Re-evaluating the Turkeys

(No, this is not a food column)

When your writer was just a young lad, Dealville in mind, I read any TV-related book I could find.  More than one would do their best (in varying levels of journalistic ability) to document horrible shows...strictly programming, as at the time the behind-the-scenes stuff wasn't as marketable.  "Find out the truth of what happened at CBS!"  In the 80s and 90s, who cared?  "A look at the worst shows ever made!"  SOLD!

So, years later, it's interesting to note a response of two trends so many scribes felt the need to let their say be printed:
1. If they thought they'd seen bad sitcoms, maybe that had, but holy shit would the next 20 years deliver some junk
2. Once producers realized to cut out the middle man (being the host of a "news magazine" show or "daytime talk show") and let the freaks be freaks in their natural habitat, it changed programming forever.

For the first part, there are two aspects that grew like a fungus and nearly guaranteed shit. 

• You don't need a situation for a situation comedy. 

This put a lot of shows in trouble because, without a situation, the comedy had better be there.  With no situation, one to create comedy or draw in the viewer, you're needing to bank on a cast, or writing that will base plots on the characters.  And if your characters are nothing more than thin cliches, well, you're fucked.  Oh, and, you've made some shit TV.

Consider an 80s show that was considered a "turkey" afterwards, and in print.  "We Got it Made," which had the following concept: Two roommates (guys who are classically very different in personality) decide to place an ad for a housekeeper.  They end up hiring the first person who showed up: a hot looking blonde.  Their girlfriends are naturally suspicious, but the guys (and the housekeeper) insist everything is on the up and up.  That is, of course, until misunderstandings come up each week. 

Good lord, look how long it took me to explain that.  OK, now here's a new show on Fox, "I Hate My Teenage Daughter" and that situation: Two mothers who've tried to give their daughters everything they never had suddenly realize that their girls are turning into exactly the sort of mean, stuck-up people who made fun of them in high school.

Not a lot of "sit" in that sit-com...so they'd better bring the com, right.  Well, that brings us to the 2nd aspect

• As time evolved, you could get away with saying stuff that was "revolutionary" 15 years ago.

Red Forman on That 70's Show might end a scene with his son by saying "Think, dumbass!"  But now, that kind of line IS the joke.  We weren't 5 minutes into the pilot IHMTD when one character (one we hardly knew, to another that was being introduced) said "The problem is you're a dumbass!"  Whatever exploration may occur as the series goes on, there's the level of writing you'll see.

I recently had a dealmaking dinner with a longtime executive of a TV network, and he expounded on the topic without prompting.  "It's all piss, fart, shit, ass...but I have to read all the scripts.  The crowd in the seats only sees this stuff once.  I have to read these scripts all the time."  There will always be bad TV shows, we agreed, but he noted that today's bad shows are on a whole new level.  "They're boring...that's how bad they are.  You can't even say anything about it...you see it, you've seen it before...same shit...NEXT."  I wasn't sure if he was saying that as an executive, or a viewer. 

With more channels, more ways to watch, more people watching, the net to trap such shit has more and more holes.  It's harder and harder for network TV to maintain what grip they have left, which might be why of all the shows in TV history that have been cancelled after 1 episode, HALF have been within the last 10 years.  This makes for a deadly combination...

Would you rather go online and watch shows that were considered shit afterwards and find out...hell, this ain't that bad, or struggle through some of today's "hit new comedy?"  I'd rather have another drink.

"I have no idea."

Two years ago, I wrote of a highly unlucky gambling trip to Las Vegas.  Well, here I was again (large surprise, huh?).  It's an important weekend of NCAA Football and Breeder's Cup races.  You know the dealing I had to do ensuring I'd dive head-first into this pit of despair?  Charity begins at home for this group, and so does life gambling for the rest.  I'm in one of those camps, and while my fortunes are better this time around, as I entered this rumpus room, I had WON all of my bets.  That's how life goes.  Did we sign up for that yo-yo?

(Not long after this excursion, I sat at a diner in Yermo, CA with Smiley.  We ate hash browns and discussed the possibilities of sports gambling as a vocation.  I had to tell her the sad truth:  "You do all this research, so when you win, that's your pay.  It is hard work paid off.  There's little thrill, like winning on a roulette number, because according to you it was supposed to happen.  If you win on a longshot, you get the thrill, but the rest is punch in, cash out.  But hard work can lead to losing money, and that's why everyone in there looks like they do.  Among other reasons of course.")

Matters not, because I was in the plus column after a disastrous weekend in October.  So I was scrambling in the sports book to find a seat at working TV to catch the vital Louisiana-Monroe/Louisiana-Lafayette game.  It's tied to one of my bets (naturally).  The desk I chose was littered with a half-dozen Churchill Downs tickets.  It is news to me that they race in November, and maybe to the man who previously sat here.  That's a LOT of fail tickets.  He left in haste is my guess.  He also left 3 pens (ballpoint pens in this sportsbook - we've all taken a step up!), a half-finished drink, and the wrapper for a high fiber bar. 

It was as I began to re-think the departure of this man when someone who I can only identify as the brother of Yukon Cornelius approached my station.  (It was an aisle seat, which, as a reporter, was to my advantage)

Yukon: (Unintelligible)
Me, realizing I'm being talked to: What?
Yukon, smiling: The only way you're gonna beat them is with a whip!
Me: Yeah...

Boy, I hope he's talking about horse racing.

The battle for Louisiana has been found.  (It took me a week to look it up and realize Lafayette and Monroe are NOT that close to each other: 3-4 hour drive in Sportsman's Paradise)  Let everyone else watch Northwestern and Nebraska...we've found our battle.  Clearing room on my desk I see an engraved plaque on the desk...one covered with tickets:  "Reserved for IPT Players.  See Management."  How about I don't?

I'm hearing the typical yelling as races get down the stretch, but what's been unique is the area near the collection desk: a group is there just congregating, waiting to cash in football tickets.  Their game must be near the end, but they CAN'T WAIT.  I'm really hoping for a riot of some sort, but it doesn't happen.  And then, from behind me a row or two: "Stupid Coach!"  Ahhh....that's the sportsbook member I know.

The action in Lafayette gets tight (I bet it does) when a gambling pro returns to his desk.  He has 3 magazines of various gambling and horse racing details, and multiple markers in a rainbow of colors.  By this look he should be all business, but he isn't.  He's uncomfortable, and annoyed.  Something isn't right.  The cocktail waitress walks by (at high speeds, likely frightened to death of the inhabitants, most of which looks like a High School Principal convention) and the pro stands assertively: "Miss?  Hot Tea...with MILK."  Before I can even finish asking myself if he's mentally on an airplane in 1962, he changes TV stations rapidly.  The screens here are touch, so you can move quickly between games.  "Jesus!"  Is it good or bad, Sir?  I find out seconds later.  "Back to Blackjack."

