Interesting choice. If you make that decision, here is the outcome:
Friday, 6:15PM
On the drive home, you notice your left knee is sore, but it is brushed off due to it being the end of the work week. It's also been a week of driving, and long periods in the car are not to your (or anyone's) benefit.
Friday, 9:45PM (approximate)
Sitting inside a movie theater, you see James Bond being told he's missed a step. You sympathize with 007, but you feel a jolt of energy in your legs. I bet you could bowl another 5 games! Such exercise is needed, or something...hey, how old is this carpet in here?
Saturday, 10:12AM
You're awake: no problem there. It's when you roll out of bed - it appears that "lumbering" will be your method of transportation today. Each step is deliberate. You attempt to keep your normal pace, but your lady can tell something is up. A hearty breakfast makes you realize, while eating, that your wrist doesn't hurt. That's because when it comes to the roll, you know what you're doing.
Saturday, 11:26AM
Well, that "nice, long shower" felt comfortable but did nothing for your condition. Keep fighting it. Walk it off. Going up and down the stairs multiple times makes you wonder how it occurs without effort on a daily basis. Someone asked if you "stretched" but isn't that like asking a drunk "Did you pace yourself?"
Saturday, 6:12PM
When crossing Wilshire Blvd. along Beverly Drive, you're given roughly 30 seconds. This should be no problem at even the most leisurely pace. Today, however, you pay particular notice to each car turning west. You'll make it, but...hey - look, someone is walking a dog. What's going on, pup?
Sunday, 9:52AM
Things seem better at first glance, but movements are still pained. A memory comes from out of nowhere to your brain: you have finished playing catch with a family friend in your childhood. You are told that you're lucky: you aren't sore after doing a workout. But this was no workout - this was a Christmas party with free booze...that is until you saw someone openly cough uncovered on a pitcher of beer. It was dry from then on. At least you don't have a cold.
Sunday, 7:23PM
Now we're getting somewhere. You're on glass 3 of Sangria, people are laughing, and you're sitting on the floor. Sure, getting up looks like a TV tray trying to walk on its own, but at least it doesn't hurt. The key is drugs...why haven't you taken those wonderful pills? If there's a pill that can make you or your surroundings better, why not take it?
Monday, 8:04AM
Shit, why are my shoes so far away? Seriously, where are those pills? Summoning the ghost of Belushi...help me.
Monday, 12:16PM
How was my weekend? Oh, it was fantastic. Had a lot of fun. Wished it would never end. Could you hold that door open for an old man?
Monday, December 10, 2012
Thursday, November 29, 2012
The Transition of Power
Thanksgiving in Las Vegas on the surface appears unusual. Here it is a holiday, and you're in a town that seems to shun day and date, time and length of day. When you enter by car or plane, you can clearly see you're in a city, but unless you drive around, it seems that everyone is from somewhere else with no one home.
Then again, think about every other trip to Las Vegas, whether it's a holiday or not, and the timing doesn't matter beyond the weather. Was it cool and windy as fuck? Was it hotter than shit? Was it "just right?" Even if it was, once you get there, you're ready for action. The rest? Everything outside the cash-grab maelstrom? It doesn't matter. Even when shopping at the finest supermarket in the West (expansive, full of deals, and there's slot machines by the checkout) my mind was on sports. How could it not?
I feared that I would have to spend time explaining the variations of bets to those not caring, or trying to enforce the value of sportsbook living, when I find that my sister placed her first-ever sports bets. She tried to tie it to her fantasy football team, but before she could start to expound on a subject which interests only herself, I found the topic to her and I getting along: the very thing that I love about Las Vegas the most. What were the odds? Oh, here's the difference between points and moneyline. Here's what to look for in a parlay. I was a fountain of ideas, and to my amazement, she responded in awe. To me, this was the key to move forward...to see how much of an addiction this had become in mere hours.
"Here's a stat sheet from the sportsbook. The lines may have changed, so ignore that. Look at the trends. Now, if you're setting up a parlay, this can be helpful...take Miami of Ohio for example..."
"Oh...yeah, so, wait, what's the line?"
Honestly, had you told me all I'd have to do is get her into sports gambling, our relationship might have been saved years ago. But when she was left to nurture that idea on her own, I ambled around the casino, looking at rivalry games that just scream STAY AWAY. If you don't believe me, or hold up the Dawgs vs. Tech, my response to that is Washington and Washington State. The Huskies beat Stanford, but couldn't beat Wazzu? Yikes. Nothing stings like that feeling: in the nerve center, not seeing anything appealing. That's how one used to end up in a hockey parlay knowing nothing about anything. (Back when there was hockey, of course)
I took one last lap around the casino floor to collect my thoughts. Either I dive head first into this and pick something, just because, and live with it...or I don't and accept my fate. I see a man leaving the 'book wearing a T-shirt that says "You Ain't Me." And thank goodness for that life switch: he is being lead...nay, pushed out by a frumpy looking lady. I continued to weave through the slot machines seeing a man in front of a video poker machine that reads "JACKPOT! $1250.00" He is smiling, scratching his chin, while the machine goes nuts. Others would scream, but he just nodded thinking "That's right..."
Just then, the phone rings from the financial conscious. "Hey - Louisiana Tech and San Jose State. You've gotta bet the over." I look at the line and say to him "76 points?" "Come on!," he implored, "it's the last WAC game ever." He made a good point. The conference who put the pass, pass, who cares about defense style in vogue (a style embraced by the Big XII) was slipping quietly into the night. They were on ESPN or something...they had to do it right. I opened the wallet, money down, and off I went.
Just in case you didn't see the final - the two teams passed the O/U with the first score in the 4th Quarter. Ah, WAC Football. We'll miss your zany games. But it's a new day, a weekend-in-sportsbook-only trip is needed, and someone new is in the fold. She'll learn to put away horrific nachos while scanning notes and taking in another free drink. That's the vocation. Make it happen.
Then again, think about every other trip to Las Vegas, whether it's a holiday or not, and the timing doesn't matter beyond the weather. Was it cool and windy as fuck? Was it hotter than shit? Was it "just right?" Even if it was, once you get there, you're ready for action. The rest? Everything outside the cash-grab maelstrom? It doesn't matter. Even when shopping at the finest supermarket in the West (expansive, full of deals, and there's slot machines by the checkout) my mind was on sports. How could it not?
I feared that I would have to spend time explaining the variations of bets to those not caring, or trying to enforce the value of sportsbook living, when I find that my sister placed her first-ever sports bets. She tried to tie it to her fantasy football team, but before she could start to expound on a subject which interests only herself, I found the topic to her and I getting along: the very thing that I love about Las Vegas the most. What were the odds? Oh, here's the difference between points and moneyline. Here's what to look for in a parlay. I was a fountain of ideas, and to my amazement, she responded in awe. To me, this was the key to move forward...to see how much of an addiction this had become in mere hours.
"Here's a stat sheet from the sportsbook. The lines may have changed, so ignore that. Look at the trends. Now, if you're setting up a parlay, this can be helpful...take Miami of Ohio for example..."
"Oh...yeah, so, wait, what's the line?"
Honestly, had you told me all I'd have to do is get her into sports gambling, our relationship might have been saved years ago. But when she was left to nurture that idea on her own, I ambled around the casino, looking at rivalry games that just scream STAY AWAY. If you don't believe me, or hold up the Dawgs vs. Tech, my response to that is Washington and Washington State. The Huskies beat Stanford, but couldn't beat Wazzu? Yikes. Nothing stings like that feeling: in the nerve center, not seeing anything appealing. That's how one used to end up in a hockey parlay knowing nothing about anything. (Back when there was hockey, of course)
I took one last lap around the casino floor to collect my thoughts. Either I dive head first into this and pick something, just because, and live with it...or I don't and accept my fate. I see a man leaving the 'book wearing a T-shirt that says "You Ain't Me." And thank goodness for that life switch: he is being lead...nay, pushed out by a frumpy looking lady. I continued to weave through the slot machines seeing a man in front of a video poker machine that reads "JACKPOT! $1250.00" He is smiling, scratching his chin, while the machine goes nuts. Others would scream, but he just nodded thinking "That's right..."
Just then, the phone rings from the financial conscious. "Hey - Louisiana Tech and San Jose State. You've gotta bet the over." I look at the line and say to him "76 points?" "Come on!," he implored, "it's the last WAC game ever." He made a good point. The conference who put the pass, pass, who cares about defense style in vogue (a style embraced by the Big XII) was slipping quietly into the night. They were on ESPN or something...they had to do it right. I opened the wallet, money down, and off I went.
Just in case you didn't see the final - the two teams passed the O/U with the first score in the 4th Quarter. Ah, WAC Football. We'll miss your zany games. But it's a new day, a weekend-in-sportsbook-only trip is needed, and someone new is in the fold. She'll learn to put away horrific nachos while scanning notes and taking in another free drink. That's the vocation. Make it happen.
Monday, October 15, 2012
Ring of Bologna
In the industry that dominates Dealville, you have many types of personalities. There are the true Dealmakers: those who can make things happen anywhere and everywhere...from someone's couch, to a long lunch at a swanky restaurant. In their meetings, there are a lot of smiles, nods, and "yes, I agree." There are also the soldiers: the ones who play 48 each day, some overpaid, some underpaid, but they know what's really going on. This is helpful when trying to land a new job, because you can give the inside view.
But oh, the loathsome phony. I'm not talking about the Salinger "phony" who is just a general prick, and will never make it halfway to the lofty goals already achieved in his or her head. I speak today of the person in entertainment who simply has no fucking clue how things work or what is going on, but clings desperately to a self-belief that if it wasn't for their presence, things would cease to be.
Now you might read this and say "Sure, Trip. That kind of person is at my work, too." That is true. I remember long ago Jake writing about such a person back when he wrote. Since the shakes set in again, I have to guess he retired. (Editor's Note: We do receive submissions from Jake around late March every year, with the topic usually "Wake Forest to the Final Four") The difference would be in another industry, the person is usually a blithe spirit...so harmless and confused that most don't care. That is, until said person gets yet another promotion and everyone shakes their heads.
Dealville's phony is quite the breed, and the stuff of characture. In a town when most people are looking for "great job!" as honest feedback, where everyone thinks they have an inside track, these folks have two actual tracks:
1. "Work" constantly to keep all plates spinning. Make everyone you know think you're working with someone else...who thinks you're working with someone else...
2. Don't do any work at all but consistantly remind everyone that you did all the work.
The first person will be around and contact folks sporadically. You will hear from them how "Things are taking place" and "It's just a matter of time." After two months, you realize another deal that was imminent turned out not to work. Just as you delete their last e mail, you receive another contact about how "It's looking to shape up soon." These folks trend to prey on those even lower on the star ladder because what they're doing appears to be so impressive.
The second person is all bluster - the type anyone can spot a mile away. If they're nearsighted? They spot them right as they hear this sleaze begin to talk. Everything is in generalities. Few specifics are naturally given because they know none. Large projects are discussed and framed as if they are telling you about the topic, when, as the conversation grows, it is clear they are unfamiliar. It is wise to not involve these people in any aspects of your life. Avoiding them is your safest bet. but that doesn't mean they aren't around. You can see them trying to fool others. They talk to those more uninformed than they, and usually younger: trying desperately to appear as a "Seen-it-all" legend who in all likelihood has been dumped and fired multiple times. Their only known topic (themselves) is a favorite.
