Words and Music by Dennis DeYoung

(Ed. Note: Recently we sent Stan Grossman as far away from GoldLand as we could - to the foreign shores of Nippon - in an effort to recalibrate his posting schedule and burn a few weeks' vacation time. He roundly rejected the idea of an article, and instead posted these "vignettes", most of which are outright lies)

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We awoke to a crash and a serpentine hiss. The air had gone foul with burned sake. Was that breakfast on the griddle, or a ramen bowl heated in darkness by drunks? The night was not nearly over. 3:30am, and we were in a fighting position. Jetlag, my ass. The only thing lagging is my confidence. Out onto the street by 5, and you're damn right it's smile time.

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When that virtual reality shit took hold in the 90s, we thought this sort of ad would be alive. Literally, that some stoned-to-the-bazzer-belt anime chick would walk up to us on the street and offer us a free token at Taiyo for the new Suntory game where all you had to do is get enough ball bearings down the chute and they'd let you take a picture with a bottle of whiskey. Not drink it though... that's for downstairs. Anyway, they haven't perfected it yet, so our mockings aren't being recorded. For now, anyway.

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An entire ad campaign was born this night.

"Thought things would be different by now, didn't you? Black Barrel."

"Ah, midnight and only time for one more decision tonight. You want to correct this evening's mistakes? No? Black Barrel."

"You want to improve your predicament in life? No? Black Barrel."

"Thinking you're too good for a watered down whiskey in a can? Those shoes you're wearing are telling a different story. Black Barrel."

"Like good tasting whiskey? No? Black Barrel."

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Even the dirty parts of town seem like the fair. I don't mind keeping this stuff behind white plastic curtains, but your eyes can only hide so many places. This place made us fight a teddy bear who had an ice cream in his hand in order to gain admission. Pass. They're giving away free tours down the street, at the Sony Building.

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It takes the average human brain 30,000 years to generate enough electricity to power Shinjuku for an evening. So how exactly are they doing it? Beats me.

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I didn't think I'd like a beer that was "All Malt". But then that, like most everything else, turned out to be lies. If it was all malt, it wouldn't be liquid, right? Anyway, they serve it in 60 gallon cans in Ebisu (a city which got its name from Yebisu beer), and you can't buy one unless you can run around one in less than a second. I learned after this picture was taken that the locals use the "whip" like in roller derby. Whatever, I was able to huff the fumes.

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Inside the Museum of Modern Art. Each of these is filled with a glow stick. It's called "An Homage To Rave". Pink is the national color.

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The street crossings are the only time you can stop and take a picture.... the foot traffic just moves too fast on the sidewalks. This intersection was the sight of our 3rd knife fight (our first draw, to bring the record to 2-0-1) but it wasn't a bad evening. We were given tea and shown photos of Africans in a curbside gallery. Not an english word was spoken during the transaction.

(ed. - See? Can you spot the lies?)

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Mount Fuji is revered as the God of Snow in Japanese folklore. Once a year, the snow melts under the immense heat of it's molten iron core. This is when most people just look the other way out of the trains. It is taller than Mount Everest, if you count in hectares.

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This riverwalk in Osaka is just like the one in San Antonio except nobody actually goes down to the river and one building is designed to look like a beer can. But you can get a decent burrito down here. (ed. note - YOU DEFINITELY CANNOT DO THIS)

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The quietest street in Osaka. Just an average Tuesday afternoon.

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They call him the Moss Man, and people on their way to work stop and throw water on the statue for good luck. As such, he and his friends are covered in moss, even on the driest of days. Our tour guide told us that this shrine is actually a mini-sized replica of one on the bottom of the Japan Sea. I said "yeah right, there's no such thing as the Japan Sea".

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"They do have an intimate knowledge of the streets."

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Being that this was our honeymoon, we thought it appropriate to not make a mockery of EVERY national treasure. And plus, we were in Japan JUST AS THE CHERRIES WERE STARTING TO BLOOOOOOOM.

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This was a store that sold Honda and Daihatsu tires.

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"You like sports?"
"Sure"
"You like sports?"
"Uhh, yes. Yes I do."
"You like sports?"
"YES."
(yelled from the back of room) "WHAT!!!"
"Ah yes, WHAT sports you like?"

I offended this man with crazy talk about American Baseball. He gave me what I deserve - a face-bite.

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Mocking the deer in Nara. Like they're going to do anything in retaliation. What, eat more?

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This is probably the spirit of a 3000 year old Samurai. I should NOT have pretended to give it my Kudos, only to yank it away and laugh.

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A clock tower that raised up at 5pm and began spinning and putting on a play. No, seriously. The clock tower started doing a play, with animatronic actors and fairy music.

(ed. note - Why tell the truth HERE? His credibility is shot)

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Well, yeah. It was Noodle Goo. And it's still safely wrapped in cellophane at the 100 yen store. And will be for the next 4 years.

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To call this stuff "sardines" is to imply that I have eaten sardines in my life. And, excuse me, but I think I would know if I had ever eaten sardines, thank you.

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The sign upon entering "Big Echo" said "Happy Happy Happy". Exactly. Finding Mr. Roboto on the playlist was a miracle (being that the songs were categorized by their Japanese language spelling). We gave it everything we had, and left it all in the karaoke room.

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Pagoda, temple, moon. Quote the photographer: ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

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The least crazy thing we saw in all of Japan.

