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.

"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.

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.