I could go on, but it's against human nature to want someone to fail for no other reason than they're bad at their job. It's not YOUR company, of course. Yet it stings the brain whenever you hear money discussed and standing there at the edge of your tongue is "I know how we can get some fast cash! Dump that sod and save 6 figures!" Maybe, in a way, that's chump change.
But oh, the loathsome phony. I'm not talking about the Salinger "phony" who is just a general prick, and will never make it halfway to the lofty goals already achieved in his or her head. I speak today of the person in entertainment who simply has no fucking clue how things work or what is going on, but clings desperately to a self-belief that if it wasn't for their presence, things would cease to be.
Now you might read this and say "Sure, Trip. That kind of person is at my work, too." That is true. I remember long ago Jake writing about such a person back when he wrote. Since the shakes set in again, I have to guess he retired. (Editor's Note: We do receive submissions from Jake around late March every year, with the topic usually "Wake Forest to the Final Four") The difference would be in another industry, the person is usually a blithe spirit...so harmless and confused that most don't care. That is, until said person gets yet another promotion and everyone shakes their heads.
Dealville's phony is quite the breed, and the stuff of characture. In a town when most people are looking for "great job!" as honest feedback, where everyone thinks they have an inside track, these folks have two actual tracks:
1. "Work" constantly to keep all plates spinning. Make everyone you know think you're working with someone else...who thinks you're working with someone else...
2. Don't do any work at all but consistantly remind everyone that you did all the work.
The first person will be around and contact folks sporadically. You will hear from them how "Things are taking place" and "It's just a matter of time." After two months, you realize another deal that was imminent turned out not to work. Just as you delete their last e mail, you receive another contact about how "It's looking to shape up soon." These folks trend to prey on those even lower on the star ladder because what they're doing appears to be so impressive.
The second person is all bluster - the type anyone can spot a mile away. If they're nearsighted? They spot them right as they hear this sleaze begin to talk. Everything is in generalities. Few specifics are naturally given because they know none. Large projects are discussed and framed as if they are telling you about the topic, when, as the conversation grows, it is clear they are unfamiliar. It is wise to not involve these people in any aspects of your life. Avoiding them is your safest bet. but that doesn't mean they aren't around. You can see them trying to fool others. They talk to those more uninformed than they, and usually younger: trying desperately to appear as a "Seen-it-all" legend who in all likelihood has been dumped and fired multiple times. Their only known topic (themselves) is a favorite.
I could go on, but it's against human nature to want someone to fail for no other reason than they're bad at their job. It's not YOUR company, of course. Yet it stings the brain whenever you hear money discussed and standing there at the edge of your tongue is "I know how we can get some fast cash! Dump that sod and save 6 figures!" Maybe, in a way, that's chump change.
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Coffeespoons
"You can't have those down here"
The air had already gone foul, and I could feel my chest tightening up.
"Christ!", I yelled at my attorney, "Is there cigar ash in the air conditioning??" He stumbled to the window and peeled the curtains aside. There she was, in all her dark majesty. The Meadows.
"Looks like someone dumped a ash bucket over here", he muttered towards the floor. Enough of this. It was time to get downstairs.
Hacked swatches of film - that's how the memories play out to me now. It rushes up not unlike acid flashbacks (and I can see why). Like mental insanity, it has its triggers. Talk of a line moving. A flash of neon outside a bar on University. The warm rush of a vodka-based drink. A cig perched 'tween lips while conversation turns to Poker Hands. And blammo! We're back at The Luck.
"Play my hand for me. I've got to go up to the room."
"Right now?"
"Yeah, like right this second."
"You want to color those up?"
"NOPE." (sprints away from table)
There were moments back then, wherein only by the grace of god did we not have a horrible incident and become a punchline in someone else's story. How many times did I stumble on the worn carpet of the LV Club's sportsbook, only to catch myself a mere nanosecond from running into a waitress? Try explaining that one... "Yeah, the thing is I had 6 white russians and then was trying to get up to bet race 7 at Del Mar, and all of a sudden, I'm wearing Maker's Mark..." And, leave.
"I just wanna lose. Just let me lose faster."
There are times, of course, when you want the moment to expand out into the horizon for all time. I remember sitting at a table at the Nugget as the sun rose, just as all the freaks were being shuffled off into the blooming light to make room for the geriatrics drinking orange juice. And I sat there at a 3 dollar table, shuffled my checks, and just observed this massive upturn of humanity. It was like the shifting of a tide. Trash out, clean water in. I wondered what it would be like to linger there, on the bottom of that particular sea, but I was soon awoken by mermaid voices, and I sloughed off into that blinding light.
But other times - oh - other times I just want the game to end. It's not even a game. When you strip all the magic away from video games, it's simply a huge screen with a big button. You press the button - labeled "GAMBLE" and the screen either flashes "WIN" OR "LOSE". Essentially, that's what it all comes down to. Regardless of whether the "game" features penguins, or I Dream of Jeannie, or in this particular circumstance, a soccer game, you're always going to the same place. LOSERVILLE.
So I mashed the button, trying harder to lose faster. But I kept winning. When it came time for the "bonus", I must've hit the correct button, because I slung a bicycle kick right by the overmatched goalie. Hey, great. Now I've got to stand in line to cash out. THE MAGIC IS GONE.
"Hey man, you got any cigarettes? I'm trying to quit."
And that pretty much just sums it up. Hey man, you got a smoke? Oh me? I'm actually trying to quit.... you know, by smoking more.
I would rush to judgement here and state that that has to be the absolute lowest humanity can go - bumming cigarettes from strangers at the Plaza... but if Las Vegas teaches you one single life lesson (and oh boy, does it ever) it's that no matter WHERE you are, or HOW busted out you think you have become, there are 10 more guys just down the street who are WAY worse than you'll ever be. Hey, at least that guy was still ALLOWED to come into the Plaza. I'm sure a similar scene was playing out at that very moment down the street at the Gold Spike. Except it wasn't a cigarette he was asking for... but it was on fire at one end.
"You mean to tell me we can't sit in these seats right here and drink these?"
And so I pulled on that jar of motor-oil-colored fluid, and my attorney did the same. We were under strict orders to not return to the gaming floor until we saw the bottom of those buckets. The long night just got longer. And so we watched the moon come up, that spectrelight glimmering over the impossibly complex neon highways. And I think we watched the Texas Rangers. Hell, it didn't matter. I smoked more cigarettes than I brought with me on the plane, and my attorney arranged the evenings bets in chronological order. There's something about the air, that's for certain, how it makes you capable of anything. The body can accept a gallon of beer with nary a whisper of protest, as long as the heart pumps faster from the adrenaline. And we rode the third rail that night. Post-jar, we smashed into the elevator with a loud scream, and tipped over an ashtray on the way to the lobby. We made it down just in time to see Utah State go off... oh hell, there better be 2nd half betting. Out into the night we roared, two jungle cats swerving through the ferns. The air so hot, the mind so lifted. Criss-crossing Fremont until dawn, running up good credit and bad stories at every stop.
Until morning came, and we drowned.
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
"Yeah it is. It's really warm."
No foolin' Stacy, it really was warm over the weekend. Either I will never adjust my mind to the fact that "summer" in southern California now goes from July 4th to early October...or I was overly stunned by the skies. Shit, even if you saw it on the way, nothing could prepare you for the hair dryer that hit Dealville the past week or so...
It would take a lively soul to combat this predicament, and Smiley was more than game to find alternatives. We mistakenly thought an after-dark concert at the Hollywood Bowl would do the trick, but that was not the case. I alerted the other Pacific Gold writer that it was, yes, 90 degrees in the dark. This has hit your writer before, but the circumstances were only in Las Vegas. I don't remember all of the particulars, but I was at a brisk jog, and then I climbed a fence and ran to the Hilton. As you can surmise, that was many moons ago...all that's changed.
So we had food and drink, all in the cooler, and we struggled to find our seats. This was a very sedate crowd, a fact I first chalked up to people eating (I spent the first half grooving along while eating in the dark, an activity I don't suggest unless you like reading in to everything I write). 2nd half brought more of the same, and I was about to review this as one of the more mundane concerts I've ever attended...but then the fireworks appeared.
They were impressive...they were colorful...and the sparks rained down on the box seats.
I didn't see this aspect at first because I'm awed by bright colors in a steamy night sky, but Smiley pointed it out. Let there be no doubt: with my own eyes, I saw stately folks (including a large, senior citizen woman) run madly as she batted down her hair. As with the rest of the show, the crowd was subdued. No one could have heard my proclamations anyway..."Holy Balls! Those people are having their hair set on fire from...never mind. Oh, is that is Pinot Noir? Sure, I have a plastic cup here...hold on..."
Saturday morning brought more of the same with, naturally, no wind whatsoever. I ask you: how is a dealmaker supposed to monitor college football in such an environment? I'm trying to blend the AC with cold washcloths...constant fluids, pads and pens. My surroundings have become a literal marathon. I will do it and fight it.
My question to you, the reader: How do you think that worked out? You're right: I lasted only through the late afternoon...until Smiley (in a curt manner that took me by surprise) told me "we're" leaving...
In hurried moments of heat, the exhausted are prone to rash decisions. (No pun intended) Said decisions can work out, aiding the situation...or...you can look at the decision and remind yourself "you've done it again. You sure have, haven't you? You were hot and you wanted a haircut to beat the heat. And you feel good in the moment and then realize it's "too short" and "not shaggy and swanky enough" and wait." Yes, I made that decision again. I've wondered if I should find a barber to the stars who makes it a consistent length, each week, Tuesday Nights at 9.
A cool breeze openly mocked us on Sunday, arriving for mere moments before vanishing completely. Normal neighborhood errands that could be accomplished at a zesty pace had to be done in the car (a typical LA thing to do). I returned home without any get up and get. The heat was overpowering, and plans were thrown around like a poorly made sandwich. None of this was happening, and we were fools to continue this conversation as if action would take place. Instead, Man's greatest wish was fulfilled, while the rest? They tried to find a parking spot at the beach...they fought through the movie theater while people called other people and said "Oh my god, it's so hot! Yeah, I know! We're at the movies!"
And so, whatever our condition as we ambled in Beverly Hills would have given "what the hell have you been up to?" stares had it not been for that everyone else was in the same frying pan. Making due in a stove, shrugging off annoyances for a mental coooool breeze.
It would take a lively soul to combat this predicament, and Smiley was more than game to find alternatives. We mistakenly thought an after-dark concert at the Hollywood Bowl would do the trick, but that was not the case. I alerted the other Pacific Gold writer that it was, yes, 90 degrees in the dark. This has hit your writer before, but the circumstances were only in Las Vegas. I don't remember all of the particulars, but I was at a brisk jog, and then I climbed a fence and ran to the Hilton. As you can surmise, that was many moons ago...all that's changed.
So we had food and drink, all in the cooler, and we struggled to find our seats. This was a very sedate crowd, a fact I first chalked up to people eating (I spent the first half grooving along while eating in the dark, an activity I don't suggest unless you like reading in to everything I write). 2nd half brought more of the same, and I was about to review this as one of the more mundane concerts I've ever attended...but then the fireworks appeared.
They were impressive...they were colorful...and the sparks rained down on the box seats.
I didn't see this aspect at first because I'm awed by bright colors in a steamy night sky, but Smiley pointed it out. Let there be no doubt: with my own eyes, I saw stately folks (including a large, senior citizen woman) run madly as she batted down her hair. As with the rest of the show, the crowd was subdued. No one could have heard my proclamations anyway..."Holy Balls! Those people are having their hair set on fire from...never mind. Oh, is that is Pinot Noir? Sure, I have a plastic cup here...hold on..."