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"Breaking News!" : The Big Wave Diary

Memory is hazy on exactly when it happened that island life connected into my brain. Maybe it was the realization that Gold was meeting Gold, and this time it wasn't in a smoked-filled casino...or in a syrup-worn diner. I remember being in a convertible, and next thing I know I was in the water, making a big mistake by looking at the beach, and turning my back on mama earth. Had it not been for fellow Gold warning me of impending doom, I'd certainly not be typing this right now. Even with the warning, and my own "preparation," I was shoved aside. The waves had their way with us, as they did to Smiley, and to all the other people on the beach...and with everyone else for the history of time. We were good and loopy, and whatever phrase we said to each other ("Alarm clock's goin' off!" "Table for 20!" "Batten down the HUUUGHGH" "Big Jim Slade!" "Aw Hell's Bells!" "She's crestin' wide, son!") it didn't matter. Point is the ocean, like life, washed all to the shore. This meant the planning of a feast and strong drink. Hawaiian Gold's for all, even those who couldn't hack it, because we were all too happy.

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"Shakin' his hips on a G Lean! Get there!"

We shake to the rhythm of it all, unending is this wave-pound. The last thing I remember is shouting "Watch this!" and then it was all white. They say to avoid The Sick you are supposed to focus on one point on the horizon. Christ hell, is it the vanishing point? Because out here, you're on the edge of it, knowing fuck all about what rests beyond the vision. A quick glance at a map will tell you that you are thousands of miles away from any form of arable land. And that's comforting, I suppose. Knowing that we're here, and most people aren't.

When the sun shines the same every day and temperatures only fluctuate between "Gold" and "Holy Gold", it is hard to notice any time pass. Days literally melt into night, the sun softly sucked down into that glowing abyss, the night falling like rain from the hills. To look around and say nothing is the same as shouting your praises. To yelp like dogs at the dancing maelstrom taking place in the Tahiti booth is the same as quietly contemplating your reflection in a waterfall. That is to say: things change. The chemical makeup of the human body is altered every second out in the land of the blue. More salt in the air, not as much in the Bigg Dogg Burgerz, and we find ourselves floating easier, eyes clearer, sun and shade combining into one giant veil.

Raise the arms and salute. Gold used to be in the hills; now it's everywhere.

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It could be that the whole "permanent vacation" vibe that is so often refrained by those people who do actual work for a living originates here. Because, shit, it's not like motivation ever leaves your body. Even Duane in Humboldt has motivation...sure, it might be to get "extra" bacon, but at least it's there. And I knew I was on such a vacation, but it was difficult even getting the spirits to plan activities while in Oahu. We talked of things, and we did them, but it was an end to a mean: beach, drink, lounge. Occasionally, I would return to the shore and read of 1970s movie studio swankness...and if ever briefly my brain would shift east to California. But then I remembered how rare it is to say Dealville is east of anything, so back to the waves I went. Unknowingly, I had created a paradise conundrum! I want to have fun, share with all, laugh and drink and frolic. But things were SO good...the weather SO nice...I wanted silence. To feel the sun renewing my brain, to hear the waves clear the thoughts. Was nature purifying my bloodstream, or did I have too much to drink? There's nothing wrong with me, right?

No, there isn't. Guilt shouldn't shame you into anything, least of which feeling sorry for those who aren't where you are. That is not over-confidence, or a jaded mindset. You have to stop and think that if you have goals for your life, with comfort being very high in the list, you shouldn't be surprised when you find yourself in a cold but very still pond. Surrounded by tropical flowers, you deftly swim to the waterfall. You sit under it...but when you do, you face a handful of onlookers who aren't looking at you but are looking at you. And you try not to look back, because you are taking it all in. A wealth of emotion comes over me now when I think of it but at the time, it was a giddy realization that I'd made the right choice. It's nice to know that can still happen. Mr. Hamilton gave good advice.

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It's an upside down world out here... too far from shore to be considered America, and too damn developed to be anywhere else. Most things move easier in this climate, but it's backwards. You can live on the North Shore, basically the epicenter of all feel good vibes on Oahu, and know that you are sitting right on the main nerve. One look around tells you all you need to know. But the city? The attitude is twisted, disfigured. They're chasing it down there, but I don't know what. They come up here in droves during weekends and holidays, but when speaking about this place, they say it's the "country" in a derogatory way. They speak of the commute as though it is impossible, the surroundings as though I live in a stoner colony where we all do yoga on the beach while high. And shit, we DO do those things, but we also volley questions to the ocean on long walks and try to Figure It All Out, just like everyone else.

Motivation is a tricky thing here. I'm from a land where motivation lacks, but when it's shown, you get what you want. Oh, you want to be a videographer? TRY HARDER. And then, boom, you are. You want to be a teacher, a mechanic, a window washer? If you try, you will make it. This place is different. "It's not what you know, it's who you know". I live my life pretty much in complete opposite to that sentiment... it's why I read Walt Whitman and William Blake in my free time. When looking for "light", I switch to The Name Of The Rose. None of these things makes me popular, or able to talk to other human beings. But that shit bangs around in my head every night when I go to sleep, and I get good ideas from it. I'm no closer than anyone else to figuring out the natural cycle, but at least I'm keeping the brain churning. I like things like my resume to stand on their own merit... for my knowledge and experience to actually mean something. I don't want to have met the manager before hand. In order to work at a surf shop, I don't want to have had to be a frequent customer. Shit, I was my own boss once, and got out because money started to become meaningless. Now, it still has little meaning, but if there was simply a way to GET SOME, we might not have problems.

