Hammond was joined by...Billy Bush? What the fuck is going on?! They could have just flashed "FILLING TIME" on the screen and I'd have gotten the drift just as easy. So what else was on for the sports fans? CBS had golf coverage from North Carolina...couldn't figure out what tournament it was, and Jim Nantz was lulling everyone to sleep. Whatever was on ABC was in the middle of a gigantic commercial break. Fox was airing the Baltimore/Anaheim game and Dick Stockton wouldn't let go of what a "beautiful day" it was here in southern California. No shit. Let's get this fucking race going, huh?
I was about to get surly when I saw something labeled "Blue Demon vs. Las Invasoras" - out of Burbank's own KRCA. And, click. It was late 1960s lucha libre wrestling. So, it was nothing like what we know of; more like if AWA put on a "Mexican wrestling" match. Considering my alternatives, I stuck with the film. Not far after the match, an "Invasora" said something to an old guy and a key light with a red gel covered his face. Apparently this rendered him silent. But, before I could figure out where to find this light and send it to Fox Sports, it was race time!
Not surprisingly, my lack of research didn't pay off. the lady called and lamented this as well, but was optimistic for the future gambling. I had already gone outside to seize the outdoors when the phone immediately rang.
"OH MY GOD I JUST WON $1000!"
Research pays off, but sometimes it doesn't. With so much action, the sports book had a raffle for all those who had bet over $20 that day. The first two drawings were for $500, with a grand the big prize. And let's be honest: winning a raffle outside the sports book is a bigger thrill than spending a week on the college baseball match-ups and then getting what you expect. Toss a ticket into a bucket...take this check. That's America, friends. As expected, the lady was difficult for details right afterward...akin to the on the field interview after a kicker made a game winning field goal. Of course, I was asking for real details, unlike Michele "What's going through your mind?" Tayfoa. But in the end she said, knowingly, "so, I'm telling everyone I won a grand on the Kentucky Derby." Your damn right you did. And I can only imagine the die-hards, the lifers in that sports book who saw her win, stared at their ticket that says "Pyro WIN 7-1" and saying to no one in particular, "I ain't had a winner in weeks."
So, I figured I'd view some of the coverage and see what I could learn. Maybe they would mention something that would be such an advantage it could alter our wagers. After an opening written by the intern: "The pageantry...the hats...the mint juleps...the crazy infield..." Tom Hammond was joined by...Billy Bush? What the fuck is going on?! They could have just flashed "FILLING TIME" on the screen and I'd have gotten the drift just as easy. So what else was on for the sports fans? CBS had golf coverage from North Carolina...couldn't figure out what tournament it was, and Jim Nantz was lulling everyone to sleep. Whatever was on ABC was in the middle of a gigantic commercial break. Fox was airing the Baltimore/Anaheim game and Dick Stockton wouldn't let go of what a "beautiful day" it was here in southern California. No shit. Let's get this fucking race going, huh?
I was about to get surly when I saw something labeled "Blue Demon vs. Las Invasoras" - out of Burbank's own KRCA. And, click. It was late 1960s lucha libre wrestling. So, it was nothing like what we know of; more like if AWA put on a "Mexican wrestling" match. Considering my alternatives, I stuck with the film. Not far after the match, an "Invasora" said something to an old guy and a key light with a red gel covered his face. Apparently this rendered him silent. But, before I could figure out where to find this light and send it to Fox Sports, it was race time!
Not surprisingly, my lack of research didn't pay off. the lady called and lamented this as well, but was optimistic for the future gambling. I had already gone outside to seize the outdoors when the phone immediately rang.
"OH MY GOD I JUST WON $1000!"
Research pays off, but sometimes it doesn't. With so much action, the sports book had a raffle for all those who had bet over $20 that day. The first two drawings were for $500, with a grand the big prize. And let's be honest: winning a raffle outside the sports book is a bigger thrill than spending a week on the college baseball match-ups and then getting what you expect. Toss a ticket into a bucket...take this check. That's America, friends. As expected, the lady was difficult for details right afterward...akin to the on the field interview after a kicker made a game winning field goal. Of course, I was asking for real details, unlike Michele "What's going through your mind?" Tayfoa. But in the end she said, knowingly, "so, I'm telling everyone I won a grand on the Kentucky Derby." Your damn right you did. And I can only imagine the die-hards, the lifers in that sports book who saw her win, stared at their ticket that says "Pyro WIN 7-1" and saying to no one in particular, "I ain't had a winner in weeks."