No words between us have been exchanged, but we both know he's going nowhere.  The markers and papers indicate otherwise.  In a feeble attempt of review, I scan the sheets for one last bet, something that would give me yet another excuse to extend this journey.  Again, from behind me: "3 man rush?  Sucks!"  It's not a good day for that man, like most, we'd gather.

The pro gambler to my left is getting more and more worked up.  He changed channels, muttered "Fuck.", changed channels again, and muttered "Damnit."  By word choice alone, there has to be a difference in outcomes, and his paperwork could give insight.  I'm starting to plot my next move of his actions...that and the fact that Lafayette is down 10.  The Cocktail Waitress walked right past the pro without the drink...something that did NOT please the man.  "Aw, Geez."  Wait a minute - what's with the Leave it to Beaver talk all of a sudden?  You're a Pro - do as Pros do, get pissed and swear aloud when Santa Anita's fortunes don't work out. 

The turnover was getting higher and higher.  The desk attendants were laughing, which made me curious...enough to wander out for fresher air.  It was just a brief breath, but I can't hide it: I wanted more.

Indian Summer

What gets you through life in transition?  Is it anticipation of the future, and the vast unknown?  It would have to include the outlook that whatever that will be in the future will be better.  Is it the fact that the present is new?  Your immediate surroundings (physically or mentally) are different; that itself is interesting.  Is it the feeling you have when you notice you as a person have evolved?

When I look through the music I have, the first thing I associate with it (normal or bizarre) is when I bought it and what I was doing at the time.  If forever briefly, the music can take me back to that place, living life and (simultaneously) getting into the songs.

Around this time in 2002, I bought this album.

It is a game of youth, matching lyrics to your current situation.  And these were things I likely didn't notice at the time...I was too busy doing some of the activities mentioned above.

From Second Hand Store
So you burned your bridges and headed downstream
Never know until you try
Spent your fortune on riverboat queens
'Til the river ran dry
---------------------
So you keep on following directions until
Pretty soon you passed it
Guess you should've know better and still
It was fun while it lasted

I had just got out of a long, complacent relationship and moved out on my own...and the song refrains "Any Way the Wind Blows."  Living and working in Hollywood, I didn't want to move too far, and I found a furnished place at the base of Laurel Canyon, north of Sunset.  A perfect place, it was not, but it had a location that couldn't be beat.  Easy drive to work, and to the valley to hang with the returning Dillon.  I could walk to nearly anywhere on the Strip, which helps if you're drunk.  You also don't realize how long you're walking with all the shit going on.  The place seemed to find me, and it was (for the most part) good.

From Indian Summer
And it's not as easy as it used to be
Finding time to let my mind wander
I can still hear them calling
Indian Summer

Not that work life was improving, at all.  The wheels were spinning, the volume unending.  It could've been worse: a "friend" around this time asked me to co-sign a loan for him, so deep in debt...this is what happens when you graduate college and "moving to LA" is the end of the goal.  We stopped talking roughly after I turned him down.  Did he know how hard I worked to get that cash?

But anytime it would get me down (daily, as it turned out) I could walk around the lot and smile - shit, this was at least progress.  Remember when you said you'd be doing this, and your father didn't believe you?  Nobody said the line to the top, whatever that is, is straight.

From At the Station
(Not lyrically, but it reminded me of the theme from "Fridays" which is always a plus)

From Tomorrow
Tomorrow, made up my mind
Gonna get busy, come from behind
Today, I'm staying right where I am
Break a few rules, make a few plans
 
There's thousands of things to keep you from doing
What you want to do
And if isn't this, then it's that
Back where it's at, and you're never through
 
When the aforementioned things did change, I wanted everything else to...as if life is that much of a switch.  Balancing a desire for change is hard if there are moments and things in your life that you want to stay the same.  After a while, mentally it seems easy (pushing away the cop-out) to drift back.  There's comfort in knowing, but little excitement. 
 
In my new place, I was one dart across the canyon to the hills.  And I would wander.  My entry was the Chateau Marmont, and on nights the kitchen door would be open, dining room empty.  It's a room service kind of place, after all.  Many times I passed the ghost of Belushi, and each time he looked out of shape.  But we'd nod, and I'd move on. 
 
Up and up I climbed to Hollywood Blvd...an aspect few seem to realize: it's up there, too.  A perfect vista route, there was inspiration all around.  At the time it seemed like a good walk: peaceful and relaxing.  I'd continue to Kings Road, which I'd take back to the Strip and the then-Hyatt House Hotel.  Once or twice, on the walk back, I'd see someone I know at a bar's patio.  "Hey Trip - did you just walk from up there?"  Yeah...(yawn)  "I forgot, you just moved.  You're in the hills?  That's awesome!  You want a margarita?"
 
The album ends with Life's Been Good...no need to go over that ground.
 
Over and over it goes...but you ask anyone who writes for this blog (well, either of us) and we can both tell you: a clearing of the mind, when you do something as simple as switching up locations for any length of time, does wonders for the soul.  It gives you life anew, and there will be a moment, either in the hills of Hollywood or at a bar, in a Hawaiian hut, or whatever...that you realize your life is Gold.

Sports in the Heartland, Part "Doof"

Three years ago, Drew wrote a summary of where sports were in the twin farms.  The summary wasn't that glowing in full, and now things might be worse.  Consider the following flat tires on the mini-van:

> The Minnesota Twins are in the dumper.  A year removed from winning the division and legions of fans who devoured the concession wares, the Twins posted the worst record in the American League.  Further reports on the blog to your right give the impression the model for which the franchise had been built in the 00's is long busted.  I won't pinpoint to what, exactly, is the biggest factor to the fall...I just hope Joe Mauer doesn't have the Hog Flu.

> The Vikings "start" is their worst in 9 years.  For those NOT Vikings fans (the majority of this blog's writers) it has been entertaining to watch.  All the warning signs were there: retread QB, lack of key position players.  Yet, the fanbase continue to chug ahead.  Remember: this is a fanbase who knows the Vikings are ready for a Super Bowl dynasty "if they just get the guys they need."  True, these 3 losses have been close games, and you don't need to tell ME about close losses.  Consider last night's Redskins loss...and the fact that the last 3 trips to Dallas brought a 1 point loss, a 3 point loss, and a 2 point loss.