But never mind all that, we speak of these things between 'Tais at the Royal H. We memorize the closing times of liquor stores and walk in the darkened sand. For here, any worry that pops up can be immediately blunted by salt air. If this is what it takes to be a "local", it's not a hefty price to pay. Slow it down and flatten it out. So that when you come over that crest, and your goggles go foggy and you can't really make out what it is that you are seeing, you can trust in the fact that your eyes aren't even supposed to work at this depth. And eventually breathing returns to normal, and the lenses clear, and you get a good look at all this going on just beneath the surface. We're here now, short though it may be, and soon we will be there, and nothing matters in the world other than this very moment.

Drink it in. It's only the rest of your life.

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Editor's Note: Stan Grossman contributed to this report. If you don't like the fact that both members of Pacific Gold wrote one story...IT'S OFF.

A decade of decadance

Dealville wasn't a life-long goal, but it was the whole reason I was in college: to get here and begin to make it happen. In terms of timing, I was lucky in one respect: it was 2000, not 2010. Good fucking luck making it a-fresh in this shitstorm. But this was the glorious beginning of another decade, where millionaires were made "instantly" and problems were minimal.

Upon arrival, I drove a rental car (pacing up and down the street of the apartment) to let off steam from the flights. I turned on the radio and "Hotel California" began. Was this some sort of deal from Enterprise? Do all the cars do this? No, they don't...I just figured this coincidence was actually the ground rules of what would become my life.

For the first months, I stayed at an apartment complex with 26 buildings. It was quite the spread, and I'd lie if I said I had a care in the world. I was an intern while I took "classes" but that was merely the daytime life. At night, there was a new swanky world and hot tubs. By the end of this "semester" I was in a tent at a campground just miles from Mexico with a girl I'd recently met. That's insanity! How would I ever end up in that kind of situation? Was I changing, or was LA changing me?

Returning from graduation, I saved enough cash for a few months, including rent. Deals were approached left and right. Again, this was in a deal-friendly time, one where websites were the future...television, film studios, these were all the past. I felt like Homer Simpson just showing up when the plant opens. I knew I was lucky, but I was also prepared. And as Robert Evans says, luck is when opportunity meets preparation.

The majority of my initial friends out here were left-over from college. I should say "acquaintances" since in most cases, all we had in common was our alma matter. The fact that I found work so quickly was met with some distance. I received the usual inquires (simply about a job - who cared what I did?) along with the passive aggressive nature that keeps so many people alone.

In time I moved to Hollywood. It sounds nice, doesn't it? But every neighborhood, even dripping with gold, has a realistic level. The address was just as much to be within the tricks as it was likely feeding something inside to show off. Maybe not as much as Maurice "T.T." Rodriguez and his want to show off for his Puerto Rican family, but there. Naturally, no one gives a shit about that in town. It's all about price. You could live in the best house in the best neighborhood but if you're paying through the nose (sometimes literally) you're treated as the moron you are.

I found this out when I moved toward the westside. I was actually in a very nice area in a nice place not paying too much (relative for the area). When I'd tell someone where I'd live they'd say "Oh - Beverly Hills adjacent." What the fuck is that? More than real estate jingo, it's the band-aid of battered pride. Sure, I guess I live adjacent to it, but I live in Los Angeles. That's what my mail says.

Work sent me to Burbank...that "beautiful" zone just over the hill, and it usually brings shame from others living in a castle. Oh I understand - but commutes can kill you out here. When I had my most traffic-filled drive, I twice bumped people at a stoplight. (One of which, the girl in front of me looked out of her car pissed...frantically looking for something wrong while I apologized she said "Are you fucking kidding me?" and drove off) I got rear-ended with large damage to ol' Bess while the guy behind me hit the bricks. This is madness. Living close to work is a necessity if you can hack it, so I pulled the plug.

Since this occurred, I've grown to love the quiet of the 50's style suburban feel of this nook of Dealville. The calm (especially late at night) has been my best friend, and I average 12 hours of sleep in odd shifts. There was a time where I would give a fuck about something like that. Now, I cherish it and tell others of my bunker. Hmmm...has this decade in Dealville made me better or worse?

Life is a natural process in this town, no matter what the outsiders say. And the outsiders LOVE to talk about Dealville and point out its faults. (Or fault-lines) They are a jealous and angry bunch, and you are best to ignore them. But when I wrote "flight home" in my calendar back in 2000, I wasn't foreshadowing. I wasn't projecting a false vision of my future. I was stating the facts: that my life was as I wanted it.

And what have I wanted and seen in my life in this decade? It's been the whiskey-aided thoughts clouding my surroundings in good and bad times. It's drug-fueled ramblings when I speak of good fortune. It is an ambling attitude that the good life, if not here, is right around the corner. It takes work, and no one said it would be easy, but it's life. It's home. It's Pacific Gold.

Saltwater into Wine

Things are becoming hazier in the Pacific, as swells rise and blood oxygen levels drop, we see a fluctuation in brain waves not unlike housing prices. Forever up, on the rise, only when it's not.

A smart man once told me that everything works if you let it.

We're back in that place now, the ancient Zone, free from clutter and window dressing, just out, doing, going. It's not passive, nor active. We are fabric now, stretched and contracted, moving in unison with all other fibers. Deals are made with ease, everything tinted with gold, the future spreads out before us like an endless fruit plate.