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Shanty Town
We're back stateside now, the world closing in to a fine point, vultures and dogs all encroaching in the dark. The laziness returns, the inactivity. Like a black hole, sapping us of our motion. And so we plant ourselves, sit and watch the sun move across the sky, the day goes down to another, and we watch as life happens everywhere but here.
But that's not going to fly on The Gold. We're here to open it up and talk about the stink... the rotten of the world exposed for all to see. Let the humanity race forward and over the cliff. Let's start in San Jose.
The Capital is the kind of place that perks you up like either a punch in the face or a nose full of thinner. You're going to move your ass here. Sidewalks are rare, cars stopping to let you cross the street even rarer. An acquaintance mentioned that a necessity to bring when visiting any Latino country is a horn in your pocket, just so you'll be able to honk back at the drivers. Because they're going to let it blare if you stumble into the street. It's a game. Some sort of bean-fueled Frogger where nobody seems to care about the outcome. Sir, have you thought your actions through to a conclusion? Because the best I can see out of this situation is a young child impaled through your windscreen, legs still kicking through the shards. So maybe that's why we're all on buses here. That, or the fact that they're 40 cents.
Filth is everywhere, but that's simply a backdrop. The garbage in the gutters is jarring at first, but then you're used to it. The smell of the place lingers - the bus fumes rattle around your chest for days afterwards. A headache is the least of your worries. The 5 years checked off your life by choosing to take that breath through your mouth and not your nose... that's the concern. The rats scurry and play in the ravine of garbage, the smell festering up in the unmoving water. Everywhere there is energy. The buildings themselves seem to move, as we're all going somewhere. It's a Tuesday afternoon in the middle of the city and it's like Carnival. Does nobody work here? Or is there 10 times the population density in the urban areas? The answer comes as we speed away from town, past crumbling casinos and ill-preserved churches. The financial center is a tight ball, condensed and guarded by men with guns. You have to flash ID to use the ATM. You can't help it, there's nowhere to stop. Keep moving, don't look back, and for god's sake, hold hands. You need to feel something other than desperation.
The mountains are a different matter - all wind and atmosphere - peaking above clouds and above responsibility. You could take flight at this height, literally and figuratively, and if your bus catches the wrong rock around the bend, you might see a free fall. From the top of the ridge you can see Nicaragua, the Pacific, San Jose, and a volcano. You can see the land stretch and slope to its termination, the gentle drop of a thousand kilometers, candy for your 2-D Vision. The wall of green and blue, smoke on some distant hillside, and the wind like a soundtrack. Climb fast, and hold tight to the memories, because like any peak, they wear away. The blowing air rattles the windows and unsettles the mind. Things loosen up in the high air, thinning molecules taking longer to grip, the first stages of the bends. Looking down never felt so lonely.
And then for the beaches, that demonic blue pulling you to its crystal berth, drawing you in with the promise of bathwater and a salty recharge. The sun beams heavy, it falls like a slow curtain, enveloping all. Everything slows down, brain included, the waves even crash in long sounding roars. Catch a good view and you can see forever, or at least as far as you would need to. Get down in it, and you can examine the complexity of it all. How can this earth exist on so many planes? If it's that grand, it can't possibly be that ornate. As a friend might say, this is all too kitschy. The island, the reef, the sun, the surf, the breeze at 80 degrees? That's kitsch. Too much. Stop adding things. It's supposed to be simple.
Darkness washes the beach, a sand-cleanse deep and true. The best walks are the dangerous ones, with the surf crashing in some indeterminate distance and shadows creeping along the jungle. Either monkeys or thieves, and the difference lies strictly in definition. One bites, the other howls. Worry seems so wasteful here, to spend valuable mental energy on thinking about anything bad is the closest we come to sin. We pray to the sun, and we worship in all that it brings.
This world will be gone soon, all worlds go down to the black night, and new worlds are born in the sweet residue. The ever-changing politics and economics dance along with the climate shift. The coral feels as much of a crunch as the GDP, possibly more. The system will continue to feed until it dries up, and then New Ideas will come forward.