Saturday morning brought more of the same with, naturally, no wind whatsoever. I ask you: how is a dealmaker supposed to monitor college football in such an environment? I'm trying to blend the AC with cold washcloths...constant fluids, pads and pens. My surroundings have become a literal marathon. I will do it and fight it.
My question to you, the reader: How do you think that worked out? You're right: I lasted only through the late afternoon...until Smiley (in a curt manner that took me by surprise) told me "we're" leaving...
In hurried moments of heat, the exhausted are prone to rash decisions. (No pun intended) Said decisions can work out, aiding the situation...or...you can look at the decision and remind yourself "you've done it again. You sure have, haven't you? You were hot and you wanted a haircut to beat the heat. And you feel good in the moment and then realize it's "too short" and "not shaggy and swanky enough" and wait." Yes, I made that decision again. I've wondered if I should find a barber to the stars who makes it a consistent length, each week, Tuesday Nights at 9.
A cool breeze openly mocked us on Sunday, arriving for mere moments before vanishing completely. Normal neighborhood errands that could be accomplished at a zesty pace had to be done in the car (a typical LA thing to do). I returned home without any get up and get. The heat was overpowering, and plans were thrown around like a poorly made sandwich. None of this was happening, and we were fools to continue this conversation as if action would take place. Instead, Man's greatest wish was fulfilled, while the rest? They tried to find a parking spot at the beach...they fought through the movie theater while people called other people and said "Oh my god, it's so hot! Yeah, I know! We're at the movies!"
And so, whatever our condition as we ambled in Beverly Hills would have given "what the hell have you been up to?" stares had it not been for that everyone else was in the same frying pan. Making due in a stove, shrugging off annoyances for a mental coooool breeze.
Wednesday, September 05, 2012
Hot and Spicy Bloody Mary Mix
Seems to me, there are two ways to do things.
For a good chunk of my 20s (oh lord, is that how we're talking now?) there was a push and a pull between these two ideas. One: That a man should learn to do the things he needs to do in everyday life to make his time on the planet easier and more self-sufficient. Two: That a man can simply acquire enough friends/money/power to have other people figure that stuff out for him so he can concentrate on more important things.
I literally have sat on the teeter-totter for a decade on this one, and I doubt I'll ever decide. The point, Jack, is that now, it really doesn't matter. There's no engineer to throw the switch at the rail-yard anymore. Just go and do, because everything is Knowledge.
I'll give you an example: For years I have been teaching myself to maintain and operate all of the computers in my life. (side note: I definitely did NOT "teach" this to myself... I studied under a great mind known the world over as Mr. Slideyneez) I sharpen this skill because, to me, I can't stand the idea of a piece of technology falling into disrepair in my life and having to take it to a mouthbreather at Best Buy. I can't stand that interaction - as far as it relates to technology - wherein I have to say "Yes, indeed, I do not know what is wrong, and you need to fix it for me". Is it pride? Oh no, absolutely not. I say that because when my car starts to Bubble and Whine, I immediately call my mechanic and start talking like a baby. "Don't know what's wrong, pwease help!" So I'm not DIY all the way. In fact, I would say it shakes out that about 75% of the time, I prefer to just plain not know how things work. "Hey Drew, gutters are clogged. We're going to need to go get a---" DON'T CARE. I ain't got no quarrel with them ice dams.
So, it's selective, but almost without pattern. I think as we age, we grow more used to some things. But with others, if you don't flex those memories, the time passes and you lose them forever. When I was 12 years old, my school (because it's Wisconsin) had a free course for Gun Safety. This is the certification that all children under 18 would need in order to go deer hunting. It was a free class, a few nights a week for a month. I don't need to tell you Gold readers that nearly 90% of my friends signed up for this class. I can't exactly remember why I didn't sign up for the class (I'm sure I was busy with Sim City at the time), but everyone I knew was in it, and I wasn't, and that was OK. I can't say I was ever excited about the possibility of hunting. It never had that much appeal, I guess. Anyway, that same class was offered the next year, but by then I was 13, and the only kids that would be in the class would be a year younger than me. NO DICE. Plus, the world was starting to open up and I was seeing more options for life beyond just what everyone else seemed to be doing. And then within a few years, I was driving and Making It Happen, and that just set the entire thing on the back burner. Flash forward 20 years.... the point is, it's not happening. I will never be a hunter. I will never take a gun and go hunting for deer. Ever. I would have absolutely no hope of shooting a deer... I'd likely misfire and scare one off long before I even saw him.
So, what's the point? Well, I never learned to hunt, and those days are gone, but I absolutely LOVE to fish. That was one of those skills that stayed with me. I nurtured it, flexed it, and now I do it dozens of times each year. So, you see, I'm not adverse to the outdoors. I'm not a nerdlington (although I did just push up my glasses before I began typing on this website). I do SOME things myself, but not all.
And so this weekend, as we bring it all back to where it started, it's not that big of a concern if I use Famous Dave's Bloody Mary Mix while I watch Charles Woodson make people feel The Hurt. Because I'm going to slice up some tomatoes from the garden that I raised with my own two hands this summer.
I'm not my Grandpa. But I'm not altogether incapable of acting like a man.
For a good chunk of my 20s (oh lord, is that how we're talking now?) there was a push and a pull between these two ideas. One: That a man should learn to do the things he needs to do in everyday life to make his time on the planet easier and more self-sufficient. Two: That a man can simply acquire enough friends/money/power to have other people figure that stuff out for him so he can concentrate on more important things.
I literally have sat on the teeter-totter for a decade on this one, and I doubt I'll ever decide. The point, Jack, is that now, it really doesn't matter. There's no engineer to throw the switch at the rail-yard anymore. Just go and do, because everything is Knowledge.
I'll give you an example: For years I have been teaching myself to maintain and operate all of the computers in my life. (side note: I definitely did NOT "teach" this to myself... I studied under a great mind known the world over as Mr. Slideyneez) I sharpen this skill because, to me, I can't stand the idea of a piece of technology falling into disrepair in my life and having to take it to a mouthbreather at Best Buy. I can't stand that interaction - as far as it relates to technology - wherein I have to say "Yes, indeed, I do not know what is wrong, and you need to fix it for me". Is it pride? Oh no, absolutely not. I say that because when my car starts to Bubble and Whine, I immediately call my mechanic and start talking like a baby. "Don't know what's wrong, pwease help!" So I'm not DIY all the way. In fact, I would say it shakes out that about 75% of the time, I prefer to just plain not know how things work. "Hey Drew, gutters are clogged. We're going to need to go get a---" DON'T CARE. I ain't got no quarrel with them ice dams.
So, it's selective, but almost without pattern. I think as we age, we grow more used to some things. But with others, if you don't flex those memories, the time passes and you lose them forever. When I was 12 years old, my school (because it's Wisconsin) had a free course for Gun Safety. This is the certification that all children under 18 would need in order to go deer hunting. It was a free class, a few nights a week for a month. I don't need to tell you Gold readers that nearly 90% of my friends signed up for this class. I can't exactly remember why I didn't sign up for the class (I'm sure I was busy with Sim City at the time), but everyone I knew was in it, and I wasn't, and that was OK. I can't say I was ever excited about the possibility of hunting. It never had that much appeal, I guess. Anyway, that same class was offered the next year, but by then I was 13, and the only kids that would be in the class would be a year younger than me. NO DICE. Plus, the world was starting to open up and I was seeing more options for life beyond just what everyone else seemed to be doing. And then within a few years, I was driving and Making It Happen, and that just set the entire thing on the back burner. Flash forward 20 years.... the point is, it's not happening. I will never be a hunter. I will never take a gun and go hunting for deer. Ever. I would have absolutely no hope of shooting a deer... I'd likely misfire and scare one off long before I even saw him.
So, what's the point? Well, I never learned to hunt, and those days are gone, but I absolutely LOVE to fish. That was one of those skills that stayed with me. I nurtured it, flexed it, and now I do it dozens of times each year. So, you see, I'm not adverse to the outdoors. I'm not a nerdlington (although I did just push up my glasses before I began typing on this website). I do SOME things myself, but not all.
And so this weekend, as we bring it all back to where it started, it's not that big of a concern if I use Famous Dave's Bloody Mary Mix while I watch Charles Woodson make people feel The Hurt. Because I'm going to slice up some tomatoes from the garden that I raised with my own two hands this summer.
I'm not my Grandpa. But I'm not altogether incapable of acting like a man.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Life and times in the farmland
Work is a funny thing.
It really begets more work. I have pivoted on this concept for many years, and have yet to find the perfect fulcrum point. I recently entered my 15th workplace, and the thought occurred to me that in the course of my life, I have gotten a lot more done when I've been insanely busy as opposed to when I've had no job and been primarily a househusband.
I should pause to remind everyone that I do not have children... and so the job of "househusband" involves little more than making pies.
But the movement causes more movement, doesn't it? Like trapped gas devouring oxygen, it only moves perpetually faster. And so I find my mind getting clearer as things speed up, some sort of opposite reaction of anti-laziness. I say this knowing full well that football season is on the horizon, and as such, goodbye weekends.
I'm not sure how it works around the world, and I've never been one to understand how other people become happy doing the things they do (that previous sentence was brought to you by Daniel Plainview), but I know that getting into, and staying knee deep in the action has always been a positive thing. If it works out that you have to take a 3 day jaunt to Santa Barb, then tack on a wine-run during the early hours of a Monday morning, well, so be it. If you find yourself slap-dash in Stonington, Connecticut, looking for ice cream an hour before your flight, well? What of it? Get in the air, get your affairs in order, and get moving.
I don't know any secrets about the best way to go about things, but maybe the secret is really that it is all subjective. And maybe it's best to go at the speed of the mountain. I know my life has become incredibly situational, and that's bringing more and more gold out. As the future starts to melt into the present, and sharp edges start to soften up, it's becoming easier and easier to chase it down, so to speak. I mean, hell, we just sloughed off to Africa-land for 2 weeks, and didn't plan so much as a ride home. I hesitate to say it's getting old hat, but the patterns are easier to follow.
And so, action breeds action. We move. Stress is so incredibly temporary. It sharpens and focuses the brain, dialing in to establish a true connection to life's miracles. Shit, if the point of it all is to Learn How This Thing Works, then it's best to prepare yourself so that when you hear the answer, you understand the language. And I feel like we've moved beyond the traffic now, so to speak, out into a realm where we grow more and more able to drive free and clear. Nothing comes easy, but action always results in education.
Life has really come a long way.
Friday, August 17, 2012
Too Many Things
"There's just too many things."
-Amber Waves, in a moment of clarity
For my initial years in Dealville, the sum of my possessions could be considered minimal. This is fine, and accepted at that age. I moved on a continuous basis, enough to annoy relatives, and ensure "set-up" bills for those shysters at each new site. Like the Abromowitz family in the night, I'd leave cursing some aspect of the place while celebrating the glory of the next. You can't add a lot of shit in a plan such as that, and I'd occasionally get chided for it...usually by women who weren't women but were still girls. I haven't talked to them in years, I'm proud to say.
Now, though, I am doing adult things. Not exotic adult things, but accepting some responsibility. This is a life moment of which I am prepared and, in one review, possibly overdue. There's two ways a conclusion such as that could be reached. One is seeing someone older than you by more than a handful of years living in suspended adolescence. It makes their social interaction incredibly awkward, even in minor situations. It's hard not to offer unsolicited advice when you see them stumbling on life's more basic tasks, but that is a waste of your time: they're older than you.