(Fun Gambling Story: Lazily beginning my Sunday, I see the Vikings game is at halftime and they are up big.  Knowing their story, I attempt to place a 2nd half bet for Detroit -4.  I receive a missive that the bet I'm trying to make has now changed.  It's -4.5.  OK, lemme have...that and Detroit 2nd half moneyline.  "Your proposed bet has closed."  Huh?  Halftime didn't end for another five minutes...but the word was out, and heavy coin was being placed on Detroit.  Been a long time since that happened.  You can guess the result.)

> The University of Minnesota's football team was recently outclassed by North Dakota State.  The coach might legally not be elgible to be on the sidelines.  Fans and reporters point fingers at everyone but themselves.  More in-state recruits hit the bricks.  Anticipate U of M-Crookston being added to the schedule in 2013.

> Gathering all relevant reports, the Wolves don't really exist.  4 cans o beans still get you two (2) tickets to a game.  I wish them luck, of course.  Your reporter received silence on the phone when asked if the town was "ready for the season."

> It would also appear that the Wild fanbase could care less if they achieve success.  Sure, they might not attend all dates because Madison and Tanner have their Mite game at 5:00 at the Bloomington Ice Garden, but that's OK.  The Wild do seem to make news now and then for illegal hits, and I'm perfectly fine with that.  Old time hockey.  It's just that when the Stars left, my ability to properly care about the NHL went with them...maybe you know someone who feels the same?

It was one of these rake-ups that led my own mother to say (swimming against the tide of reality - a Minnesota problem if there was one) "How 'bout the Linx?"  I apparently misunderstood her, thinking she was making a golf reference.  "No, our WNBA team."  I laughed, heartily.  I laughed AT my own mother...and had to be the person to tell her "If the WNBA is your big highlight right now, does that mean you're no longer following the Viki--"  "Oh NO...but they're a good bunch of girls."

That response sent my mind wandering to somewhere else in that state.  A truthful yet mythical locale.  "Yes, ladies and gentlemen these are the Spring Prairie Homecoming Queens for 2011.  A great bunch of gals there.  Is it true two of you work at Rosie's Diner?  I'll have to stop by and say hello.  Line up for da pictures now, girls.  What a great bunch of girls.  Band practice starts in 10 minutes in the Cafitorium."

The rest of the seasons for the aforementioned teams can't be THAT bad, can they?  It won't snow AS much this year, will it?  This waistband WILL stretch if needed, right, LuAnn?

But the Earth is all we know

A casual glance makes me seem ambivalent, doesn't it?  Shit, maybe I am, but I'm making deals somehow.  Just you see.  That might be a college football bet coming in.  It might be lunch plans with the diplomats from Paraguay.  Or, an evening at a swanky nightclub in Santa Monica, which is when I was snapped into an alternate-reality (beyond a congregation of robots) by Smiley.

Dealville surrounds me, but does not envelop anyone.  You could tell me you're visiting but lost yourself in a Ross Dress-For-Less off the freeway...and then I'd tell you to get the fuck out as fast as possible.  So in said nightclub (outdoors on the deck), when first glance is all anyone gives anyone else, I would advise to find a pocket where people have broken away and are making it happen.  Blending in?  Worry not, tell them you program "hold" music.  You run a puppy spa.  You are an accountant for bakeries.  They don't give a fuck. 

So, I had my entry key to this window of gold.  Should I behave myself differently because it's a wedding after-party and I've never met the bride and groom?  Of course not!  Dance, bullshit, keep an eye on the waitress.  Looks like the tab is still going - how polite of these aggressively drunk revelers to include me! 

Moments later, the bride was laying on the lap of Smiley and myself.  I had to be involved somehow, right?  If I didn't hold on to her waist, she would roll on to the floor.  So that was her desired position - I would never be able to live with myself to see the photographer take snapshots of her on the floor, no matter the cheerful attitude.  There is a photo, somewhere on the east coast, of us as a motley crew.  7 and 7 in hand.  Everyone's happy.

"We're visiting from Florida...I love the feel of this town."  Hell, you're on your 12th drink - if you still feel that way, I'd consider that a ringing endorsement. 

"Really?!  I grew up in Coon Rapids.  Did you know they wanted to change the name to Rapid City, but they couldn't afford the stationary, so they didn't do it."  If that isn't true, it should be.

"I'm in Silver Lake."  Wow, very hip.  "Yeah...it's..."  Maybe another line of questioning, miss?

This went on and on until we made the 2nd (3rd?) goodbye.  The glow that you get after a night of sudden fun: is it that you found gold, or is it because gold found you?  I slept 10 hours and then woke up and actually said "Oh man...what time is it?  Oh - football is on."

(Hide comments)

A television personality echoed my own brain last week when he mentioned that reading comments online of ANY kind of story was a waste of time.  It's as if you took the can of tuna that's your town and ripped it open to find the most confusing mess of your own fellow citizens.  No room in this cab for rational thought.  Those of us in Pacific Gold attend summits in Las Vegas and sit in the sportsbook surrounded by "Talk About Its," but these are generally people who confine their opinions to sports.  That doesn't make what they do logical or right, of course, but shove those dolts into the "fandom" file and close it.

Lest you forget it wasn't always like this.  If you truly had any response to an article, good or bad, you had to write a letter to the editor.  90% were quickly glanced for lobotomy drips...and then tossed.  As you look back, this means that millions of articles in multiple publications never experienced a writer's hard work dumped upon by the lonely and absurd.  So, let's go back in time and give a completely random collection of news articles their due!  (Comments reflect that specific day's response, not current views)

Headline: H.R. Haldeman Dies (11/12/93)
The Story: 4th White House Chief of Staff dies.  Key member of Watergate scandal, post-prison saw him as a successful businessman

Comments
Sandy Huddelston: A low point in our country's history.  How come Bush's group never got such a deal?

Luis Barry: OMG you're kidding, right?  Haldermann totally admitted everything - you can't say he wasn't a patriot.  Right or wrong, at least he copped up to it.

SK8ter_dude: Guy was in jail, bro


Headline: The Atlanta Braves' success is nationwide thanks to WTBS (8/9/82)
The story: Ted Turner's "Superstation" is spreading the Braves' fan-base across the country, creating interest (and ratings) along the way with a winning season.

Comments
Paul LoSchiavo: GO BRAVES!!!!!!!1

DZ41982: This is totally unfair.  I want to watch my Oakland A's play, and there's more Braves games on.  I bought a satellite dish for a lot of reasons, but I can't find my favorite team?  I'm pointing toward Satcom 3 - does anyone know if that's right?