The call this place the "country", but if you get beyond the roosters and stray cats, it's really more of a thought pattern than a geographical area. Are we far away from the city? Well sure, as far away as Maple Grove is from Anytown USA. But aren't we far from everything out here? The sun, moon, stars... all at impossible distances. Our remoteness gives birth not to loneliness, but to perspective. Ah, that word again. You heard it here about the Land of the Long White Cloud, and here it is again. Up the mountain, flatten it out, get underneath it... whatever you've got to do, just give it some perspective. So when you're there, you can't really talk about "there". You can only go elsewhere and look back. That's what makes climbing cliffs so fun... you get to go, and come back. But at least you get to Think. Something that is often missing back in Ye Olde Nort.

Adventures here are a way of life, you take your life into your hands every day, and you can't help but move and explore. That's the reason for all this green... a constant churning of life and water, land and tide, produces a fantastic realm of imagination. But you don't have to imagine shit - it's all right here. Every 30 yards there is another beach entrance, another hidden cave, a secluded walk. They don't write about these things. You drive up to the edge with your car and then you drive further. If land gets boring, as it is immovable, into the surf we go, breakers be damned.

I suppose it is like a prayer, or at least a mantra. Only when it becomes a way of life does it truly start to matter. I can dip my toes in, I can stick my whole foot in, but until I feel it wash over me and fight like all hell to keep it from pulling me to the brink of death, I will not understand it. To sit on a board out here in the rising swell is to commit to this Way. I'm an outsider, sure. But you can't tell me this isn't living.

If you could pray to yourself, what would you ask for?

The Cycle of Sunshine

It was roughly 10 years ago, near Christmas, when I braved a snowy Boston train ride to the airport. I was on my way to southwest Florida, supposedly stopping in Atlanta on the way. When I arrived I saw that Hotlanta was covered in shitty weather...so I figured I'd talk to a desk agent to see if I needed to be on a later flight, or something. (Remember, this is in the innocent flying days) This man looked at me bewildered and said "why don't you take the non-stop flight?" Next thing I new I was at my destination earlier than thought. While I could have been stuck in line at some belly-busting airport "cafe," instead I sat in a hot tub, viewing the sun setting into the Gulf of Mexico. I was happy at my good fortune, but what I didn't know was that it set into motion a streak lasting nearly two years of luck on my side.

This deus ex machina within my life came to mind as I returned to that very spot of land. It was a decade later. Now, I could look back at that turning point with perspective. At the time, there was much unsettled about my life. I knew that I'd be in LA soon, hustling. Now, of course, I'm...ugh. Not exactly the same but...yeah. Well, look at the peaks and valleys of things. Perhaps as beautiful as this area is, I need to further break away. Find me somewhere off the path...hell, can we find somewhere that has no path?

Yes, you can, if you're willing to look. The Everglades, and the few routes that travel these parts, are a unique mass. At first sight, it appears to be a boring horizon. Perhaps more pleasing than the patterned cornfields of the midwest, but similar all the same. Unlike that area, however, if you look closer there is movement. Animals moving and changing at their own pace, likely having been there their whole lives. Same, I found out, as the people.

For many years, you couldn't make it to Chokoloskee by car. Either you had a boat, or you knew someone who did. There were gators abound, of course. This likely kept away the riff-raff, even if they really wanted to get down there. Even today, which is relatively fluid with transportation, it's a small town barely touched by the outsider. And, oh sweet Moses, we thank the heavens for that.

Please allow me to be selfish for a second to say that this area was exactly what my psyche needed. Put me in the middle of nowhere in warm breezes with people who wouldn't dare judge you because no one wants to hear the results. We needed a clubhouse; a headquarters. Somewhere that isn't as touched by the tourists...if at all possible. Immediately I was reminded that it was hard NOT being a tourist here. And they want you, because it's tough making a go of it here. But shit, I figured, dive in: Pass the alligator. People try to soften the blow by comparing this (and other) sea delicacies as tasting like chicken. But to me, in this moment, it tasted like moonshine, boat chases, and beer. Waiter! More!

Others were ready to keep the day moving, but I was more than glad to find some of the local color. Since the road arrived decades ago, there are hucksters to your right and left. Pose for photos with odd animals! Buy a baby alligator head: suitable for framing! Contact the Everglades busiest taxidermist!

Once sufficient photos were taken, I was driven to an airboat tour trailer. My guide would be Darryl. Unknowingly, I was about to have my world altered.

Darryl's shades likely never leave his face. His voice, thankfully, has been crafted by a lifetime more interesting than I can ever dream. He eases back, handing us fish as pelicans arrive. I am not holding bait, but it doesn't stop a pelican using its wooden chops arcoss my palm. "Yeah." says Darryl. He may or may not have been referring to me.

At the every turn, he is frightening the women of the boat to everyone's comedic delight. He guns it in-between narrow trees. He picks up a gator by the mouth with his hands. I want this guy to share more of his tales, but I'm nervous to prompt such a tide. I sense he's still sizing us up...as if we're worth it. Thankfully, we are. He tells of how, after many beers, he took his airboat to top speed, jumped the beach, and slid right into a gas station on the road. Immediately, this man has reached legend status with me. Then he tells of how he's a licensed pilot as well...and he knew he had to quit drinking when, in his prop plane, he buzzed one too many rooftops. His wife (do we even dare ask?) said he was going to get that stunt wrong one time. That was the mid-80s. Whatever I might have been doing at the time, it certainly wasn't that.

Then, maybe to show us he still has it (unlikely he has to prove it to himself) he speeds to the shore, only to pull a Rockford-style J turn at the last moment. Most clutch in fear. I turned around and clapped, which he smartly took as "Encore, Encore." It was done again, just as impressive.

