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!
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