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!
Thursday, September 18, 2008
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.
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