DanielD: Whatever, man, Braves are gonna blow it again.  Did you even read the article or are you another hillbilly moron?


Headline: Exxon Valdez tanker hits reef, spills oil (3/24/89)
The story: A half-million barrels of crude is now all throughout Prince William Sound.

Comments
Natasha Dailey: Guys, this is devistaating.  What is the Red Cross going to do about it???

LI1990: Greenpeace!  We have to stop drilling for oil!  Our planet needs to survive and we're killing ourselves and animals to do it.

PeterD: Like anyone can prove it!

----------------------------------------------

I think we can agree the "gold" days were nice without em, huh?

Note: What to do if people leave comments to THIS?

That's the way it's done

“I’d like to cancel the order. In fact, I have some equipment I’d like to sell.”


I’m almost tempted not to write about the Dodgers, because each day adds a new wrinkle. And wrinkles aren’t the kind of shit that makes anything look better. At first it was the good news: “Slimy” Steve Soboroff has left the team. His role seemed to mainly talk up what a great guy Frank McCourt is to the entire world. He couldn’t find a lot of interested parties and, seeing the financial documents, conveniently left his job…on a Sunday. Remember that, because…

MONDAY, Frank files for bankruptcy. That’s bad. Frank has no money. Bud wisely nixes Frank’s mysterious Fox Sports deal since court documents show Frank planned on taking half the cash from a multi-billion dollar deal and sharing it with his wife. This was, you know, to pay their legal fees. Fees encountered in a divorce proceeding.

The Dodge then hit Minnesota, unknowingly on “Get a hit, get an RBI for free” night. That’s good. Hey, I’ve been there, Twins fans. We were swept by Dusty Baker. We slept knowing the slow process of Bud taking over the team was at hand. But the wheeler-dealer had one more math problem on his sheet.

If you had to choose between these two loans, which would you take?

A. 7% interest, no fee

B. 10% interest, $4.5 million fee

Now, since you are smart, you’ve chosen A. But how good are you at losing money? How good are you at spending money you don’t have? If you are a champion of bleeding money (yours and others), well, you choose B. And you use that as evidence that all is well. Paychecks WILL be sent out on Thursday. No forfeits for the next few weeks! This is a good choice if you are a complete and utter moron. Or, Frank McCourt. Remember this folks, because there will be another “deal” soon, where he’ll save the day by overspending and trying his hardest to show you how he saved!

“Change the Channel”

A recent trip to Las Vegas enlarged a shocking trend. It was the furthering of television show slot machines, and that all of this was at the expense of table games. Want to try “Paradise Poker?” Oh, I bet you don’t like the odds. But check this out, a Password Slot! Match 5 Marty Allen’s in a row and win 16 cents! Who’s Marty Allen? Well, it’s someone whose likeness we got for cheap! Looks like the single deck black jack table is all full again. How about this $50 minimum multi-deck table? Oh, I see you’re a Fantasy fan. Then you’re really going to like this Lord of the Rings slot machine. Can you find the ring? If so, match 3 for the bonus!

Some of this, to me, is sweet justice to casinos. The actual gamblers are avoiding games that are so tilted toward the house it’s not worth it. So, while the high limit folks continue to have their own section, the rest figure they might as well be entertained while losing (or possibly making) money! It’s unnerving, walking past tables with attentive dealers. Checking, and checking again, and again, their chips and cards. They are completely ready. Quietly, they eye the moving clientele.

"What, you’re not good enough for this game? Oh, you’re wondering where the bowling alley is, Megabucks? It’s next to the food court. (sigh) What time do I get off?"

Happy St. Patrick’s Day in June?!

Upon returning, it’s been another cruel start to the summer out here. It’s even crueler near the beach, where I make deals. You’d think that would be idyllic: summertime, beach, and Lowenbrau. But each day in Santa Monica is met with temps and weather fit for March Madness, not summertime gold. By months end, 28 of the 30 days will show below average temps. The average? 72-75 degrees. That might not mean a lot to YOU, but I didn’t buy beer brats and kool-aid because I thought it was March. It’s because it’s fucking SUMMER. Of course, it will be 88 in November, and we’ll rejoice. But is there ever a season where you want it to be what it should be like summer?! Of course not. We gotta heat up. Ah, Potsy’s box o BBQ sauces has arrived. Get that grill going.

Looking backwards

(editor's note: recently we received a bundle of old ticket stubs and newspaper clippings from Western Wisconsin without a return address. A note inside indicated "This autta (sic) give you guys some idea of what we're talkin bout. Don't trust a Holy Roller! Truthfully, Dee Louis" We've scanned and posted the safe-for-work version of the clippings)

So, this happened. In what was my first trip to The Meadows, we decided that we had definitely gambled enough and were now in the mood to watch D-talent football players fall down without tackling. The final score of this game was 12-9. All field goals. And there were like 10 misses in there too.

We did get to drive through the absolute armpit of Las Vegas to get out to the stadium though, so all was not lost.

That's Wayne Terwilliger's autograph. He'll outlive us all.

"Hey man, you know where I can cash this? Better yet, you got 60 cents for the bus?"

What would happen if I brought this back now? They probably wouldn't bat an eye. What's the oldest one of these you think they've accepted at the Plaza? There has to have been a bum out there who found a winning Keno ticket from like 1967 who brought it to the cashier and she didn't even flinch.

The color coding. The "to do" list (note that "Get Up" is on there). The commentary ("Isiah vs. Larry, I wonder who will win"). The analysis. It's all here folks. The main nerve of Las Vegas.

.

Let's take a small break.

Phones. Come and get em.

Nope.

Sports! Brought to you by cigarettes.

Pro-tip: If you look like you're in the first stage of a world-class goiter, you might want to avoid posing for a picture holding a sausage link. And Brent, if you are a grown-ass man with braces, you might want to just dial the smiles down until you see the orthodontist.

I'll pass.

Take my team, please

Picture this:  you're broke (oh, that's a stretch).  Long ago they stopped taking the NPR membership money from your checking because it was giving you overdraft fits.  You've gone down the ladder and ended up permanently at Aldi.  The bus don't charge insurance.  Within this situation, would you buy a t-shirt with your favorite sports logo on it?  If you said yes, is it because it would make you feel good?  That part of the price would go to boosting the team, possibly giving them enough money to sign that big free agent, the one last piece to push the team over the top?  Would you go to sleep at night like The Gambler, convinced you had broke even, and that you were now emotionally AND financially invested in The Team?

Are you the Governor of Minnesota?