I wouldn't have said, or even thought about it at the time. (Or, moreover, in that moment) But I knew my return to Dealville would come in time. Though, what I didn't know then I wonder if I would be happy if I didn't have to know now. That is, there's a lot of ways to make it happen. Sometimes you have to overturn a lot of rocks to find gold. Ay yingo, could I use some. Greedy? Simply realistic. Pass the rum. I have seen a glimpse, and I need all the strength I can get.

Sun and Sand and All That Gleams

(ed. note: Dee Louis has recently relocated to the Northernmost Shore of Oahu. The day he arrived in this Pacific Isle, it was 3 below zero in his homeland, causing a massive split in his psyche. These images and messages are arriving at what could be called a "trickle")

We face north here, looking on a straight line to Mother Russia, away from the rest of this time zone, and into Oblivion. The darkness comes on like a firecracker in the night, the rise is a flame from the mainland. Everything is saturated, the world can hold no more color, it gives it off in fits. The eyes open wider, the taste of things changes, and our Inner Selves are less and less responsible for our environments.

The cable has been cut. Away we drift.

We landed here a week ago and received a text message from the city of Minneapolis. "SNOW EMERGENCY DECLARED". Well, that's perfect. The sun was blazing right from the get, and now it's a companion. We have yet to eat a meal inside, and sweet god, is that even an option? The constant bake slows everything down and we have to get acclimated to it... else we are likely to end up sucking wind and keeled over like Ma and Pa Horsenhiemer. So we play by the South Island rules: move slower, walk with purpose, don't look up. After a few days, we're in. Skin has been ionized, tires have been summarized. Now, about those sunglasses...

You can look at the Infinite Blue for only so long before her call becomes too strong. It's time to charge in. Hearty waves and things that sting only heighten the excitement, focus the laser. It's not a battle for your life, but in many ways, all problems find a resting place here, 30 feet out. Look back at that land and you are liable to consider the pointlessness of all conflict. Look the other way, and, well, Melville called it "Terra Incognita", saying that Columbus sailed over 500 "new worlds" before arriving at his artificial one. Deep and vast beyond calculation by the human eye, we can only measure by tools, and that removes us from it.

It rings true here, as nowhere else, that life waits for everyone, and that wavelengths of personality all answer to the one True Hymn. Maybe that's the rhythm we are all missing. That drum line sinking and diving underneath all else, emerging only to give depth to the message. If we all hear it, then it's made for us.

Sun and sand, earth and fire, water and sky. Here we are, on the precipice. A blank mind is our reward.

Keep An Eye Out For The Border Patrol, Checkin For Drugs And The So-Called Aliens

Water, they say, washes away your sins. Well, a special kind of water anyway. This is easy in the Land of the North, where lakes and streams flow easy and free (at least in the special "summer" months). And you Baptists? If you can find a creek or gully or gulch or whatever in backwater GA, then you've got yourself a holy land. And really, that's the human way. We're all wired into that, it's our makeup. The world, our bodies, hell our symbols and empires, born of the great agua.

So tell me somethin, son - when the only water you get is from the sky, and the Rio Grande ain't so damn grand in December, what then? Who is saved?

It's desert here, but it's desert everywhere, so the only difference is elevation. And what a difference it makes. From this height you'd think you'd be able to see something different, but it all just goes up or down, and never the same. See, that's where we came from, and soon will return. The flatness. The vision of a thousand miles. Not in New Mexico. Not on these peaks.

People live here, it's true, but the land swallows all. Great swaths of sand and scrub brush eat up the great majority, leaving one to wonder things about desert oceans and sand rivers. We pass over innumerable "dry washes". They're probably wet for 2 days of the year. This country's hard on people. And it shows.

When you get here, you can drive up and keep going, or you can, as they say, head down to the crevasse. Huge canyons hold as much spectacle as towering peaks, you just have to work harder on the backend. The sun is closer up top, but burns hotter on the floor of the gulch. Ebb and flow, back and forth, and all you can do is go forward.

That's why we're here. Why we strike out on another gallop, why we put the flame to the killer and see how hot it gets. Life is sustainable at sea level, sure. But it moves quicker on the slope. We've been there, and now we're here. And soon, we'll be there again. The birds sing songs of laughter, truly. Our earth-bound gravity can only yield so much.

It's not a renewal. It's not a rebirth. I'm not born in an image, and I have no one to find. But still, if you could excuse me, I'd like to take a bath in that salty mirth, and let it cleanse what it can.

Overkill

Pre-Game

The trip to Las Vegas is on Thursday, and early in the week I am excited. Forgoing the usual gambling within the "shores of North America," I remember this is not 2008. Sadly, these are tight times, and high rolling has to be replaced by smart moves. I tell Smiley that I hope the lines are close to what they are now, because I spot some deals. But enough of my yackin' - let's boogie!

First Quarter

I don't want to get the thought in my brain that the travel couldn't get any worse...but it won't leave my head. We are at a gas station in Primm, NV. Smiley's car is not in a movable state. Before the state line, I casually look over to see the speed as we're making good time. It's when I do so that I notice that engine temperature is damn warm. As she notices this, it's getting warmer. By the border, the smell is getting thicker (with Leon getting larger) and slowly...smoke coming out.

Once our heads and the engine cool down, we consider the options. Naturally, there's no garage in this gas station but there ARE slot machines. Opening the hood shows coolant on the top, bottom, spilling, and the cap sitting on the edge. Did the heat push the cap off? Was the cap never on? Smiley is lamenting not having her car checked before leaving, but there's nothing we can do about that now. To her (and my) dismay, my coolant knowledge is limited to old Prestone ads, so that's no help. But even if we add coolant, how do we know that solves the problem? It's nothing but desert until Jean (and I wouldn't consider that a positive either). It's getting dark out. AAA is the only answer.