The other conclusion is mentally still feeling young despite an advancing age...and then you meet new hires and interns and realize that, in some cases, I'm over a decade older. Nope, not young anymore. (This reminds me of an opportunity long ago where a girl was considered for courtship, one who was 20 or so. For all the good that could have come with that, I soon realized that everything we'd discuss I'd gone through...7 years ago. It was all old news...)
These adult things include receiving very thoughtful gifts from family and friends, each item chosen for the rest of our lives. Had you visited our place, you could easily see there were some basic items that were needed to overcome the collegiate look. There were also items that were improving life: nicer options to expand culinary attempts. Don't think I'm ready to watch Food Network or anything, but this will (hopefully) ensure I won't burn a sunny side up egg. These items, too, were welcome and appreciated.
Then, there are the items that I carefully mentioned to Smiley as examples of barely needed things: items that were placed on the list despite my misgivings on their use. We now own a glassware item that can be a punch bowl, a cake stand, or covered holder of food. It looks (and is) extremely heavy. If you told me this was the Davis Cup and we had mistakingly received this trophy in Madrid, I'd believe you. But it's ours now, without some discussion.
We don't need this.
No, we do. This will be good for cakes. Or for punch.
How much punch do you think we're going to make?!
Well, your Grandpa's rum punch recipe is in the book. Besides, I'm going to be making a lot of cakes.
Man, this thing is heavy.
Yeah, you have to be careful.
This is an area of the world where the sleazy measure each other by material goods. It is a race no one can ever win. Ask the dolt who bragged about their items years later. They'll tell you they're "gonna get an upgrade on _____" Be that as it may, you might as well swing by and visit as NCAA Football season starts, because we'll have a lot of food! Er...food on display. I can make all natural ice cream now. I can rinse and prepare a salad without using another tool beyond a plastic device that looks like something from the moon. We can drink champagne from glasses that have our names etched in them with fine detail. I appreciate all gifts, believe you me. However, I realize now that I left "new house" off the list. Guess that's up to me, huh? Because I'm an adult? Shit, I told Smiley we were gonna go out to eat, and we went to some place called "Tacomiendo." She didn't complain at all. Does that mean I won? Or is it that another moment of life passed, and I was reminded that there are no rules along the way?
"How does it feel?" they ask. The same, I reply. "That's good." It is. Life, new and exciting, rolls on.
-Amber Waves, in a moment of clarity
For my initial years in Dealville, the sum of my possessions could be considered minimal. This is fine, and accepted at that age. I moved on a continuous basis, enough to annoy relatives, and ensure "set-up" bills for those shysters at each new site. Like the Abromowitz family in the night, I'd leave cursing some aspect of the place while celebrating the glory of the next. You can't add a lot of shit in a plan such as that, and I'd occasionally get chided for it...usually by women who weren't women but were still girls. I haven't talked to them in years, I'm proud to say.
Now, though, I am doing adult things. Not exotic adult things, but accepting some responsibility. This is a life moment of which I am prepared and, in one review, possibly overdue. There's two ways a conclusion such as that could be reached. One is seeing someone older than you by more than a handful of years living in suspended adolescence. It makes their social interaction incredibly awkward, even in minor situations. It's hard not to offer unsolicited advice when you see them stumbling on life's more basic tasks, but that is a waste of your time: they're older than you.
The other conclusion is mentally still feeling young despite an advancing age...and then you meet new hires and interns and realize that, in some cases, I'm over a decade older. Nope, not young anymore. (This reminds me of an opportunity long ago where a girl was considered for courtship, one who was 20 or so. For all the good that could have come with that, I soon realized that everything we'd discuss I'd gone through...7 years ago. It was all old news...)
These adult things include receiving very thoughtful gifts from family and friends, each item chosen for the rest of our lives. Had you visited our place, you could easily see there were some basic items that were needed to overcome the collegiate look. There were also items that were improving life: nicer options to expand culinary attempts. Don't think I'm ready to watch Food Network or anything, but this will (hopefully) ensure I won't burn a sunny side up egg. These items, too, were welcome and appreciated.
Then, there are the items that I carefully mentioned to Smiley as examples of barely needed things: items that were placed on the list despite my misgivings on their use. We now own a glassware item that can be a punch bowl, a cake stand, or covered holder of food. It looks (and is) extremely heavy. If you told me this was the Davis Cup and we had mistakingly received this trophy in Madrid, I'd believe you. But it's ours now, without some discussion.
We don't need this.
No, we do. This will be good for cakes. Or for punch.
How much punch do you think we're going to make?!
Well, your Grandpa's rum punch recipe is in the book. Besides, I'm going to be making a lot of cakes.
Man, this thing is heavy.
Yeah, you have to be careful.
This is an area of the world where the sleazy measure each other by material goods. It is a race no one can ever win. Ask the dolt who bragged about their items years later. They'll tell you they're "gonna get an upgrade on _____" Be that as it may, you might as well swing by and visit as NCAA Football season starts, because we'll have a lot of food! Er...food on display. I can make all natural ice cream now. I can rinse and prepare a salad without using another tool beyond a plastic device that looks like something from the moon. We can drink champagne from glasses that have our names etched in them with fine detail. I appreciate all gifts, believe you me. However, I realize now that I left "new house" off the list. Guess that's up to me, huh? Because I'm an adult? Shit, I told Smiley we were gonna go out to eat, and we went to some place called "Tacomiendo." She didn't complain at all. Does that mean I won? Or is it that another moment of life passed, and I was reminded that there are no rules along the way?
"How does it feel?" they ask. The same, I reply. "That's good." It is. Life, new and exciting, rolls on.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
It ends with another Super Bowl
This is how these waves work.
(editor's note: Yeah, we're switching to football, because why the hell not?)
If there is a pattern - and we've already established that there is decidedly NOT (though moving the mouth is fun) - then it probably isn't quite as fun to be on the roller-coaster. The twists and turns, if predictable, are only slightly less intense. After all, who cares when the loop-der-loop hits? When it happens, you're still shocked senseless.
There's no more institutional continuity, and if there is, it means nothing. Football teams succeed on "tradition" as much as LSU players succeed on books. The guy that came before you is just the guy that ain't here anymore. In this climate, separation comes rarely, and has to be micro-managed. Fans seem to have an inside track to how this is accomplished, but they are almost always wrong, and definitely always are dumb. "DUDE, JUST GET VINCENT JACKSON AND THIS OFFENSE IS SET!" And, ham-wich.
I do, however, enjoy a luxury that I fully admit is more cosmetic than substantive. I happen to pull for an organization that has effectively removed greed as a main operator of success. That means nothing when/if #12 gets concussion number four, but it helps clarify emotions, at least. An example is the Purple... they can run a dog-shit team out there (and they do), but Mr. New Jersey still banks cash and reinvests it into mini-malls. Then, when the team comes off a 3-13 season in which the fattest players look the best, the politicians in the state (who have really liked football since they've been fans... about 5 weeks now) vote to give him billions. Hey, it all makes sense. And in 3 years when they go back into the first round to reach for Rodgers' brother, or whoever, the fans' displeasure will be tainted by the economic reality that 1) their money still flows to Zigg, and 2) they are married to this idea forever and ever.
So, with a limited amount of moving parts, you can only ever hope that the tumblers line up and you strike it rich for one glorious season. That's the fleeting nature of the NFL. And that's why so many are drawn to it, like moths to a bonfire. We go back and forth on if "dynasties" are good for sports, or football, or whatever. But nothing hooks a fan-base into their team like the Big Run. Christ, they're probably still selling gear at the Packers Pro Sh- yep, still got em. And so it matters not if this "design" has anything to do with success of the league as a whole, because the league doesn't operate as an entity. They pass the plate around and everyone gets to take a cookie out. Shit, that sure beats having to cheer against the Red Sox or Yankees every. fucking. year.
Ok, so what's the point of all this?
I'm on another wave here. We crested, and now it's a slow roll up the beach. The way I can give this language is to remind you that yes, I have been through this before. Here's the breakdown:
1. You Hit It Big, And Everyone Is A God
Dear me, did I love Eric Walden in 2010. And Howard Green? HALL OF FAMER. I took a shot to Crabtree that night, and I didn't feel bad about it. It was flowing like cherries, and everyone got a sip of that bubbly. When it all comes together, there is such a sense of happiness that it blots out any other considerations you could ever have. It's a singular moment, one that you wait for years to achieve, and then it happens, and it's a white wash of light.
2. Little Pieces (Who Stepped Up Big) Go Somewhere Else Where They Will Be Paid Like Big Pieces, Even Though They Are Not Very Good
Hey Arizona, how's Darren Colledge working out? Hey Cleveland, you're welcome to Brandon Jackson. Nice to see Brett Swain still pulling them in in San Fran. The point is that inevitably, you can't keep all the pieces, because they all get instantly more expensive. So you lose the "glue" guys. And that's fine, because they aren't really the crux of the team... but they contribute. And replacing them with equal pieces isn't a foregone conclusion.
3. Heads Swell
Last year, I wrote this sentence to my attorney:
Oh, how confident I was. Oh, the banner would fly again.
OOOOOOOPS.
4. You Keep Me Hanging On
This is where we are now. Is Rodgers good enough to keep this team in the Fat and Giggly for the next 5 years? Sure. I watched this happen from 1999-2003. Quarterback is good enough to win 10 games a year. Rest of the team doesn't care. Go to playoffs, lose, come back the next year confident. But when you don't have that team coming together under the right conditions, and you don't have everything click at the right time, and when you sign - oh god - Cedric Benson, you are doing what dogs do when they jump in the lake.
5. Nice To See You, Felt. It's Been Too Long.
It doesn't end with the felt. It didn't end in 2005. It just gives you higher draft picks. The bottom rushes up to meet every team, at least once a decade. It helps restore balance, if anything. Because, soon after...
6. Beautiful Surface
The turnaround comes only when the team accepts it will go no further under the current direction. Once that commitment is made, a child could turn the team around. Draft strong, stay young, get a coach to kick everyone in the ass. How can you not win it all?
7. The End Is The Beginning Is The End
The circle closes, and you buy another jersey. Cycle complete.... enjoy it.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
And so, we embark down another hard-banking turn. We know where this coaster will take us, but we still thrill in the ride. It happens so quickly, but you always forget that first dive when the ride finishes.
But that's ok... when you are heading up the hill next time, you'll remember.
(editor's note: Yeah, we're switching to football, because why the hell not?)
If there is a pattern - and we've already established that there is decidedly NOT (though moving the mouth is fun) - then it probably isn't quite as fun to be on the roller-coaster. The twists and turns, if predictable, are only slightly less intense. After all, who cares when the loop-der-loop hits? When it happens, you're still shocked senseless.
There's no more institutional continuity, and if there is, it means nothing. Football teams succeed on "tradition" as much as LSU players succeed on books. The guy that came before you is just the guy that ain't here anymore. In this climate, separation comes rarely, and has to be micro-managed. Fans seem to have an inside track to how this is accomplished, but they are almost always wrong, and definitely always are dumb. "DUDE, JUST GET VINCENT JACKSON AND THIS OFFENSE IS SET!" And, ham-wich.
I do, however, enjoy a luxury that I fully admit is more cosmetic than substantive. I happen to pull for an organization that has effectively removed greed as a main operator of success. That means nothing when/if #12 gets concussion number four, but it helps clarify emotions, at least. An example is the Purple... they can run a dog-shit team out there (and they do), but Mr. New Jersey still banks cash and reinvests it into mini-malls. Then, when the team comes off a 3-13 season in which the fattest players look the best, the politicians in the state (who have really liked football since they've been fans... about 5 weeks now) vote to give him billions. Hey, it all makes sense. And in 3 years when they go back into the first round to reach for Rodgers' brother, or whoever, the fans' displeasure will be tainted by the economic reality that 1) their money still flows to Zigg, and 2) they are married to this idea forever and ever.