Until then, we can laugh. And we can swim. And in amongst it all, we can speak to each other and the world.
My speech is a physical one. My worship is a returning. My life doesn't slow down.
But that's not going to fly on The Gold. We're here to open it up and talk about the stink... the rotten of the world exposed for all to see. Let the humanity race forward and over the cliff. Let's start in San Jose.
The Capital is the kind of place that perks you up like either a punch in the face or a nose full of thinner. You're going to move your ass here. Sidewalks are rare, cars stopping to let you cross the street even rarer. An acquaintance mentioned that a necessity to bring when visiting any Latino country is a horn in your pocket, just so you'll be able to honk back at the drivers. Because they're going to let it blare if you stumble into the street. It's a game. Some sort of bean-fueled Frogger where nobody seems to care about the outcome. Sir, have you thought your actions through to a conclusion? Because the best I can see out of this situation is a young child impaled through your windscreen, legs still kicking through the shards. So maybe that's why we're all on buses here. That, or the fact that they're 40 cents.
Filth is everywhere, but that's simply a backdrop. The garbage in the gutters is jarring at first, but then you're used to it. The smell of the place lingers - the bus fumes rattle around your chest for days afterwards. A headache is the least of your worries. The 5 years checked off your life by choosing to take that breath through your mouth and not your nose... that's the concern. The rats scurry and play in the ravine of garbage, the smell festering up in the unmoving water. Everywhere there is energy. The buildings themselves seem to move, as we're all going somewhere. It's a Tuesday afternoon in the middle of the city and it's like Carnival. Does nobody work here? Or is there 10 times the population density in the urban areas? The answer comes as we speed away from town, past crumbling casinos and ill-preserved churches. The financial center is a tight ball, condensed and guarded by men with guns. You have to flash ID to use the ATM. You can't help it, there's nowhere to stop. Keep moving, don't look back, and for god's sake, hold hands. You need to feel something other than desperation.
The mountains are a different matter - all wind and atmosphere - peaking above clouds and above responsibility. You could take flight at this height, literally and figuratively, and if your bus catches the wrong rock around the bend, you might see a free fall. From the top of the ridge you can see Nicaragua, the Pacific, San Jose, and a volcano. You can see the land stretch and slope to its termination, the gentle drop of a thousand kilometers, candy for your 2-D Vision. The wall of green and blue, smoke on some distant hillside, and the wind like a soundtrack. Climb fast, and hold tight to the memories, because like any peak, they wear away. The blowing air rattles the windows and unsettles the mind. Things loosen up in the high air, thinning molecules taking longer to grip, the first stages of the bends. Looking down never felt so lonely.
And then for the beaches, that demonic blue pulling you to its crystal berth, drawing you in with the promise of bathwater and a salty recharge. The sun beams heavy, it falls like a slow curtain, enveloping all. Everything slows down, brain included, the waves even crash in long sounding roars. Catch a good view and you can see forever, or at least as far as you would need to. Get down in it, and you can examine the complexity of it all. How can this earth exist on so many planes? If it's that grand, it can't possibly be that ornate. As a friend might say, this is all too kitschy. The island, the reef, the sun, the surf, the breeze at 80 degrees? That's kitsch. Too much. Stop adding things. It's supposed to be simple.
Darkness washes the beach, a sand-cleanse deep and true. The best walks are the dangerous ones, with the surf crashing in some indeterminate distance and shadows creeping along the jungle. Either monkeys or thieves, and the difference lies strictly in definition. One bites, the other howls. Worry seems so wasteful here, to spend valuable mental energy on thinking about anything bad is the closest we come to sin. We pray to the sun, and we worship in all that it brings.
This world will be gone soon, all worlds go down to the black night, and new worlds are born in the sweet residue. The ever-changing politics and economics dance along with the climate shift. The coral feels as much of a crunch as the GDP, possibly more. The system will continue to feed until it dries up, and then New Ideas will come forward.
Until then, we can laugh. And we can swim. And in amongst it all, we can speak to each other and the world.