Roughly 10 minutes later (as I attempt to corral a very nervous dog around a gas station) I am confronted by a "mother and son" team of beggars. They need money for the train. I am not sure that a train even stops in Primm, but the dog sends them briskly walking away. Still, we wait for a tow truck...the mother returns, asking what's wrong. Oh, it's not because she needs money; she's had car troubles, so she knows how to fix stuff. Seriously, where is the damned-

The tow truck arrives! We are placed on the bed of the truck as he also drags another car behind us. Here we are, riding up in style...in her car, but not driving...comfortable, and yet it feels as if one giant bump could send us flying. Piece of mind, I know. Well, at least we made it. Tomorrow the casino, and the troubles are washed away! Right?

Second Quarter

What's taking so long? Why are we talking? Can we just get to the casino so I can place these bets? We can do anything else after that. As I wait, I read "Inside Las Vegas" by Mario Puzo. An odd contradiction exists: He is (and labels himself as such) a degenerate gambler, yet is ready to place others and those who play certain games in that file. The photos, nearly all of them swanky and showing a bygone era, label winners and losers. But, when your butterfly collar gets its own suitcase, there are no losers. Little attention is paid to sports gambling, so I can only wonder the difference. Ah, we're ready? Yay! YAYAYAYAYAY!

What? Shit, that line did change. Smiley lets me talk, but is on the hunt for the hot slot machines. I look at my notes (and Potsy's, for his stake) and realize a lot of my bets won't be happening. Those nutty parlays won't go down - not enough moneylines. I am seriously limited, but I do what I can. There...bets placed, I am confident. So much so that I don't even care that I'm playing video poker knowing full well I'm clearly about to lose money. In the past, it was a time wasting lark. As said earlier, and going through my head: I can't be doing this.

The evening, we are treated by Smiley's father to Love at the Mirage. It is a fantastic show. We are entertained. I won't be informed of the cost, but it is worth it. Plus, it was enough to fog my memory that never in my life have I even made a nickel at this fucking casino. This day doesn't change. John might have made two game shows for Slingo, but I'm not touching their machines. I can lose loose change with someone else, thank you. But that doesn't matter. Tomorrow is Saturday, and I am happy.

Third Quarter

Whenever I wake up on a gambling Las Vegas game day, my thoughts will always turn to 2006, when a sleepy Trip is woken by a knock at the door by former Pacific Gold writer Steve Simpson. He's going down to the sportsbook...any other bets? I tell him to go into my wallet, take out $20, and place it on Old Dominion. What a weird, yet fucking glorious world that was. Then again, the sleeping quarters were nearly bare. Now, I'm waking up in a nice residence in a quiet community where all the rocks match, a hearty breakfast is free, and Smiley there to greet me. Yet, get me to the action. Before I even get there, I see that the Purdue/Michigan game is going off. That is odd - a lot of scoring for a Big Ten game. There goes one bet. Oh well. It will change once I get in there and get a seat.

Upon arrival, it is packed. NCAA Football and Breeder's Cup lifers and travelers fill the place. I look at some parlay cards and continue to get minimal help from the staff. At Red Rock, it helps to know you way around, and apparently, I don't. I also don't know to ask for a "drink ticket" when I make my bets. Unless you have one, drinks are full price. That will feel good later.

To pass the time now that I have a chair with a TV, I do a random wacky NHL parlay. I don't know hockey but I don't care at this moment. It's $3 to win $20 or something. As is the case in these settings, I make fast friends with the people next to me. One is a guy who travels from east California to LV every weekend to bet sports. He is not having a good day, but is cheery. To my left is a southern guy...he's got a dozen tickets in front of him. Rooting for Alabama...and his horses. He is younger than me, and it makes me happy the youth of America will continue gambling. I have a bet on Kent State (of course I do) and in a tight game, a Golden Eagle recovers a 4th down fumble for a touchdown! Tie game about to come up, and the tide is turning. I'm seeing a replay; yup, his knee didn't touch the ground. TD! OK, my luck is turning. Wait, what are they reviewing?

If you read the recap of the game, you won't hear any mention of this...but somehow the review made the officials decide to place the ball where it was recovered by KSU. I couldn't figure it out - was there a penalty? No one was tackled. As is my current state, KSU goes 3 and out. They lose by that touchdown they should have received. This isn't a good start at all. Ah, but I have my night games and that nutty parlay.

You can guess how the nutty parlay went. I also had Oklahoma, and you know how that turned out. But I have Houston over Tulsa. I remember that on Tuesday, it was at Pick...which was a shock. I'm certainly taking Houston. When I arrived, it was up to 1 1/2 for Houston, but it didn't matter: they would win. Late in the game, however, they are losing, yet driving. With less than a minute to go, they score a touchdown, now down 2. Ah, this is perfect! We'll go to OT, and no matter HOW they win, I will win. Finally, a way to save face. OH SHIT, QB is sacked. That's that.

Or is it? In ways that only gambling gods create, Houston gets the onside kick. They complete two passes. They attempt a 51 yard field goal. IT IS GOOD.

Houston wins by 1 point.