So, with a limited amount of moving parts, you can only ever hope that the tumblers line up and you strike it rich for one glorious season. That's the fleeting nature of the NFL. And that's why so many are drawn to it, like moths to a bonfire. We go back and forth on if "dynasties" are good for sports, or football, or whatever. But nothing hooks a fan-base into their team like the Big Run. Christ, they're probably still selling gear at the Packers Pro Sh- yep, still got em. And so it matters not if this "design" has anything to do with success of the league as a whole, because the league doesn't operate as an entity. They pass the plate around and everyone gets to take a cookie out. Shit, that sure beats having to cheer against the Red Sox or Yankees every. fucking. year.
Ok, so what's the point of all this?
I'm on another wave here. We crested, and now it's a slow roll up the beach. The way I can give this language is to remind you that yes, I have been through this before. Here's the breakdown:
1. You Hit It Big, And Everyone Is A God
Dear me, did I love Eric Walden in 2010. And Howard Green? HALL OF FAMER. I took a shot to Crabtree that night, and I didn't feel bad about it. It was flowing like cherries, and everyone got a sip of that bubbly. When it all comes together, there is such a sense of happiness that it blots out any other considerations you could ever have. It's a singular moment, one that you wait for years to achieve, and then it happens, and it's a white wash of light.
2. Little Pieces (Who Stepped Up Big) Go Somewhere Else Where They Will Be Paid Like Big Pieces, Even Though They Are Not Very Good
Hey Arizona, how's Darren Colledge working out? Hey Cleveland, you're welcome to Brandon Jackson. Nice to see Brett Swain still pulling them in in San Fran. The point is that inevitably, you can't keep all the pieces, because they all get instantly more expensive. So you lose the "glue" guys. And that's fine, because they aren't really the crux of the team... but they contribute. And replacing them with equal pieces isn't a foregone conclusion.
3. Heads Swell
Last year, I wrote this sentence to my attorney:
My point is that if *I* am reading this stuff, and getting a little amped up, what do you think Charles Woodson is doing? Do you think that Charles Woodson, the only player to ever win the Heisman, DPOY and a Super Bowl, just sits at home, sees TRAVIS BECKUM open his mouth, and does nothing?
Oh, how confident I was. Oh, the banner would fly again.
OOOOOOOPS.
4. You Keep Me Hanging On
This is where we are now. Is Rodgers good enough to keep this team in the Fat and Giggly for the next 5 years? Sure. I watched this happen from 1999-2003. Quarterback is good enough to win 10 games a year. Rest of the team doesn't care. Go to playoffs, lose, come back the next year confident. But when you don't have that team coming together under the right conditions, and you don't have everything click at the right time, and when you sign - oh god - Cedric Benson, you are doing what dogs do when they jump in the lake.
5. Nice To See You, Felt. It's Been Too Long.
It doesn't end with the felt. It didn't end in 2005. It just gives you higher draft picks. The bottom rushes up to meet every team, at least once a decade. It helps restore balance, if anything. Because, soon after...
6. Beautiful Surface
The turnaround comes only when the team accepts it will go no further under the current direction. Once that commitment is made, a child could turn the team around. Draft strong, stay young, get a coach to kick everyone in the ass. How can you not win it all?
7. The End Is The Beginning Is The End
The circle closes, and you buy another jersey. Cycle complete.... enjoy it.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
And so, we embark down another hard-banking turn. We know where this coaster will take us, but we still thrill in the ride. It happens so quickly, but you always forget that first dive when the ride finishes.
But that's ok... when you are heading up the hill next time, you'll remember.
Tuesday, August 07, 2012
Ain't it enough to live by the ways of the world?
(editor's note: It's becoming clear, through years of research, that Dee Louis operates best without supervision. We had recently tailed him to Wyoming, to which he responded with a year-long blackout on posting. However last month we decided to end all communication with him, and he replied 2 weeks later from Tanzania. His comments appear here, unedited)
We're still walking out here, and the night hasn't begun to fall. That's the thing about The Spin... it's always waking up somewhere. Life can be reduced or expanded, but it's always going to come down to what's right there, in front of your face. If you can't live it, you can't know it. The Motto. Off we go....
I suppose at one point the world was a lot simpler, and I suppose that right before that, it was infinitely complex. When Lucy or whoever stepped out from the primordial ooze, the whole thing got much more in a line. That thing - the first steps, the dawn, whatever you call it - it happened a million years ago yesterday, and it happened right here. In a flash, existence woke up and we were finally able to start pursuing the secrets. Here we are a million years later, and we are still asking. But Lucy, ah. Lucy knew.
Lucy was born in the rift. The rift that tore at the continents and tried to shuck half of Africa back into the sea. That was the first of many incidents of Earthen Revenge. Ah, the poetry of that... to be born in the valley of death. But really, isn't it all the same? Trees growing out of decaying matter, and all that? If it's all on a spin, then does it ever really stop? It spins as much today as it did back then. This isn't Newton's Billiards.
Oh hell, reign it in already. It's not like you got shot in the war and are seeing the bright light. Tell a STORY...
David Mitchell once said that if you ever wanted to just plain get off your ass, then India was the place. There, he explained, it is quite simply impossible to feel bad for yourself, to lay in bed all day, to be lazy. You step onto that street, and it's right here, right now. That's Nairobi. You don't consider anything. You don't contemplate. No thought digs more than a layer deep. Here, take a test: step out onto that curb and tell me what your cousin's name is....
Too late.
There's quick-moving cities (Tokyo still holding the trophy on that one) and then there's quick-moving cities with Bonus Chaos. That's Nairobi. Everyone move, only nobody do it logically. Just GO. Pick a direction (or not) and simply mash the gas pedal. Eventually, like moths in a jar, we'll either figure it out, or die. Again, not much difference.
If the goal is to eventually see every side of the dice, then we're making good progress. Call this the "danger" side. I don't know what it's like in Northern Mexico right now, but I'm guessing it's close. I can taste The Fear. You don't get a lot more dangerous than Africa (both in biological and human threats), and that's something that you can't really forget. I remember a time in Hawaii... we had a huge tsunami warning. They drove by on the Kam highway blasting out evacuation orders. They said that by 10am (it was 6 at the time) that the tsunami would arrive and we should evacuate to higher ground. Our house was already at the top of a hill... it would've taken a 200 foot wave to take us down. We sat there that morning and Reasoned with the thing. Finally, we came to a conclusion... we were NOT going to be "those people" on the news. You know the ones. The mother who brings a 3 month old baby to The Dark Knight Rises. The guy who stays in his house in Tuscaloosa as Aunty Em gets lifted away to the heavens. And you see the news and think "What a tragedy... but what the hell were they DOING there?" So that's why we play it safe. We're not going to be those people. And, as surely as we fled the tsunami, we take the book's advice to "never go out after dark, ever". Alright then. Dinners will be behind fences. Enough said.
But that's ok, because there are a few worlds out here, and the Bonus Chaos only stretches as far as the city limits. Eventually, we slink back to the ooze. The Great Rift Valley lays open before us, a miles-wide swath cut down the globe like a gash in a golf ball, absolutely teeming with life so utterly incomprehensible. The biodiversity here matches anything I've seen before, and we find ourselves stunned at the proximity we can get to this kind of bubbling nature. This is where it began, this is where it continues, and this is where it will never end. I ask the guide "What natural defense to the wildebeest have against the lions?" He replies "There are many of them". Simple mathematics, that's the advantage. Evolution just took a day off on that one. I suppose it's counter-evolution, in a way. Something's not allowing the lions to grow in numbers, and that's keeping the denominator (or is it the remainder?) constant. A man with 16 bullets can probably only take down a max of 16 people. So then it's simple... just don't give him another gun.
There are no answers out there, only astounding emptiness, but that's an answer in itself, I suppose. We long ago stopped searching and started wandering. The greatest thing being to find yourself in a place. I suppose "find" implies there was first some "searching". But not necessarily. Because just like you can find yourself bellied up to the bar drinking Shiner at the B&B BBQ, so too can you find yourself sitting in a Swahili restaurant after sundown during Ramadan, wishing that you could never blink again.
Our lives are a story. It started when Lucy woke up. It will continue through the evening. We'll be there, and then we'll be here.
We're still walking out here, and the night hasn't begun to fall. That's the thing about The Spin... it's always waking up somewhere. Life can be reduced or expanded, but it's always going to come down to what's right there, in front of your face. If you can't live it, you can't know it. The Motto. Off we go....
I suppose at one point the world was a lot simpler, and I suppose that right before that, it was infinitely complex. When Lucy or whoever stepped out from the primordial ooze, the whole thing got much more in a line. That thing - the first steps, the dawn, whatever you call it - it happened a million years ago yesterday, and it happened right here. In a flash, existence woke up and we were finally able to start pursuing the secrets. Here we are a million years later, and we are still asking. But Lucy, ah. Lucy knew.
Lucy was born in the rift. The rift that tore at the continents and tried to shuck half of Africa back into the sea. That was the first of many incidents of Earthen Revenge. Ah, the poetry of that... to be born in the valley of death. But really, isn't it all the same? Trees growing out of decaying matter, and all that? If it's all on a spin, then does it ever really stop? It spins as much today as it did back then. This isn't Newton's Billiards.
Oh hell, reign it in already. It's not like you got shot in the war and are seeing the bright light. Tell a STORY...
David Mitchell once said that if you ever wanted to just plain get off your ass, then India was the place. There, he explained, it is quite simply impossible to feel bad for yourself, to lay in bed all day, to be lazy. You step onto that street, and it's right here, right now. That's Nairobi. You don't consider anything. You don't contemplate. No thought digs more than a layer deep. Here, take a test: step out onto that curb and tell me what your cousin's name is....
Too late.
There's quick-moving cities (Tokyo still holding the trophy on that one) and then there's quick-moving cities with Bonus Chaos. That's Nairobi. Everyone move, only nobody do it logically. Just GO. Pick a direction (or not) and simply mash the gas pedal. Eventually, like moths in a jar, we'll either figure it out, or die. Again, not much difference.
If the goal is to eventually see every side of the dice, then we're making good progress. Call this the "danger" side. I don't know what it's like in Northern Mexico right now, but I'm guessing it's close. I can taste The Fear. You don't get a lot more dangerous than Africa (both in biological and human threats), and that's something that you can't really forget. I remember a time in Hawaii... we had a huge tsunami warning. They drove by on the Kam highway blasting out evacuation orders. They said that by 10am (it was 6 at the time) that the tsunami would arrive and we should evacuate to higher ground. Our house was already at the top of a hill... it would've taken a 200 foot wave to take us down. We sat there that morning and Reasoned with the thing. Finally, we came to a conclusion... we were NOT going to be "those people" on the news. You know the ones. The mother who brings a 3 month old baby to The Dark Knight Rises. The guy who stays in his house in Tuscaloosa as Aunty Em gets lifted away to the heavens. And you see the news and think "What a tragedy... but what the hell were they DOING there?" So that's why we play it safe. We're not going to be those people. And, as surely as we fled the tsunami, we take the book's advice to "never go out after dark, ever". Alright then. Dinners will be behind fences. Enough said.