In 20 years every team is going to be Green Bay.  They'll sell it to the communities in different ways.... but civic ownership will be widespread.  They'll put a stadium in Lilydale or whatever, and the conditions will dictate that the "people" will own the team.  Of course, the "people" will then elect their leaders to run the administrative functions (so they can get back to watching GREENWAY!), and the wool will go over the eyes.  They'll sell "shares" or whatever, and Keith of Keith's Kettle will be first in line to plunk down 250 dollars a pop, so that they can hang it in a frame in the basement with their PBR taps and the drum set that has to stay in the closet.  We'll monetize our pride, and the guys will really feel like "our guys".  Everyone will have a team, and they'll pass the championships around like a turkey leg.  Everyone gits a bite.

All of the sports are capitalist to various degrees, but for the first time ever, they've been able to convince Dumb Mouthbreath that they indeed are doing it all for him.  That's the perfect marriage with politics - the grand idea that a rich, famous, handsome man has the interest of a fat, lazy slob in mind when he makes decisions in his life.  "I'm on your side, union workers!" he says, as he eats a meal that costs more than 2 months rent in the Marcy Holmes neighborhood.  And we all buy it, because we're very very dim.  "Hey, that guy fights for the little man!"  Yeah, he learned to fight for the little man at YALE.

It makes sense, then, to fight this war in the public arena, as though a mass of people in the United States has ever been able to exact any kind of change other than general social adjustments.  "If we show up to this rally, perhaps they'll keep the team in Arden Hills!"  Yeah, except not.  They'll bring these battles, be they Labor or Stadium, out to the public square and let everyone Talk About It.  Then, at the end of the night, the cigars will be lit with hundred dollar bills and Deals will be made.  The rally-goers?  Back home for CBS' Monday Night Bonanza.  Ah, order.

I suppose it's a tricky position to convince people that they aren't as dumb as they are.  It's got to be a terrifying position... prop up the ignorance of sports fans who believe that by spending money on things, they will be a part of it (Hey, I own alternative energy stock, does that get me to the front of the line when they launch the ships for a Colder Earth?).  But that's our world.  Take someone's money, tell them they've done a Good Thing, and cash that fucking check with the quickness.

It's simple.  If you drive between Minneapolis and St. Paul, your car will likely be ruined due to the immense amount of potholes.  The pavement buckles and splits constantly due to 6 months of the year being frozen, and a month of days filled with 18 hours of sun.  So, when it comes time to dole out money to fix these various roads and civic projects, I suppose it makes perfect sense to spend hundreds of millions of dollars to upgrade the roads leading to and from the proposed stadium site in Arden Hills (a city I became aware of 2 months ago).  Just double it down, invest it all in the team, hoping to holy hell that we'll be able to celebrate a championship like the New Orleans Saints and that will make us forget, if even for a moment, that we live in hell.  That's what we're aiming for.

So please, fair Gold patrons, come and take this team.  Put these people out of their misery.  Wrench it from their plump hands so that they can wake up in the morning and not think about what Ben Leber is having for breakfast.  Maybe we can get back to life for awhile, and then in 10 years you can bring back the Minnesota Wilderness, or whatever.

We need a break.  We need the money.

Nothing to Lose

At that age (like now) I had the slim look…likely should have “bulked up,” (as my father wanted me to do)but it beat being fat. The girl was the opposite of me…and whatever “weight” she had was up top, above the stomach. Plans those days were simply a cover to parents. You had to give an indication that you were going to do something. This was pointless. I wasn’t going to give them the truth, and I did and didn’t know what would happen.


We’d get in the car and drive…drive to the point that we were “nowhere.” That’s when it began. Maybe we thought this was a blank canvas. It could happen during the day, but it was better after dark. It was summer, and it was warm. It was sensational.

This was no courtship, or jewelry bound relationship. We both knew this, but we never spoke of it. Looking back, it seems we both knew that if we DID say something it would ruin the whole deal. But we were of that age, when you claim “nothing” is going on. A window of life; early maturity, when you know what you’re doing and why, and loving the freedom. She and I did this often, never knowing where we’d start, but knowing where we’d end. Sounds impersonal, but it wasn’t. I got mine, she got hers…we were happy. The boredom, bullshit from the parents, it was all wasting away. And all this…during the summer. To a northern boy, it wouldn’t be the same otherwise.

Weeks went by…lost in this shuffle and haze. There was one of those summer rainstorms that keep you up, or hoping you’d closed the windows. I heard a big clap and then thought to myself “I wonder if that is by her house.” Then it hit me: I was caring…even at some minor level I was concerned when we made an unspoken bond we wouldn’t.

And there I sat, thinking I could do all this “no stress.” What did it matter to me? It wouldn’t be a big deal either way, right? I wonder what she really thinks. Summer is almost ending.

What did I know at that moment? What I wanted to know took the summertime to find out. Hell, look at me remembering this. Growing up.

Foul Balls

So, our beloved Bums are now "owned" by Major League Baseball.  Or is it "controlled?"  "Making decisions?"  Whatever the phrase, it is the beginning of a step in the right direction.  Slimey McSlime is slowly on his way out, facing a very tough future.  His business deals, shady as the day is long...his wife, who only seemed to be married to him if it helped her own bottom line...the houses, bought high (in value and in total) and sitting low.  But my favorite: Owning land...creating a new company..."selling" the land to the new company...then PAYING RENT to it.  It's something you still own, but you create something else to support. 

This, while the parking lot gets sketchy.

Questions to consider:
Are there Dodger fans who were L.A. Raiders fans?  Of course. 
Did the L.A. Raiders fans become Dodgers fans once the team moved back north?  Possibly. 
Did that mentality of the fans in the stands slowly turn Raiders?  Not really.
Is the parking lot a clusterfuck, enraging even the saintly?  Absolutely.

Since the divorce trial, Slimey has taken a very hands-off approach.  He's seen less frequently, and heard from even less than that.  It took a week for Slimey to acknowledge a Giants fan beaten by the "gang mentality" (LAPD's words) and it appeared Slimey was most concerned with how it would cost him money.  Money he doesn't have, ironically. 

In a very USFL move, Slimey took out a loan from Fox Sports to give the organization the April paychecks.  Good PR move.  With the prospect of a stadium 1/4th full...fans scared to go to games in person, and an owner who can't foot the bill for the all-you-can-eat section, MLB did the right thing.  All Dodger fans I know (and those who aren't) like the change. 

Who doesn't?  McSlime loyalists, such as Steve Soboroff.  None of this was really his business until, just as this deal went down, McSlime hired Soboroff to become "Vice Chairman."  (Hey - that was his wife's old job!)  One of his duties is to "improve the fan experience" which (as of now) means "not getting knifed in parking lot J."  In his latest "interview" to the LA Times, Soboroff included these gems:

On Slimey McSlime:
"[He's] a different person now moving forward."