I feel defeated. I feel empty. I turn to someone and say "This makes those of us who had them by 1 1/2 feel pretty stupid." He laughs out of defense more than anything. I am hurt, and I hurt myself. I lost every bet I made. It's never happened to me in my life. I haven't been gambling that long, but shit...

Smiley finds me and I try to stay upbeat...I know she's not done for the night in any way, so I keep her company and give her moral support. For one final time, I tell her why I like to place bets early in the week. I once again tell her about the Houston line. This time, she is either interested or too bored to not care. "What happened? Did they lose?" I tell her what happened and she is also shocked. "No way! That sucks!" It sure does. Do you want to buy your boyfriend a hamburger?

I have $5 in cash left, and we wander past a trio of slot machines that are exploding with money. Smiley commandeers one and she doesn't receive the same luck. Or, at least, not what she's looking for. Another one opens (maybe these machines are tired of giving out money) and I "monitor" the other one. Well...I guess I'd better play it, even slowly, so if she wants to come back...

That $5 is gone in relatively short order. I am happy I already ate dinner.

Later, we find a game called "Texas Tea" which is filled with plenty of stereotypical Texas symbols, and a character with a giant white mustache and a car with steer horns on the grill. The money doesn't really change in the 10 minutes she plays (she makes $2, placing her as my idol for the trip) but it's entertaining. Maybe I should stick to these machines. Or maybe craps. But it doesn't fucking matter.

Fourth Quarter

I don't know why I was asked if I wanted to go to the casino. Maybe because they thought I wanted to make my money back, or try the NFL. I want no part of it. Smiley's car is fixed and brought back to life with new tires and other elements. We will make it back to Los Angeles, safe and sound. But for today, it will be walks...tennis...reading, eating. Relaxing. Of course, these are things I'd do if I was anywhere else in the world. Yet, because I'm here, I want to go to what I know. Or, at least, what I thought I knew. It was sitting with friends, waiting for an eventful meal and conversations with jugs of beer. We wouldn't know it, but we had good fortune amongst the carcases that littered our surroundings. It might have been Death Valley Nights for some, but not us.

And yet, there I was, only a day ago. Complaining about replay in fucking AKRON, OHIO. Shaking my head at Tulsa's defense. And all the while, losing money. And why are the parlays so confusing here? And what's the deal with that job in Beverly Hills? And why hasn't John given me the information about lit agents? It's been a while...still no word. The sea is rising around me. Am I in the eye of the storm, or standing on the drain?

Post Game

For some reason, hamburgers continue to be my life as we amble in. I return with vigor...warm autumn weather and a brisk walk sends my mind racing...let's get shit done. I continue with this pace until a friend politely asks how I did in "Vegas."

"Don't ask."

He laughed and apologized and was about to give advice of some sort, but I told him not to bother. "The only person to blame is myself." All excited was I, dreaming of payouts in the sky. A bankrolled future and house on the hill, only receiving a cruel fiscal lesson and gambling overkill.

Laying the launching pad for the neutron bomb

There was a bit of news that came around this morning, and it likely won't make the papers in any other city in the country...which is how it is, I suppose. It's an L.A. story, and it's a sad one.

Brendan Mullen passed away over the weekend.

I'll tell you why he is worth writing about, but if it doesn't come across clearly, you'll have to forgive me.

We're dealing with a modest man; that is my take on him. This is through his writings and in comparison with others from that "old school punk" gang when Trip was but another project in the preemie ward at the hospital. History, being what it is, can lead to many different interpretations. Just as I said to Smiley over the weekend, we'll never see a photo of George Washington in casual wear. I'm sure he had some, likely wore it now and then...but all documentation has been searched and that's all we have.

Punk music, specifically the early days through the 80s, has many fathers. Add in the various "scenes" and you now have a very large horizon. Rightfully or otherwise, the main hubs of punk came from three locations: London, New York, and Los Angeles. London...well, we know that despite the rock stylings that happened in NYC in the early 70s, that scene carved out the sound and (without argument) the look. New York had a bottomless well of talented musicians, ones who have shown to succeed in other genres. Where does that leave L.A.? Well, it might have been late to the party, but it was the last one to leave.

Brendan's want was only for the scene to come together - a place for guaranteed gigs and that music every night. But even that goal came out of something simple - a rehearsal space. In this basement off Hollywood Blvd. turned into The Masque.

You might remember a post I made in December of 2005, where I stumbled onto the location of this actual club...which at the time was being used as a stock room. Little did I know that former Gold writer Dave Snizewski was recanting a recent Wicked Warlords show. We were writing at the same time, and my archaeological dig was covered by someone who should really share his drugs. Fuck, this article isn't about me.

The gigs that occurred at the Masque are important for a myriad of reasons, musical in nature to be sure. Similar to when something like this starts in society, word spreads. John Doe said at the end of 1977, "the Whisky had ten people at their club and there were two hundred people at the Masque" - which lead to those bands being booked at the Whisky. Isn't that always the way?

All the while, Brendan was ducking the cops and city hall officials looking for permits. Graffiti such as "To escape hell you must first bury yourself in it" enclosed The Germs and X (among countless other bands) as they did their thing. Sid Vicious toasted the town on the Sex Pistols ill-fated tour with his cocktail of the moment: Peppermint Schnapps with Southern Comfort, chased with Olde English 800. Bottoms up, Sidnaaaay!

As other club owners would find out, booking punk music might not go over as smoothly as a CSN&Y cover band. The Troubadour (at the time a country rock club) was rightfully trashed. However, when Brendan was forced out of the space, it was back to the hustle to get punk played in a club. Any club. He opened another version of The Masque (along with Masque-esque nights at other clubs) before opening and running Club Lingerie, right down the street on Hollywood Blvd.