But that's ok, because there are a few worlds out here, and the Bonus Chaos only stretches as far as the city limits. Eventually, we slink back to the ooze. The Great Rift Valley lays open before us, a miles-wide swath cut down the globe like a gash in a golf ball, absolutely teeming with life so utterly incomprehensible. The biodiversity here matches anything I've seen before, and we find ourselves stunned at the proximity we can get to this kind of bubbling nature. This is where it began, this is where it continues, and this is where it will never end. I ask the guide "What natural defense to the wildebeest have against the lions?" He replies "There are many of them". Simple mathematics, that's the advantage. Evolution just took a day off on that one. I suppose it's counter-evolution, in a way. Something's not allowing the lions to grow in numbers, and that's keeping the denominator (or is it the remainder?) constant. A man with 16 bullets can probably only take down a max of 16 people. So then it's simple... just don't give him another gun.
There are no answers out there, only astounding emptiness, but that's an answer in itself, I suppose. We long ago stopped searching and started wandering. The greatest thing being to find yourself in a place. I suppose "find" implies there was first some "searching". But not necessarily. Because just like you can find yourself bellied up to the bar drinking Shiner at the B&B BBQ, so too can you find yourself sitting in a Swahili restaurant after sundown during Ramadan, wishing that you could never blink again.
Our lives are a story. It started when Lucy woke up. It will continue through the evening. We'll be there, and then we'll be here.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Maui Madness
I found out what benefit you receive as Pacific Gold's sole writer. (Well, sole as far as I knew) I had turned down a June assignment based in Spokane. Why I had to go there to ask students what it was like for the last day of school, I don't know. Despite this writing delay, I went to the offices for another assignment. I couldn't have been on the orange foam couch for 5 seconds when I was shown two envelopes. "You're the one writing these days, Trip...so you get to make the choice. That guy Dan...Drew...yeah, Drew, he gets the other." So, I took an envelope, laughed at an old ad for home interest rates ("12.3%?! Now you know why I lived on a boat in 1984!") and waited until getting home to open...
"You'll be going to Maui to see how 'off season' life goes for locals, and look for ocean life. Tickets and itinerary enclosed. Story due by end of the month." Shit, I lucked out on this one...I think? Best not to guess where they sent Drew...if he went, or will write for that matter.
I was taking some comfort until I met with Drew at a celebration I held up the coast. There, surrounded by booze and food, Drew took the microphone and began to regale the audience with comedic anecdotes about me and Smiley, and continued in this entertaining fashion until the conclusion. Everyone applauded, Drew received multiple compliments (heartiest from me, as you can imagine) and then Smiley and I both spoke aloud Drew's writing abilities. But...here I am going to Maui. Whether it's fair or not, off I flew...
When people say Hawaii time, they don't mean time of day, they mean "pace of life." This takes some adjusting to, whether on vacation or assignment from Dealville. In Dealville, you're hustling to be one step ahead. But in Maui, though no one will say it to your face, you feel it real quick: Stop worrying about everything. No one else is in a hurry. No one else needs anything more than another rum drink. So, just...
(Sighs and reflects)
Finding locals, away from tourist areas (off the beaten path and otherwise) is not easy. The locals know this, and they know their meal ticket is tourism. It sure as hell isn't its OWN inertia, or ease of making a living. In fact, those who do find it supremely difficult. But that's not the face you see. The face (unless they're retired, which is a "loving this life" face) is still smiling and welcome. No shakedown...no pity story. The reason: the weather and each other. They're all on the same wavelength.
Getting on a boat and going elsewhere helped find ocean life, but it also brought a rough case of seasickness. We made our way over to Lana'i, though not on our own charter it would seem. The cool waters calmed my nerves, and underwater, we rightly saw oddities...
The Trumpet Fish (among others) continue to send reminders of a whole world out of sight...and continuing wonder. Even saw an underwater spider...or so it seemed. (I hope the editor doesn't mind because...yeah, I didn't want to investigate) Sea turtles continue to be a searchable item...though it ended in taking the road often traveled. This is something to avoid highly, because if you think the mouth-breathing set has trouble enough walking...imagine them in water, with new snorkel gear, having never done it before in their life.
There I stayed, in one spot, without making a scene. The fish were doing their thing, and then - there it is.
"You'll be going to Maui to see how 'off season' life goes for locals, and look for ocean life. Tickets and itinerary enclosed. Story due by end of the month." Shit, I lucked out on this one...I think? Best not to guess where they sent Drew...if he went, or will write for that matter.
I was taking some comfort until I met with Drew at a celebration I held up the coast. There, surrounded by booze and food, Drew took the microphone and began to regale the audience with comedic anecdotes about me and Smiley, and continued in this entertaining fashion until the conclusion. Everyone applauded, Drew received multiple compliments (heartiest from me, as you can imagine) and then Smiley and I both spoke aloud Drew's writing abilities. But...here I am going to Maui. Whether it's fair or not, off I flew...
When people say Hawaii time, they don't mean time of day, they mean "pace of life." This takes some adjusting to, whether on vacation or assignment from Dealville. In Dealville, you're hustling to be one step ahead. But in Maui, though no one will say it to your face, you feel it real quick: Stop worrying about everything. No one else is in a hurry. No one else needs anything more than another rum drink. So, just...
(Sighs and reflects)
Finding locals, away from tourist areas (off the beaten path and otherwise) is not easy. The locals know this, and they know their meal ticket is tourism. It sure as hell isn't its OWN inertia, or ease of making a living. In fact, those who do find it supremely difficult. But that's not the face you see. The face (unless they're retired, which is a "loving this life" face) is still smiling and welcome. No shakedown...no pity story. The reason: the weather and each other. They're all on the same wavelength.
Getting on a boat and going elsewhere helped find ocean life, but it also brought a rough case of seasickness. We made our way over to Lana'i, though not on our own charter it would seem. The cool waters calmed my nerves, and underwater, we rightly saw oddities...
The Trumpet Fish (among others) continue to send reminders of a whole world out of sight...and continuing wonder. Even saw an underwater spider...or so it seemed. (I hope the editor doesn't mind because...yeah, I didn't want to investigate) Sea turtles continue to be a searchable item...though it ended in taking the road often traveled. This is something to avoid highly, because if you think the mouth-breathing set has trouble enough walking...imagine them in water, with new snorkel gear, having never done it before in their life.
There I stayed, in one spot, without making a scene. The fish were doing their thing, and then - there it is.
(Note: Not said turtle, but this one is saying hello)
The turtle was doing its thing, well aware it was in a high traffic area. It began to swim toward me, so I had to do some quick thinking. I did nothing. If this sea turtle wants to say hello, have me carry it somewhere, or attempt to gnaw on my arm, it'll do it. I'm in his house. (her house? I have no idea) Word must have shouted along dry land. At that moment, the flailing brigade began to surround me, kicking me wildly with their fins, and pointing with flabby, surprised limbs. The water was shook up, and the lack of space was making it hard for me to concentrate. All the while, here comes the turtle. Ol' Lumber's slo-mo action was enough to eventually scare off everyone...but me. The turtle came up to my side, lifted its fin, and patted me on the back. It swam on. Like the picture you see above, it was a rare moment when nature, in its element, is happy to see you.
As a result, you would think underwater would be the place to be at all times. It's easy to get away from the masses and meet new creatures. I hasten to remind the reader (and realized it too late for myself) that the Pacific is an angry sea. It is large, the ground shakes under it, and man has placed a belt of garbage that floats in it and washes ashore. Hell, we even wrote two years ago about these waves. Sadly, I had to turn down a snorkel day to remain on land while Smiley continued the underwater adventure. Doing so gave me the chance to get the local vibe.
I was laying under palm trees, listening to the wind and waves help my recovery, when I heard two female voices. They seemed to have a decent amount of vocal fry from smoking, and, just in conversation, I could tell they held the inside story. One woman's dog wandered over and stayed next to me (because I can apparently communicate with animals) and that brought the lowdown.
One of the pair was a lifelong native: "I don't look it, huh? Lived here my whole life. But I did live in southern California for a few years. You know Costa Mesa?" Ah...my predictions were correct.
"Yeah...they want people living here to do the work, but I wish people from the mainland came over here because it gets done faster. You know that area by the airport? All that stuff by the Costco? TWO YEARS." I nodded in agreement, not really knowing what she was talking about, but understood that this E-Z mindset meets local-needed construction, and no one really wins. Meanwhile, making a living isn't easy. The dog owner cleans condos, having to balance the time off as a good/bad thing. "Been doing this for 23 years. Used to be really busy. Did 3 turnovers a day." She also shared the nugget that "Canadians are the worst tippers." Must have been the bad exchange rate for all those years.
I went back to lie down as she went back to her friend, but since her dog was now by my side, I kept my ears tuned to their convo. Could I glean some wisdom from local's life by eavesdropping?
"My neighbor comes over with a 20-pound bag of pepperoni from Pizza Hut! She says 'Hey - want some pepperoni?' I said 'I don't like pepperoni that much.'" "Where did she get that?" "From Pizza Hut. I swear, she's always coming over with stuff like that."
There you go, folks. That's the real life in Maui: random giant bags of pepperoni, shipped directly to the island. After the "Holy Gold!" take in of the weather, and the quick acceptance of the lifestyle pace, it's sink or swim. Sinking isn't the worst thing in Maui...the turtles will be there to lend a hand.
Monday, May 21, 2012
Dodger Stadium: Park at your Own Risk
As I sit in a monitoring cell today, the Dodgers have the best record in the major leagues. I have no idea how this happened, particularly now with a steady stream of injuries. (An infielder thankfully was taken to the hospital at the right time, avoiding an amputation - I kid you not) They finished yet another sweep of a first-place team, this time the Cards. I'm ready to write another blog about Tommy Lasorda and victory eating, when I read this morning's story:
"Dodger fan beaten as pregnant girlfriend watched in shock."
Son of a bitch...let me guess where this took place...yes, the Dodger Stadium parking lot.
Despite the team's surprising start, last season's opening day crime is still fresh in fan's minds. Last season, fans had plenty of reasons to avoid games, a parking lot beat-down at the top of the list. Yet now, they'd like to think all of those negative aspects, including parking lot insanity, faded away.
The LAPD can call it "road rage" (road rage IN A PARKING LOT?!) or try to pass the buck with quotes like this because...
“In a Dodger season there are 81 games, they will draw 3 million people and on any given day they can have a sellout with 56,000 people. I don’t believe that any law enforcement agency or any professional sports team could guarantee there would never be any type of incident with those types of numbers,”
AH - I get it. So really, odds are, someone...what, every month or so...will just get roughed up in the least and nearly killed at most because there's too many people? Folks, this time it was fan on fan because that Chevy might have hit that Honda, or was it the other way around? All at 5-10 mph? Of course, this time, there was enough LAPD on the scene to catch the criminals. They were there, likely, because last year someone was nearly killed. Whatever it takes, right?
The perception, however often crimes such as this occur, will be come the reality (correctly or otherwise) to the fan. Not unlike the New York City subways of the 1980s, if fans think the lots are beat down zones, regardless of increased police presence, they'll stay away.
Speaking of trains, last week a friend and I spoke of the joyous news that a new Metro train line now makes it all the way to Culver City. This was good for us on the west end of town - park there, train to downtown, shuttle to the stadium. We talked of good things: saving on parking money, an extra beer...and then the added point "plus, we won't get beat up in the parking lot." "Yeah," he chuckled. I meant it as (mostly) a joke.
I hasten to say it, but this is the new ownership's group first moment to do something positive. And do it quickly. Because eventually (and quietly) if the parking lot turns into an L.A. Raiders game, no matter how good the Dodgers are or become, you won't want to see the results...