On why he's the right man for the job:
"I don't drink. I don't use drugs. I don't use steroids."

Let's just do a block quote from the story because holy SHIT:
On Commissioner Bud Selig: "What did the commissioner of baseball do? He increased the value, he increased revenue lines. He did all kinds of great things for baseball. If you read his Wikipedia and you read Frank's Wikipedia, they ain't too different."


Reading between the lines of all Gofuckoff stated shows 1 thing: his concern is for Slimey McSlime.  The Dodgers?  Well...yeah, but you know, my pal Slimey will be just fine.  (Anyone else sensing under the table money?)  Meanwhile, the future is completely unknown for the team going forward.  Setting the scorecard, you have a 1st time 1st-year manager leading a team of players...the majority of which are new to the organization.  And who are the 3 right now at the top?
Bud Selig
Slimey McSlime
Steve Soboroff, who's been on the job less than a week, and has no experience.  (He doesn't seem too concerned about the team, either)
 
Our beloved Dodge are fucked.  Tommy!  Big Pisan!  Save us!

The Happiest Days of Our Lives

(Editor’s Note: In a March, 1980 edition of the now defunct L.A. Reader, the newspaper devoted an issue to “L.A. Youth: The 1980s.”  Trip Darvez was assigned the aspect of parties, and wrote this story)

The biggest struggle of this undertaking, and the largest obstacle I have in completing this assignment, is the ability to blend in. Normally this is not a concern, but the last thing I wanted was each group that enters to say “Who the fuck is that guy?” As you’ll see, my worries were wasted time.

Instead of doing the lazy thing (buying them beer) I spent approximately 2 days hanging out at various teen spots (you likely know some) and was quickly informed of a party that would suit the story…I was invited by someone who was already going, and was given the address. Good enough.


“Man, you know how much that fucker cost?” Bill was pointing to a keg that was sitting in a sink, with the ice already on its way down the drain. Before I could even ask how they lifted a full keg into a sink and not break anything, I was interrupted. “Michelob one is in the bathtub and going.” Gary, who invited me to this party, was drinking from a Ronald McDonald glass. I attempt to tap the sink keg, which is Grensquell. A steady foam stream ends up in the CSUN mug I find in the cabinet. “Jessica goes to that shithole.”



Randy, resident of the house: “Guys…just be careful in here. I just found a vase that broke by the stairs.”


Bill: Why does your mom put flowers on the staircase?



Nothing is really different in 1980. They are listening to Pink Floyd on the stereo, there are couples going at in the bedrooms upstairs, there is a girl crying in the living room, and a stream of high school students roll through like a slow moving train. The whole purpose of this night was a drinking contest, and one brand was bought on the theory it had higher alcohol content. But one of the contestants has yet to show, and the other is in the backyard, smoking a joint. He was silent on this bet until he returned with a full glass of beer.


“Fuck them. I know I can drink more, but it’s just because we had a party at my place and I was in the pool drinking the brandy from Mike’s liquor cabinet. They couldn’t stand it, but we don’t have beer. (laughs) My dad would seriously shit if he saw me drinking his beer.”


My “conversation” was being drowned out by two girls complaining about a guy. We both ended up roped into it. “I told him I wanted to go to the Chart House. If he wanted to be serious, that’s what couples do. Be he says ‘I want us to have fun.’” This was supposed to be a big point, I could tell, but it was met with silence. I went to freshen up my beer. As I walked away, I heard the other girl say “well, did you tell him he had to pay for it?”


Every time the song came up, someone would cheer and then repeat “We don’t need no education.” Wanting a comparison, I went upstairs and checked out the other keg. It was still there, but the bathroom was nearing “truck stop” in ambience. I wandered about…one room was smoky, the master bedroom…you can guess…the rest were politely untouched. I wondered how this happened considering the deteriorating look of the ground floor. Or maybe everyone was lazy.


When you’re this age even the routine is an expansion. I know of plenty who’ve attempted to return to “Happy Days” of their own life. Whether they were Richie or Potsy, life was simple. Wasn’t it? Of course it wasn’t, but it seems simple now. “Have you ever seen Bill’s dad?” (An out of control executive of a grocery store chain, according to the teller) “Bill said something like ‘shut up’ or something to him, and he took his plate of food, threw it into the kitchen and said ‘finish your dinner.’ What a dick!”


A collection of empty beer cans (brought by some enterprising students) sat inside the stove. I catch Randy look at this out of the corner of my eye, and he does not look good. He comes into the living room to say to no one in particular “Were you guys in the upstairs bathroom?” Of course we were…the keg is up there…but we all say no. “Someone took the pills…they’re to help my dad’s ulcers!” He has the look of a man who knows his fate. But he’s a kid, and it’s life’s becoming real much too late.


I did exercise my wisdom once, when I told a gang that it wasn’t wise to drink in the front yard – if they cops show up, they’ll get you first. I was rewarded with a warm beer. As with before, teens have their own problems, and just like then, they are dealing with it in the same way. When I left the party, there were groups laughing, once guy passed out on the steps, the crying girl eventually got over it and started dancing with someone else. An attempt to make grilled cheese was put out by the foam of the sink keg. All these years later, I was proud to report that very little had changed.

Hollywood Does It Again

Do the residents of Hollywood & neighborhoods to the south enjoy...

Seeing neighborhood business get the shaft for chain stores?

Watching high rise hotels misplace residents in the name of "jobs"?

1-hour parking meters on Weekend Nights, with pay lots where free parking used to reign?

If so, they must, because yesterday they chose to re-elect Tom "I can charge for that" LaBonge to the LA City council.  In a move that stunned your writer, Tom will be around for another term for more ways to completely destroy Hollywood, cutting any personality a neighborhood has, and succumbing to every whim of Big Business.

Does this mean he's completely careless to the Hollywood citizen?  Not completely...potholes get filled...street lights get replaced.  That's a broad example, but the basic nuts and bolts shouldn't be a difficulty.  But citizens don't drop big bucks to build anything...and once the W Hotel was shoved in at Hollywood and Vine (written in this blog back in 2006) Tom wanted to make sure the owners, not citizens were happy.  $$$$ is the answer.

"We don't do that"
-Tom, after finding out the LAPD was giving tickets for parking at broken city meters.  Tell that to the people who have to pay the bullshit ticket!  This was a couple months after Tom voted against a 4-month moratorium on rent increases in his district.