My speech is a physical one. My worship is a returning. My life doesn't slow down.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
North of the Unusual
(Editor's Note: Trip Darvez, California Gold's seemingly sole correspondent, recently spent time in Las Vegas. Ill-prepared and distracted for reasons unknown, he failed to write a story but instead sent notes. These notes were written on a variety of items: a cocktail napkin, reverse side of a bingo chart, and a paper plate (among other things). While we are unable to fit these ramblings into a coherent outline, they are shared nevertheless.)
Stuck here in the departures level when I just arrived...can't say I understand this airport and I never will. Now standing next to me is a large man wearing an eye patch. Casually smoking in his Hawaiian shirt, black pants, and brown loafers, this man is struggling to survey the surroundings. I always wondered where these people are on TV - the real people with eye injuries. "Snake" (because I can't think of another name for him) was eerily silent until 4 girls walked by...each were carrying large trophies. And then he spoke: "Looks like you have a lot to be proud about!" He cleared his throat, and my ride just showed up
------------
On the casino floor a guy is really upset. I think he's lost everything early...it's only Saturday afternoon and he's yelling into a phone. "It's a credit union. CREDIT UNION! (pause) No, I don't know what the difference is!"
------------
Just saw someone is asleep in a chair in the bingo room. At least, I HOPE they are asleep. Would anyone notice? Maybe that's an unwritten rule about this?
------------
We really need to make it clear - a casino will tell you anything you want to hear to get you in. Different story when you arrive. No, the restaurant doesn't have outside seating. Nope, the jazz show was cancelled. No, we're out of the fish special. Yes, our salsa is "homemade."
------------
Nothing greets a new day like a sportsbook on a weekday morning. These are the lifers...no visiting folks. I kept trying to think of action and completely forgot that baseball began their regular season in MARCH. File that idea under snowout. If we took 15 games out of the schedule, would you even notice? But the die hards are drawn to the ponies. As I cash Potsy's tickets, each begins their bet with "Yeah, lemme have..."
------------
There's times, hard times, and then there's the Asuza AM/PM. Could you ever imagine a Jack in the Box a safe haven? Point me west, please.
------------
1416 OVER +10
1420 OVER +10
+$8
(Editor's Note: We are not sure of the significance of the last note, but have included it all the same.)
Stuck here in the departures level when I just arrived...can't say I understand this airport and I never will. Now standing next to me is a large man wearing an eye patch. Casually smoking in his Hawaiian shirt, black pants, and brown loafers, this man is struggling to survey the surroundings. I always wondered where these people are on TV - the real people with eye injuries. "Snake" (because I can't think of another name for him) was eerily silent until 4 girls walked by...each were carrying large trophies. And then he spoke: "Looks like you have a lot to be proud about!" He cleared his throat, and my ride just showed up
------------
On the casino floor a guy is really upset. I think he's lost everything early...it's only Saturday afternoon and he's yelling into a phone. "It's a credit union. CREDIT UNION! (pause) No, I don't know what the difference is!"
------------
Just saw someone is asleep in a chair in the bingo room. At least, I HOPE they are asleep. Would anyone notice? Maybe that's an unwritten rule about this?
------------
We really need to make it clear - a casino will tell you anything you want to hear to get you in. Different story when you arrive. No, the restaurant doesn't have outside seating. Nope, the jazz show was cancelled. No, we're out of the fish special. Yes, our salsa is "homemade."
------------
Nothing greets a new day like a sportsbook on a weekday morning. These are the lifers...no visiting folks. I kept trying to think of action and completely forgot that baseball began their regular season in MARCH. File that idea under snowout. If we took 15 games out of the schedule, would you even notice? But the die hards are drawn to the ponies. As I cash Potsy's tickets, each begins their bet with "Yeah, lemme have..."
------------
There's times, hard times, and then there's the Asuza AM/PM. Could you ever imagine a Jack in the Box a safe haven? Point me west, please.
------------
1416 OVER +10
1420 OVER +10
+$8
(Editor's Note: We are not sure of the significance of the last note, but have included it all the same.)
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
The Academy of Global Golden Awards
I am saying this with complete confidence: things are really fucking good right now. I've said they're good in the past, and maybe it was, but it hasn't been this good in a long time. Checks being cashed, ideas flowing like a poorly made batch of pudding, a wonderful lady who exceeds my expectations at every turn, I couldn't ask for much more. But that didn't stop us from unknowingly attending an award show on Sunday. Actually it was a wake...we were incorrectly dressed for the occasion, but what's new?