"Dodger fan beaten as pregnant girlfriend watched in shock."
Son of a bitch...let me guess where this took place...yes, the Dodger Stadium parking lot.
Despite the team's surprising start, last season's opening day crime is still fresh in fan's minds. Last season, fans had plenty of reasons to avoid games, a parking lot beat-down at the top of the list. Yet now, they'd like to think all of those negative aspects, including parking lot insanity, faded away.
The LAPD can call it "road rage" (road rage IN A PARKING LOT?!) or try to pass the buck with quotes like this because...
“In a Dodger season there are 81 games, they will draw 3 million people and on any given day they can have a sellout with 56,000 people. I don’t believe that any law enforcement agency or any professional sports team could guarantee there would never be any type of incident with those types of numbers,”
AH - I get it. So really, odds are, someone...what, every month or so...will just get roughed up in the least and nearly killed at most because there's too many people? Folks, this time it was fan on fan because that Chevy might have hit that Honda, or was it the other way around? All at 5-10 mph? Of course, this time, there was enough LAPD on the scene to catch the criminals. They were there, likely, because last year someone was nearly killed. Whatever it takes, right?
The perception, however often crimes such as this occur, will be come the reality (correctly or otherwise) to the fan. Not unlike the New York City subways of the 1980s, if fans think the lots are beat down zones, regardless of increased police presence, they'll stay away.
Speaking of trains, last week a friend and I spoke of the joyous news that a new Metro train line now makes it all the way to Culver City. This was good for us on the west end of town - park there, train to downtown, shuttle to the stadium. We talked of good things: saving on parking money, an extra beer...and then the added point "plus, we won't get beat up in the parking lot." "Yeah," he chuckled. I meant it as (mostly) a joke.
I hasten to say it, but this is the new ownership's group first moment to do something positive. And do it quickly. Because eventually (and quietly) if the parking lot turns into an L.A. Raiders game, no matter how good the Dodgers are or become, you won't want to see the results...
Thursday, May 10, 2012
You might think I'm crazy
The first item on the conveyor belt was a box of Trix. I wasn't trying to proclaim anything in doing so...it was simply on top of the cart.
"Is this for your kid, or is this for you?"
I wasn't expecting to be judged on my grocery purchases. The last time that happened was a decade ago, when I was buying a 12 pack of beer and cheez balls. The cashier said "Beer, cheez balls...what, no cigarettes?" I responded, politely, that I don't work at a supermarket. Was that cold? Harsh?
It gets worse at the drug store. A multitude of personal items can be in your purchase, but you'd never point and laugh at some old guy for buying Depends because, possibly, that could be you one day. My lowest drug store purchase was on a very ill night. I was buying a plunger and Imodium AD. I tried not get the young, cute cashier...but you know what happens...
"How's it going?" (She then looks down at the items)
I've had better days...
Where was I? Right. So, I said no, the Trix are for me. They might be for kids, but I am not a rabbit, so I may also eat them. It is also on sale for $1.80, and I have to make that deal.
"Yeah, but it has a lot of sugar."
Excuse me, Mom. I have no cavities. I get excellent check-ups. I brush after lunch - do you? I didn't think so. I asked if there was an age limit on this cereal, as I clearly was not aware of said rules.
"When you're not a kid..."
Again, in a polite fashion, I said "Well, when I was a kid, my Ma never bought us these cereals. She wanted us to have good teeth, right or wrong. I am now old enough to buy my own groceries, and in some cases items I was not allowed to have as a child...the Trix, the whiskey, too much mac n' cheese. (This week it was priced at normal levels, not overpriced)
Have I, or will I, reach an age where I am not to eat or do certain things? Do grown-ups not enjoy cheeseburgers and milkshakes at Foster's Freeze? I do. Now that I'm out of my 20's, should I stop with the Friday Night Pizza Party? I'd like to keep that going. Too old for a granola bar for breakfast? It might be cheap and easy (two descriptors that used to lead to GOOD THINGS in my youth)...so what? Whole wheat flax seed fiber sticks, guaranteed to "break the bowl?" No thanks. Past the days where it's acceptable to blast The Germs while sitting outside? I don't think so.
It's who I am. And when you live in a place like this, you blend in. Which, after all, is why I'm here. Keep it going...till the sun go down.
"Is this for your kid, or is this for you?"
I wasn't expecting to be judged on my grocery purchases. The last time that happened was a decade ago, when I was buying a 12 pack of beer and cheez balls. The cashier said "Beer, cheez balls...what, no cigarettes?" I responded, politely, that I don't work at a supermarket. Was that cold? Harsh?
It gets worse at the drug store. A multitude of personal items can be in your purchase, but you'd never point and laugh at some old guy for buying Depends because, possibly, that could be you one day. My lowest drug store purchase was on a very ill night. I was buying a plunger and Imodium AD. I tried not get the young, cute cashier...but you know what happens...
"How's it going?" (She then looks down at the items)
I've had better days...
Where was I? Right. So, I said no, the Trix are for me. They might be for kids, but I am not a rabbit, so I may also eat them. It is also on sale for $1.80, and I have to make that deal.
"Yeah, but it has a lot of sugar."
Excuse me, Mom. I have no cavities. I get excellent check-ups. I brush after lunch - do you? I didn't think so. I asked if there was an age limit on this cereal, as I clearly was not aware of said rules.
"When you're not a kid..."
Again, in a polite fashion, I said "Well, when I was a kid, my Ma never bought us these cereals. She wanted us to have good teeth, right or wrong. I am now old enough to buy my own groceries, and in some cases items I was not allowed to have as a child...the Trix, the whiskey, too much mac n' cheese. (This week it was priced at normal levels, not overpriced)
Have I, or will I, reach an age where I am not to eat or do certain things? Do grown-ups not enjoy cheeseburgers and milkshakes at Foster's Freeze? I do. Now that I'm out of my 20's, should I stop with the Friday Night Pizza Party? I'd like to keep that going. Too old for a granola bar for breakfast? It might be cheap and easy (two descriptors that used to lead to GOOD THINGS in my youth)...so what? Whole wheat flax seed fiber sticks, guaranteed to "break the bowl?" No thanks. Past the days where it's acceptable to blast The Germs while sitting outside? I don't think so.
It's who I am. And when you live in a place like this, you blend in. Which, after all, is why I'm here. Keep it going...till the sun go down.
Friday, April 27, 2012
More to Come
The search for gold is a continuous one; always on the look-out. Video gold is one of those things, and thanks to some very friendly collectors, I've received multiple old episodes of the Tonight Show. Since I've accumulated these discs, I've filed them where they should be filed: under SWANK.
In each instance, the only negative (if it is such a thing) is the topical humor of the monologue. Johnny makes a quip, everyone laughs, and I run to Wikipedia to find out he is referring to President Ford's budget director. The rest? It's a truckload of people simply making it happen. Even better? These were recorded by some friendly man in a station control room long ago. This means, after the national ads, nothing but Doc and the boys groovin' it out. And thus, the "more to come" bumper slides.
They're a lost art, especially for today's late night talk shows. Moreover, they're usually difficult for an audience to see. This certainly was not the case back then. But Johnny's bumper cards certainly evolved over time.
I may be over-thinking this, but the above bumper card comes from when the show was still shot out in New York. 1971 New York, well...it was swank, but then (as now) doesn't hold a joint to LA. This rigid "art" was typical of the episodes of the time.
Ah. here we are. They're more proud to say they're in Dealville than anything else. What, we're moving to Burbank? Make that shag carpet, Kenny. Yeah, and a lot of live ferns.
Once settled, you'd see motifs of the California lifestyle, one the show began to embrace completely.
There were variants on this theme, but it continued throughout the first year or so in California. After this identity was established, the cards were...OK, I want to put this point across without any accusations at all. I've used the word "swank." Is "funk" an appropriate word? "Imbibed during creation" an appropriate phrase?
Whichever you choose, an artist would be given room to make a whole series of cards, filling an entire episode, on a rotating basis. Let 'er rip.
"Fred, I had this dream last night..."
"Go for it, pal."
One of the multiple reasons the show moved full-time to CA was greater access to film starts, a lifeline a talk show desperately needs (as do studios). It's fun to see their spirit caught up in this wave.
So, we're doing an episode on New Year's Eve, and it's the late '70s. Our guest will be Robert Blake. Johnny returns from commercial with "10 seconds to the New Year" and says a brief word...followed by "3...2...1..."
Guy on the left: "HAWWWWWW"
Just as the pioneers headed west, so did this show. It wasn't easy...we had tough conditions, unexpected troubles, and a constant fear for our lives. But enough about NBC in the late 70s.
Yeah...perhaps there was research showing more people trip while watching Tonight than any other show?
Well, it's getting late...time to go to bed. Hey, what's on after the show?
Chuck Mangione? Turn on the coffee pot! We're going ALL NIGHT!
In each instance, the only negative (if it is such a thing) is the topical humor of the monologue. Johnny makes a quip, everyone laughs, and I run to Wikipedia to find out he is referring to President Ford's budget director. The rest? It's a truckload of people simply making it happen. Even better? These were recorded by some friendly man in a station control room long ago. This means, after the national ads, nothing but Doc and the boys groovin' it out. And thus, the "more to come" bumper slides.
They're a lost art, especially for today's late night talk shows. Moreover, they're usually difficult for an audience to see. This certainly was not the case back then. But Johnny's bumper cards certainly evolved over time.
I may be over-thinking this, but the above bumper card comes from when the show was still shot out in New York. 1971 New York, well...it was swank, but then (as now) doesn't hold a joint to LA. This rigid "art" was typical of the episodes of the time.
Ah. here we are. They're more proud to say they're in Dealville than anything else. What, we're moving to Burbank? Make that shag carpet, Kenny. Yeah, and a lot of live ferns.
Once settled, you'd see motifs of the California lifestyle, one the show began to embrace completely.
There were variants on this theme, but it continued throughout the first year or so in California. After this identity was established, the cards were...OK, I want to put this point across without any accusations at all. I've used the word "swank." Is "funk" an appropriate word? "Imbibed during creation" an appropriate phrase?
Whichever you choose, an artist would be given room to make a whole series of cards, filling an entire episode, on a rotating basis. Let 'er rip.
"Fred, I had this dream last night..."
"Go for it, pal."
One of the multiple reasons the show moved full-time to CA was greater access to film starts, a lifeline a talk show desperately needs (as do studios). It's fun to see their spirit caught up in this wave.
So, we're doing an episode on New Year's Eve, and it's the late '70s. Our guest will be Robert Blake. Johnny returns from commercial with "10 seconds to the New Year" and says a brief word...followed by "3...2...1..."
Guy on the left: "HAWWWWWW"
Just as the pioneers headed west, so did this show. It wasn't easy...we had tough conditions, unexpected troubles, and a constant fear for our lives. But enough about NBC in the late 70s.
Yeah...perhaps there was research showing more people trip while watching Tonight than any other show?
Well, it's getting late...time to go to bed. Hey, what's on after the show?
Chuck Mangione? Turn on the coffee pot! We're going ALL NIGHT!