When Tom ran in 2007, it was unopposed (!) and with no competition, it made Tom think he had a blank check for bullshit.  As the construction was going on, Tom continued to follow Antonio's plan for cutting the budget for each library in the district.  THEN, when the ballot measure of increased library funding comes around, he supports that.  So, is he against the kind of bullshit he passes?  Sure, but no one in his district seems to care.

"Remember the gas lines under President Carter?  Odd and Even?  I couldn't follow that."
-Tom on a proposed odd and even watering only rule from the DWP during drought conditions.

I could go on...and on...but why should I?  We have more years of Tom and his zany LA City Council escapades!  Way to go!

"I can't play stoned"

Interesting, isn't it, that something tags along in today's internet world of everyone forcing dramatic opinions at the drop of a hat.  There also has to be full transparency.  There can no longer be mysteries on WHY things happen.  They have to know HOW it happened...that way, life can continue.  For so many, surprises come so rarely...they don't want them to hang around. 

Oh man, look at that reporter from channel 2...she's drunk!  No, wait, she totally had a seizure!  Hold on - she's speaking in tongue!  She's possessed.  The world explodes!

(And then, the actual story comes out: she suddenly had a complex migraine.  Total comments: 2.  Life goes on.)

It's best not to go through life suspending belief when we're talking about reality.  Entertainment is a different topic, however.  How does the set move like that?  Well, it's TV Magic...until you go to a taping and see 3 fat guys shove the set into place.  Did he know he was going to get hit with a coconut?  He acted upset.  Oh, they planned it before.

Go back 30 years, and you have a moment that confounded and stunned nearly the entire viewing public.



You can't really do things like this on free television if you ever expect to work again, so things were carefully planned so it would seem real.  And look at that ending.  People moving around - it's sensational.  Andy gets talked about by adoring comics (Magicians appreciate the craft & how it's performed, not that they know how it's done, right?) and the public at large.  Fridays gets renewed automatically, though it enjoyed higher ratings than Saturday Night Live at the time.  Everyone wins!

The news cycle wasn't quite as quick as today, but it did respond.  The New York Times headline (in the C section) the following Tuesday: "Was 'Fight' on TV Real or Staged?  It All Depends."  It starts out with a continued parade around the truth.  "It looked like a spontaneous fistfight on live television. Whether it really happened is a matter of interpretation."  This is a newspaper reporter, and the "magic" continues to spin.  What we can't really tell, beyond interest in the show and the story, was the level that viewers actually cared if it was real or not.  Fridays increased ratings would make one think that viewers saw the series as something where anything could happen.  (SNL is live for very arbitrary reasons, and is not known for open moments such as that) 

Andy's crowning moment, a sandwich of "behind the scenes TV" and "this is really happening" lives on today.  What really happened?  Who was in on the joke?  Man, I don't know* but that sure was crazy!  Hey, can you get me another beer?

*I do know, but it gets in the way of enjoying the moment. 

The Randomness of Nothing

When it all goes down into a boiling stew of Human Destruction, nobody will be alive to remember. So there won't be anyone to look back at this crystallization, and to evaluate it. We'll never get there, because we're here, and we can't photon-jump. As it all rains down and we forever slip into memory, no one will stand on that edge and say these things.

But I can tell you what *I* would think....

If the Bible has taught us nothing else (and it hasn't), it's that printed words about things that are debatable for the rest of human existence are, in a manner of speaking, the only true immortal things. That languages, races, buildings... virtually everything that constitutes the human experience are all subject to (and destined for) eventual elimination. But the words.... they remain. If you can debate something, it stays forever.

They used to debate sun moon and stars. Telescopes proved one side right. They debated ethics. Mouth-breathers brought that down. But spirituality... that one could never be proven or disproven. It just was. It carved a line in rock and forever and ever, new children will be born into the question and it will breathe eternal.

We will debate the concept of eternity, eternally.

This of course would lead you to a conversation about the San Francisco 49ers.

-------------------------------------------------

Bill Simmons spilled a tanker-truck of ink a few years ago on a book about basketball. It, at its most ambitious, strove to define what makes teams successful throughout history. It aspired to identify a formula, and ride that into some sort of hypothesis about sports across the board. Obviously, this is a concept designed for a blockhead. It is astounding how much is written about sports in the theoretical mindset. How much we search both stats and intangibles and seek to "define" things. Why, oh why, did the Pistons win that championship? Why did Dan Marino never win the big one? What's the formula, Larry Brown??? It's all such garbage. It's garbage because sports is one long, unending unknown. Every single action in a sporting contest is an unknown. Sure, trends develop. But as far as the concrete history... it unfolds in complete randomness.

But we sure do talk about it, don't we?

It happens all the time... the perfect season ends in a loss. The team from nowhere makes a run. These concepts are so ingrained into our sporting experience... we act like idiots who have never seen this before. HOLY CRAP A TEAM THAT WON THE SUPER BOWL IS NOW GOING BACK TO IT, LET'S FIGURE OUT HOW THAT HAPPENS AND CHILI DOGGZ! There is quite simply nothing that can be said for each sporting contest that resonates as new material. And, in one of the few arenas of life where this is actually true, history means nothing. It means less than nothing. It only serves to confuse. Is there any relevance, in any way whatsoever, to a sporting contest that took place years ago with different players?

I'm not stupid. I know these things happen to placate idiot fans who have senses of tradition that only exist to sell more mud-flaps at Wal-mart. I know it all works to crank up the machine and create a narrative. The structure is bare for all to see... no one looks because their mouths are full of Hogg Sundae.

But there is faux-intellectual debate that takes place around the Super Bowl that literally calls to mind two pea-brains arguing about which part of the lake is deeper. Irrelevant statistics and incorrect motivations... it all swirls into a gigantic vortex of debate about nothing. And not even nothing. An UNPREDICTABLE nothing.

When the long-legger from Oregon goes up against Arizona State, that - my friends - is predictable. When ol' Gas Pedal Jones decides the Horned Frogs haven't QUITE scored enough... that's predictable. But when you play a nut-twister in a neutral stadium with the game likely being decided on one single play.... why all the mouth?

And so, I guess, we can just keep the whistle going full volume. Just keep the flag waving and we'll go around the office and everyone can say what their favorite book is. Because you'd be just as likely to predict what pant size you are going to be next year at this time (hint: LARGER) as to be accurate on "Who wins: Steeler cornerbacks or Green Bay tight ends???"

It's only at the end of the movie that everyone wants to proclaim how predictable it truly was. And when Jordan retired, we all crystallized that vision of him in our brain, and we wrote history.

But I remember actively thinking: "No fucking way he does this without Scottie". And that's also correct. So what's the fucking formula?