I'm not really a red carpet kind of guy - mostly because I don't know where to park. We did some shopping in the mall and then wandered over to the Cafetorium where the prizes were on display. The accountants had wisely turned these statues backward so the already engraved winners' names were not showing. We were peaceful and a little nervous...but for some reason I thought I heard someone converse about college basketball. The lady was willing to indulge me, and I looked out to see who it was. By the time I arrived the convo had ended and I saw Regis Himself talking to someone I didn't initially recognize. And then this legend turned to me and chastised me for NOT CHEERING COME ON YOU SEE WHO'S HERE?! Some sort of usher told me who she was and then it rang a bell: Disnergy. I had a grimace on my face that she noticed. "Some days, it just don't pay to get up." It was my luck she didn't recognize a Barris quote (why would she?) and took it as something else. We disappeared in a barren balcony about 2000 feet away from the action.
Upon returning we kept looking for familiar faces...and didn't see many. At first we chalked that up to new nominees. But we kept looking...
"This is really sad," I said. We were sympathetic to a point, but did get to see some interesting moments.
I'm not really a red carpet kind of guy - mostly because I don't know where to park. We did some shopping in the mall and then wandered over to the Cafetorium where the prizes were on display. The accountants had wisely turned these statues backward so the already engraved winners' names were not showing. We were peaceful and a little nervous...but for some reason I thought I heard someone converse about college basketball. The lady was willing to indulge me, and I looked out to see who it was. By the time I arrived the convo had ended and I saw Regis Himself talking to someone I didn't initially recognize. And then this legend turned to me and chastised me for NOT CHEERING COME ON YOU SEE WHO'S HERE?! Some sort of usher told me who she was and then it rang a bell: Disnergy. I had a grimace on my face that she noticed. "Some days, it just don't pay to get up." It was my luck she didn't recognize a Barris quote (why would she?) and took it as something else. We disappeared in a barren balcony about 2000 feet away from the action.
Upon returning we kept looking for familiar faces...and didn't see many. At first we chalked that up to new nominees. But we kept looking...
"This is really sad," I said. We were sympathetic to a point, but did get to see some interesting moments.
- The director fall asleep in the control room. No one else noticed. But I was a tad stunned that the producer of the show was winning the "Dick Ebersol 20th Century Production in the 21st Century" award. Immediately following this excitement we went and ate tasty burgers. It turns out we missed nothing.
- During the fourth montage we found a bottle of organic wine in a swag basket and enjoyed it...talking about everything and nothing. No one noticed and we also couldn't figure out why regular wine isn't organic, too.
- While the lady was in the powder room, I briefly thought about how this award show had all gone wrong. Is it all too much or is it not enough? That's a pretty good phrase that doesn't say anything. Few real stars, too much coverage? Remember when there was only 1 TV show that dealt with this? And 1 magazine? And that's was fine?
- We both think Marion Cotillard should be in a constant stream of films just so we can see her. Or we are willing to adopt her.
Now, the rest of the night was good, into the morning. I was exhausted but willing to play 48 because that's my thing...but dankness hung over my monitoring cell.
"bbbsssszzzzzzwellthisislow....zzzzzbbbnoonewatched."
Look, when Disnergy is out of control, and studios will spend and spend on the "Summer Thrill Ride" and these small divisions keep churning out great films...when no stars show up unless they're nominated...when the directing looks like a police line-up...what? But they want an edgy host! Last time that happened, Chris Rock laid shit down. Haven't seen him back. Last time before that? Letterman, who made fun of everyone. Can't have that. Dave said "Forrest Gump said life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you're going to get. Unless you're sitting next to Roger Ebert, where you know you're not going to get anything." You can't make fun of these people, unless they are arrested.
Steve Simpson is 1/4th or so around the world, and as we study his enjoyment the discussions are numerous and many. There IS TV in Hawaii, you know. It exists everywhere and ol Trip could make some scratch here and there. This is talk, it is early, but this happens when the only one left who needs some proof is yourself.
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
No hesitations. No tears & no hearts breaking. No remorse.