Thursday, March 08, 2012
It's been building up to this
Traffic in LA is a constant. Regardless of the time of day, a succession of stories could be told of shit traffic. Now we have the added ingredient of $4.50/gallon gas. Once that hit (and it hit fast, because that is how oil companies work) there was talk...but that was it. Summer of 2008, the last time prices hit this level, citizens of LA would hold signs blaming the president, and occasionally attacking the help. This time? Seems to be a weary sigh...maybe it's because those protesting now all own a Prius, I don't know. (Fuck, I DO know, and if you can read between the lines, you'll know too)
Mentally, I had passed a threshold. $4.25 is too much already, but more than I'd be willing to pay. Last time, I lived a mile from work, so it didn't really matter. But this time? I was willing to put my life in someone's hands: the Big Blue Bus.
While public transportation continues to be an afterthought in LA, I wanted it to become my routine. I was fortunate enough to realize there was a route that was my exact drive to work. How lucky is that? So what if the buses only show up every 20 minutes?
The first week was one of adjustment. I had to accept things that other riders have likely known for years. The bus will often be late. It also might be early, and if it is, you're fucked. It will stop for no one unless you make a scene. The driver will be polite and full of excuses when asked a question. But when I made it home last Friday, I was a happy man. I had gone almost a week without driving and was still able to get shit done. I also wanted to be smug...and maybe I crossed that line. During the weekend, Dr. Gold and I realized we could take the same bus to a golf course, play, get drunk, then take the same bus home. We celebrated the future.
I should have known better. I was just lucky, that's all. And all it took was one fucking day.
Maybe it was when I realized that I would have already arrived at work and yet I was still waiting for a very late bus. Or was it the guy on the bus who put his bag on another chair to prevent an old lady from sitting down. No, I think it was another late bus home, in cold (for here) weather...and after 40 minutes 2 of the same line drive next to each other.
Trip: Is that another #5 bus behind you? (Of course it is...I just want to hear what he'll say)
Driver: Yeah...bad traffic on Olympic.
Trip, calling bluff: We're on Colorado.
Driver: (sigh)
No, Mr. Driver, you don't have all the answers. But you do have one that you won't tell. And now I am pretty fucking SALTY. Again, I could have been home drinking rum and eating Jalapeno chips. What's the solution here?
Well, the public transit solution that the mayor pushes so often has one fatal flaw: a majority of the transportation has to co-exist with the same traffic people are trying to avoid. There's no subway line near you? Sorry, the city council in the '90s didn't want their neighborhood bothered with all that construction. Right before the public voted them out, they voted for more buses. Problem "solved" I suppose.
Pay through the ass, or lose up to 1 hour and 30 minutes of your day. Um...no?
Mentally, I had passed a threshold. $4.25 is too much already, but more than I'd be willing to pay. Last time, I lived a mile from work, so it didn't really matter. But this time? I was willing to put my life in someone's hands: the Big Blue Bus.
While public transportation continues to be an afterthought in LA, I wanted it to become my routine. I was fortunate enough to realize there was a route that was my exact drive to work. How lucky is that? So what if the buses only show up every 20 minutes?
The first week was one of adjustment. I had to accept things that other riders have likely known for years. The bus will often be late. It also might be early, and if it is, you're fucked. It will stop for no one unless you make a scene. The driver will be polite and full of excuses when asked a question. But when I made it home last Friday, I was a happy man. I had gone almost a week without driving and was still able to get shit done. I also wanted to be smug...and maybe I crossed that line. During the weekend, Dr. Gold and I realized we could take the same bus to a golf course, play, get drunk, then take the same bus home. We celebrated the future.
I should have known better. I was just lucky, that's all. And all it took was one fucking day.
Maybe it was when I realized that I would have already arrived at work and yet I was still waiting for a very late bus. Or was it the guy on the bus who put his bag on another chair to prevent an old lady from sitting down. No, I think it was another late bus home, in cold (for here) weather...and after 40 minutes 2 of the same line drive next to each other.
Trip: Is that another #5 bus behind you? (Of course it is...I just want to hear what he'll say)
Driver: Yeah...bad traffic on Olympic.
Trip, calling bluff: We're on Colorado.
Driver: (sigh)
No, Mr. Driver, you don't have all the answers. But you do have one that you won't tell. And now I am pretty fucking SALTY. Again, I could have been home drinking rum and eating Jalapeno chips. What's the solution here?
Well, the public transit solution that the mayor pushes so often has one fatal flaw: a majority of the transportation has to co-exist with the same traffic people are trying to avoid. There's no subway line near you? Sorry, the city council in the '90s didn't want their neighborhood bothered with all that construction. Right before the public voted them out, they voted for more buses. Problem "solved" I suppose.
Pay through the ass, or lose up to 1 hour and 30 minutes of your day. Um...no?
Wednesday, February 01, 2012
Burritos, Beer, Basketball...and Nixon?!
It hasn't exactly been news that the UCLA Men's basketball team was kicked out of Pauley Pavilion for this season. (Each person I asked to join me at some point this season for a trip said "Wait, they're not in Westwood?") This happens when you follow consecutive trips to the Final Four with mediocre basketball. The squad isn't helped any with the school's advertising "Catch the Bruin Road Show" - equating this to Cinerama on tour or (more likely) the Harlem Globetrotters.
The Bruins have spent this season playing either "exhibition" or "home" games in Ontario, Anaheim, and the Sports Arena. The other option, likely, would have been the Forum, but a deal wasn't reached. So, upon hearing that Minnesota Laughs had secured 4 tickets and a parking pass for the Colorado game, I was likely too excited to see the arena. The game? Eh...
But LA being LA, leaving Burbank (long story) to get downtown with over an hour in advance was not enough time. The thundering Golden State Freeway was shitsville, and attempted cutting through Glendale through downtown (while Minnesota Laughs attempted to drive as if she were blind) got us there roughly 5 minutes into the first half. But, we were alive. Not much time to take in our surroundings.
As you can see, the Sports Arena enjoys fine sight lines...almost Met Center-esque. The school really tried to make this seem like a "home" for the year, with championship banners throughout. It was a vocal crowd, which is the LA style. Screams and taunts against an opponent who had played a grand total of 8 games in the same conference as the Bruins flowed. Another benefit: the acoustics...which would explain why the old venue still sees big name musical acts. Even at 3/4ths full, it was LOUD. My exploring would have to wait...Minnesota Laughs and her friend were knitting and barely paying attention, while a man on the end of the aisle (wearing a 1992 NCAA Final Four cap) struggled to get up each time. Maybe it was the leather chairs?
Halftime sent EVERYONE out of their seats, and we hit one aspect where the old place showed its age: the bathrooms. Dr. Gold, someone who joined this excursion, was the first point this out: "Oh man - troughs. Wow." There were other options, and those options included not having soap at each sink (why isn't there one long sink with 30 nozzles?) and it took an excited fan to search through the janitor's closet to get more paper towels. Hey, whatever it takes...
So, we took a lap and in doing so were impressed by the concessions. Not all were open (to do so would make things convenient) but one stand was making homemade burritos of your choice. GOLD. What's that I see? A BEER?! That's right, this isn't an on campus venue. Purchasing said nectar (a Blue Moon...could be worse) was on everyone's mind. The duration of my wait saw my finishing said burrito. I was getting pretty fucking salty by the time I hit the front of the line for my order. I was missing the game and I looked to the side (instinctively) to see a TV. There wasn't one...but there was a framed photo of Richard Nixon. The hell?
To my left, there's a framed photo of JFK. There has to be an explanation for this (there is...which doesn't make it nearly as cool to just stumble on the two). Finally returning to our seats, UCLA began to make quick work of the Buffs, including one comical dunk when 300+ lb. Josh Smith dunked...and then landed on the ball. The ball did not flatten, and despite one wagon wheel down, he recovered.
Time was tight as we scrambled to leave. As we exited, Dr. Gold asked "OK...you can only save one. Forum or this place?" (sigh) I have to make that decision? Let's save that tale of the tape for the ultimate decision. Hell...a certain owner of the Rams might end up owning the Dodgers...and they'll need a stadium location. Would you be acceptable in razzing one of these to get the Rams back? I think that idea, for better or worse, ups the ante.
The Bruins have spent this season playing either "exhibition" or "home" games in Ontario, Anaheim, and the Sports Arena. The other option, likely, would have been the Forum, but a deal wasn't reached. So, upon hearing that Minnesota Laughs had secured 4 tickets and a parking pass for the Colorado game, I was likely too excited to see the arena. The game? Eh...
But LA being LA, leaving Burbank (long story) to get downtown with over an hour in advance was not enough time. The thundering Golden State Freeway was shitsville, and attempted cutting through Glendale through downtown (while Minnesota Laughs attempted to drive as if she were blind) got us there roughly 5 minutes into the first half. But, we were alive. Not much time to take in our surroundings.
As you can see, the Sports Arena enjoys fine sight lines...almost Met Center-esque. The school really tried to make this seem like a "home" for the year, with championship banners throughout. It was a vocal crowd, which is the LA style. Screams and taunts against an opponent who had played a grand total of 8 games in the same conference as the Bruins flowed. Another benefit: the acoustics...which would explain why the old venue still sees big name musical acts. Even at 3/4ths full, it was LOUD. My exploring would have to wait...Minnesota Laughs and her friend were knitting and barely paying attention, while a man on the end of the aisle (wearing a 1992 NCAA Final Four cap) struggled to get up each time. Maybe it was the leather chairs?
Halftime sent EVERYONE out of their seats, and we hit one aspect where the old place showed its age: the bathrooms. Dr. Gold, someone who joined this excursion, was the first point this out: "Oh man - troughs. Wow." There were other options, and those options included not having soap at each sink (why isn't there one long sink with 30 nozzles?) and it took an excited fan to search through the janitor's closet to get more paper towels. Hey, whatever it takes...
So, we took a lap and in doing so were impressed by the concessions. Not all were open (to do so would make things convenient) but one stand was making homemade burritos of your choice. GOLD. What's that I see? A BEER?! That's right, this isn't an on campus venue. Purchasing said nectar (a Blue Moon...could be worse) was on everyone's mind. The duration of my wait saw my finishing said burrito. I was getting pretty fucking salty by the time I hit the front of the line for my order. I was missing the game and I looked to the side (instinctively) to see a TV. There wasn't one...but there was a framed photo of Richard Nixon. The hell?
To my left, there's a framed photo of JFK. There has to be an explanation for this (there is...which doesn't make it nearly as cool to just stumble on the two). Finally returning to our seats, UCLA began to make quick work of the Buffs, including one comical dunk when 300+ lb. Josh Smith dunked...and then landed on the ball. The ball did not flatten, and despite one wagon wheel down, he recovered.
Time was tight as we scrambled to leave. As we exited, Dr. Gold asked "OK...you can only save one. Forum or this place?" (sigh) I have to make that decision? Let's save that tale of the tape for the ultimate decision. Hell...a certain owner of the Rams might end up owning the Dodgers...and they'll need a stadium location. Would you be acceptable in razzing one of these to get the Rams back? I think that idea, for better or worse, ups the ante.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Beyond the Blue Horizon
Here I found myself at yet another benchmark of life, and in the same location no less. The cycle had moved, and again I was in good graces. It was a sunny spot where I could scoop up white sand, smelling the salt in the air from the tide. One where the alligator tail was fresh, the drink kept flowing, and the sun kept shining.
The earth may have shook, but I didn't feel it. The malaise had left me, and I was lost in the pull of the waves as the sun looked down. What is beyond that horizon? I am looking west to home, but I can see my life, once again, just beginning. Another beautiful day, annoyances cast aside, with happiness surrounding me. I can't say it was self-satisfaction, at least not as I continued to look at that horizon. And it kept looking back at me.
All I felt it was telling me was that I was living life. And then I looked up, and in an instant, saw the image above. Sure enough, there it was...in the horizon. I realized I was not alone.
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