Ok, hell, here we go. Up the balloon string, reach out and grasp some sky. It's all going to end someday, and we'll be lucky to have ever gone through this shit.

Pinky Ring

Oh, how rare a feeling, this. To stand at the edge of it, to see it spread before you, to be strapped to this chugging train towards the peak. How rare it becomes as we age. How rare, in this climate, to feel anything but crushing gloom. How rare? I can count it on 3 fingers.

We were here in May of 2004. Our basketball team was rife with gangsters and pranksters. The ghetto just oozed from their pores. Sam Cassell would sometimes make a shot and run down the court juggling his incredible Astro Balls. KG would hit a turnaround in the lane and scream into Duncan's face, telling him, in no uncertain terms, how much of a bitch he truly was. And Spree? He drove a Murcielago. I watched it pull out from the bowels of Target Center one frosty night. I went to 17 games that year... and witnessed a total of 2 losses. I was there for Game 5, over Denver, when they finally escaped the first round. Destiny seemed to tip. Suddenly, it was inevitable: we were going all the way.

We all know how that ended. Sam's back went wacky-world, and the Lakers were still the Lakers, downing us in 6 games, despite a heroic game 5 where both Mr. Bliznawski and I were wearing Hoiberg and Mad-dog jerseys (respectively) at two different casinos in Vegas. Down in flames... not only for the season but the franchise. They haven't sniffed it since. Honestly, typing these memories are the only time I am happy with respect to this franchise. They are dead to me now.

We seem to walk up to the base of the mountain every year for the MN Motherfucking. Somehow, someway, we find ways to emphatically defeat the Bitch Sox and send them back to Smelltown, and hope springs eternal. Sometimes, we have MVPs and Cy Young winners on our team. But it matters not. Because we go to the dance, grab a cup of punch, and proceed to unleash a diaperful of dia-rear all over the gym floor. Cuddyer hits a home run, and the sun peaks out for a moment, but the truth is eternal night. Down to the dark, only to rise again in March. Eh, it could be worse. We could be Kansas City.

I was 12 when the Motherfucking took it home against the Braves. I think I was still figuring out how showering worked. A baseball fan, I was not. So I don't count that. I remember it, yes, but my appreciation was minimal. It would be like the Wild winning now. I'd be happy, sure, but I wouldn't be on board, fully invested.

The truth? I've been through two winners in my life... actual winners, invested from beginning to end, with all of the perks that go with being a champion.

The first time was my 'Backs. Oh hell, that was so much fun. Clinton in the press box, Nolan on the sidelines, and motherfucking Scotty Thurman like WHAT BITCH HOW DO YOU LIKE THIS THREE IN YOUR MOUTH??? Cheering for a team through a long NCAA tournament run is likely never going to happen again in my life (of course, I didn't know that at the time) and it was really something. How can you replicate that level of intensity? They win a "must win" game... and then have to play another in 2 days. And at any given time, they could be dashed, and the waiting game would begin anew. But no. They kept winning, kept playing that awesome brand of ball, and eventually, I found that bliss. There were no more games to play... and the Razorbacks had won the final game. They could ascend no higher. They would go to the White House.

In 1997, I was in my senior year of high school in Wisconsin. You can guess how that worked out.

And so here we go again, barreling towards that unknown, the train increasing speed and promising us nothing.

As I age, I realize how rare this gets, and feel the need to live in the moment; to soak in this nervousness and anticipation. When it is not there, it is replaced by apathy and cynicism. That's why I like to revel in failures. That's why I mock the CFL. But when your boys are going for the pinky ring, nothing else matters.

Dear me, we're back to the edge. There are two ways to fall... and Sunday doesn't come but once a week.

Sometimes, once a decade.

Loose Change by the Bay

How is life these days in the Bay Area of the Golden State? Well, there are two sides, right? SF and Oakland. And there are two sides of how life goes. But be careful, because the degree to which these are separate is as steep as Filbert St.

A post-Christmas hangover sat over the city as relatively dry skies welcomed me…and all of the stores were on a full court press. They have to sell to stay in business in today’s America, but there’s still the exclusive class in San Francisco. High-end stores entice you…and as you see shoppers and tourists, you dodge an army of homeless and con-men. One con man attempted a card trick, but was so drunk he dropped the deck and fell to the sidewalk. LA may have a homeless population, but compare it to SF, and it’s non-existent. Look at all of the young couples with dogs – it’s as if nearly everyone has a pup…and the pup, on the walk, will encounter the smells of those asleep in the daytime on the curb on multiple occasions.

With a group so high, you have to be creative in your carnival barking for change. Shaking a cup full of coins does you no good. I encountered one man saying “Can I borrow a nickel tonight?” when I entered the subway, and returned. In a bar, a wino who had teeth so comical he appeared to be from a Mad Magazine drawing asked me on three separate occasions for money to “go home.” The amount switched from $10 “To get a cab” to any change to “trying to get a dollar.”

One evening I visited City Lights Books, a famous local bookstore that was packed with people. In the 30 minutes I was in the store, I was the only one who purchased anything. The rest read, and placed back on the shelf. Maybe they were trying to tell me something: wise up, dunce.  In such an expensive city, don’t spend money when you don’t have to.

I wondered if Berkeley would be different. It wasn’t, but change there was a constant theme. Let me stress: I have never seen a city nickel and dime you more than Berkeley. There’s hourly parking on every street, even the suburbs. (All the better to write tickets) Meter parking is also hourly, so you can’t re-feed the meter, you have to move along. Want to park in a lot for an afternoon movie? No sweat – that’ll be $10.

So, if you can't walk somewhere from your abode, who can browse the shops? That’s right: those angling for change. “Dude, can I have some change so I can ride my carpet out of here?” The wind was whipping; I was too cold. “Don’t freeze to death.” Thanks pal. Nearly all stores were empty, except a “vintage” store that priced out its clientele. This is a town which has an un-written rule to not use your fireplace due to pollution. (Higher Gas bills AREN’T pollution, sucker) As I dodged the wind, I over-heard one wino to another- Excuse me, student:

(Yelled)
“I went to college to write. And I’m gonna write a letter about this. And when I show it to the judge, they’re gonna get you.”

All nonsense, I know. But if they see you’re entertained, they’re coming after you…not to be polite, but because you’re supposed to help.  They know this because you wear a coat.

It was an ambling, not exactly easy drive back to LA…but the greenery of the 101 enforced the ideal that this is the Golden State. You can’t be unprepared or not making deals in this town. Up north? Take a seat and go for it - tell people you need help to make a call...