Throughout our travels and forced living quarters, it's much too easy to force a comparison to other cities and other people. For myself, I first recall this going on during a battle of the bands in Key West. The winner received a brick of gold. You can imagine the frivolity in which the competition included. And once it was obvious even to the tone deaf who the winner would be, those not in first had to somehow salvage their pride. So, the old large sows from New York battled those from Nevada or somewhere. That's not the important part. And I wasn't aware of what I was seeing for the first time - people attempting to justify their existence. Something tells me it's a different story at home, where the mostacoli and chicken fried steak sits in a wash basin as Peggy and the kids dive in!
San Juan, Puerto Rico
The vessel was clipping at an unruly pace but there was no going around it - we were late. My friend was in flat denial about this, but the jug of Bacardi that was supposed to last through Wednesday was nearly gone. Normally a man whose senses had been jumbled with the tropical rum would be on my side. However, I was getting the sinking feeling we'd be enemies by nightfall. The early impression of San Juan was chaos. It still hasn't changed. Maybe it was the garbage in the streets. Or it could have been the futile attempts to find a driver to get me out of town. With traffic at a standstill and this trash getting to me, instincts pointed us north. Once the sun went down, however, I immediately regretted the decision. Surveying the surroundings yielded nothing positive at all.
"We've got an option - either we casually walk back to the reef as calmly and quickly as possible." Barry's attempt to clear his throat lead to a coughing fit, so I took this a a signal to give plan "B." "Or, fuck that part, let's go to the other side and charter something."
Like the moron I usually am, I had no idea where we'd go. But he had the cash and as long as he was with me I should be good, right? For the most part, plan B worked...except for a vagabond who threatened to alter everything. There it was: the landing strip within distance when...
"Hey, do you speak English?"
My "what?" was a dead giveaway - Barry shot me a look that was something like "you dumbshit." And then this sod launched into a tale that rivaled yarns I heard in Boston many years ago. Without wanting to relive the horrid experience a second time, rest assured it was all about money. It always is. Before I could even get a word out, Barry belched "Where the fuck do you think you are, Las Vegas?"
He grabbed me by my shirt and off we ran. This dolt kept trying to solicit us - he even added "I'm calling the police!" That might work elsewhere but in a U.S. territory I could give a fuck. The bills were flashed in a hurry but long enough for the pilot to know we meant business. 15 minutes later, after some creative hiding, we were leaving the island where the pilot took the bite of a pastry and turned to me. "Wait - where are we going?"
Saint-Martin, French West Indies
This night flight didn't calm our nerves as it should have. Plus figuring out which side was Dutch and the other French was just as difficult. It came down to what we could do more with our weak fucking dollar. I should have brought the Euros but they served me to happiness at home right now. This wasn't the worst thing, though, as it kept the riff-raff from the island out of our way. But I won't lie - the conversion seemed shady.
Eating our breakfast facing the sea, we realized our waitress had the amazing ability to convert everything to U.S. dollars. "Barry, I'm no fucking math wizard, but I can at least calculate missing checks and money that slut back in the U.S. owes me. So with some authority I-"
His fists slammed on the table.
"Can your ethics. Screw the superlatives. We're getting ripped off. So we're going to keep ordering fucking food and drink and show this girl American Balls." I'd like to take a moment and establish that I only trust my friend in court. Anywhere else is a different story. Hell, ask him to talk about the TV antenna on my roof and why it picked up no Cuban baseball but acted as a high power police signal. Yeah.
Casually, I left the table with everything else I could carry - a pineapple, a flash of rum, 3 hats, and a crudely made harmonica. The rest of the day was spent on a covert attempt to get to the other side and safety. Looking back at this, it was clearly a sign that we should not try to go to Haiti. It's not going to be worth it, I keep telling myself. Why do you have to keep going to those places that are either in the middle of a war or about to have one?
Shit, I'd rather spend my time breaking down this weekend's NFL play-off match-up. But we're not going to be in Tampa until the weekend at the earliest. Lordy me - flashbacks. El Salvador in 1985. That was your Hotel California, Don. They wanted an eye on everyone, and the Embassy was akin to "out of bounds" but my story which was written in near total hiding there lead to my firing. "Get the fuck out of Dodge" was a refrain then, and 20 years later we're saying the same thing. But despite being somewhere else we're still in the "oh shit" belt of the Western Hemisphere. I don't see a crossing of the Continental Divide in my future.
Editor's Note: Trip's writing book was seized by customs. This incomplete writing was all that was saved. Mr. Darvez is fine, currently not accepting collect calls from Flagstaff, Arizona.
San Juan, Puerto Rico
The vessel was clipping at an unruly pace but there was no going around it - we were late. My friend was in flat denial about this, but the jug of Bacardi that was supposed to last through Wednesday was nearly gone. Normally a man whose senses had been jumbled with the tropical rum would be on my side. However, I was getting the sinking feeling we'd be enemies by nightfall. The early impression of San Juan was chaos. It still hasn't changed. Maybe it was the garbage in the streets. Or it could have been the futile attempts to find a driver to get me out of town. With traffic at a standstill and this trash getting to me, instincts pointed us north. Once the sun went down, however, I immediately regretted the decision. Surveying the surroundings yielded nothing positive at all.
"We've got an option - either we casually walk back to the reef as calmly and quickly as possible." Barry's attempt to clear his throat lead to a coughing fit, so I took this a a signal to give plan "B." "Or, fuck that part, let's go to the other side and charter something."
Like the moron I usually am, I had no idea where we'd go. But he had the cash and as long as he was with me I should be good, right? For the most part, plan B worked...except for a vagabond who threatened to alter everything. There it was: the landing strip within distance when...
"Hey, do you speak English?"
My "what?" was a dead giveaway - Barry shot me a look that was something like "you dumbshit." And then this sod launched into a tale that rivaled yarns I heard in Boston many years ago. Without wanting to relive the horrid experience a second time, rest assured it was all about money. It always is. Before I could even get a word out, Barry belched "Where the fuck do you think you are, Las Vegas?"
He grabbed me by my shirt and off we ran. This dolt kept trying to solicit us - he even added "I'm calling the police!" That might work elsewhere but in a U.S. territory I could give a fuck. The bills were flashed in a hurry but long enough for the pilot to know we meant business. 15 minutes later, after some creative hiding, we were leaving the island where the pilot took the bite of a pastry and turned to me. "Wait - where are we going?"
Saint-Martin, French West Indies
This night flight didn't calm our nerves as it should have. Plus figuring out which side was Dutch and the other French was just as difficult. It came down to what we could do more with our weak fucking dollar. I should have brought the Euros but they served me to happiness at home right now. This wasn't the worst thing, though, as it kept the riff-raff from the island out of our way. But I won't lie - the conversion seemed shady.
Eating our breakfast facing the sea, we realized our waitress had the amazing ability to convert everything to U.S. dollars. "Barry, I'm no fucking math wizard, but I can at least calculate missing checks and money that slut back in the U.S. owes me. So with some authority I-"
His fists slammed on the table.
"Can your ethics. Screw the superlatives. We're getting ripped off. So we're going to keep ordering fucking food and drink and show this girl American Balls." I'd like to take a moment and establish that I only trust my friend in court. Anywhere else is a different story. Hell, ask him to talk about the TV antenna on my roof and why it picked up no Cuban baseball but acted as a high power police signal. Yeah.
Casually, I left the table with everything else I could carry - a pineapple, a flash of rum, 3 hats, and a crudely made harmonica. The rest of the day was spent on a covert attempt to get to the other side and safety. Looking back at this, it was clearly a sign that we should not try to go to Haiti. It's not going to be worth it, I keep telling myself. Why do you have to keep going to those places that are either in the middle of a war or about to have one?
Shit, I'd rather spend my time breaking down this weekend's NFL play-off match-up. But we're not going to be in Tampa until the weekend at the earliest. Lordy me - flashbacks. El Salvador in 1985. That was your Hotel California, Don. They wanted an eye on everyone, and the Embassy was akin to "out of bounds" but my story which was written in near total hiding there lead to my firing. "Get the fuck out of Dodge" was a refrain then, and 20 years later we're saying the same thing. But despite being somewhere else we're still in the "oh shit" belt of the Western Hemisphere. I don't see a crossing of the Continental Divide in my future.
Editor's Note: Trip's writing book was seized by customs. This incomplete writing was all that was saved. Mr. Darvez is fine, currently not accepting collect calls from Flagstaff, Arizona.
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