One of Brendan's books about that time, which focuses just as much on the L.A. music scene over 20 years as it does just punk, briefly covers those days. Everyone (interviewed for the book) seems to echo the same sentiments: finally, a dive of our own. A basement, off an alley, off a side street...who would have known? Everyone needs a space to do their shit. So many can't because people get in the way. Tonight, we raise our California Gold's to a man who promoted and hosted the explosion of L.A. Punk. It was the watering of a seed that turned into a giant brick of gold...one that will last forever.

Driving down to build up

After an extended period of college football, where by the grace of above I remained in the plus column, I accepted the fact that I needed to expand my horizons. Smiley was suggestive of an art show at a warehouse, so ol Bess ambled down to see me attempt to supplement my cultural needs.

Let me just add here that those who think downtown LA is completely livable now should know that nighttime around there still seems like we've stumbled onto the set of To Live and Die in LA. Except, I haven't tried to kill anyone over counterfeit money.

Upon arrival I was surrounded by LA's hippest and wanting to be hip. This was a social assault on my senses, and even seeing an old acquittance randomly didn't help my initial shock. There will be suffering personalities and expensive drinks, so the best you can do is navigate correctly and have fun of your own. In the wandering I came across this famous photo of the man: the one who sang about the Rock Island Line.



While looking at this photo, a guy next to me said "that's pretty vulgar, isn't it?" Apparently he (wearing a sport coat with a t-shirt graphic saftey-pinned to the back; I'm hip AND punk! Where's my hat?) hadn't seen the nudes around here. Or, vulgarity is different for each person. My minimal response didn't help matters much. "It's like he's saying 'I don't give a fuck what you think.'" I told him no, Johnny says "fuck you" and I'm pretty sure you don't get to think anything. I could tell this guy wanted this to be the opening of a conversation...sadly I couldn't find Smiley in this time of need. Quickly, I scrambled.

Moving to another area, a collection of hanging postcards (the type with random photos of people...you know the kind) caught my eye. Once again, just my viewing seemed to invite someone to begin to talk to me.

"I love this collection...the creativity of the layout is perfect."
Yeah, it's good.
"I like this side better...the juxtaposition of youth and scenery."

Before I can mentally groan again, Smiley finds me and points out her favorite photo: a girl wearing a shirt that says "You fuck it, you bought it." Wow, that shirt rules.

With the attitude and sensibilities mounting, we move outside to "Living Art." Here, girls dressed in all white stand with paint in front of them, waiting to be painted by everyone. Smiley joins in...somehow at a moment where some of the older guests and more specifically sleazy men have "discovered" the possibilities. I'm attempting to take a photo of Smiley in action, but I am blocked by an old lady who seems determined to paint one girl on a certain part of her anatomy. I can't help but laugh...laugh in the face of the audience. We have honest artists...and even some willing to try new things. And yet, we were enclosed with so many who were ready to pay extra to arrive late...to pay for a shot of Skyy vodka?! To be seen and see and be seen again. There's no sign out front and we're kind of in the middle of nowhere in downtown LA so...we are the coolest!

It's the creativity of others that can help you move along...restart your brain, giving it the kick in the rump it needs. The rest? You can have them. I was glad I went, though. Had a pretty good time, saw some cool pictures, definitely had a story to tell. Sitting in one of Burbank's all-night eateries, I felt this was a fine cap to the evening. Smiley, staring down a plate of eggs and french fries at 1AM, didn't quite agree. At that hour, reality is honest, and home is usually the safest bet you'll make all day.

What are the odds?

I've been meaning to write about this subject for two weeks...really, I have. I've monitored the situation and was ready to rejoice with happiness, only to find out that no matter what the state of Delaware wants to do about sports gambling, the feds say no. Here is your contradiction of laws: Delaware is grandfathered in to be able to include sports gambling in their state, yet this (according to the U.S. Court of Appeals) won't be happening because it violates the federal ban on gambling (set in 1992). This ban doesn't hit Nevada because at the time they already HAD sports gambling and therefore WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!

You can see how this circle goes around while the gambling man simply wants to know if it is for real. Just as you run to the board to see if you can lock in 99-2 odds on a dog once the odds are posted, you want to believe things are in your fortune. You have to act now before things change.

Former Pacific Gold writer Steve Simpson and I spent some time wishfully discussing the possibilities of Delaware sports gambling. These discussions didn't include how it would help Delaware's economy (if it would at all). Nor did it cover if said gambling would hit Atlantic City's casinos in an adverse way. It was all about if this would lead to easier and less shady online gambling.

When I heard that the U.S. Court of Appeals shot the blue hen down, I could see the thinking: do we want The Message in our state? Do we want an influx of Mad Dashs and Froggy types, never changing their clothing and betting on any race or game they can get their hands on? When you start thinking as those characters do, you'd better have a lot of money. In Las Vegas, I once turned to Steve and said "Well...what games are left on the board? Army in basketball? You know that's an under." We had the fever, we gambled with no study at all, and we lost. That was a one day goof. These are people who do it daily, and no, you don't want those people around.

And, unless you're able to bounce around LV, online gambling is your only choice. Personally, correct wagers or not, I feel my money will disappear with mystery - not unlike playing Mega Millions because you could walk out with a quarter of a billion dollars. Or, you're at LAX paying a fee that is so confusing if you refuse, you can't fly.

Delaware is still moving forward all the same. With a budget deficit as large as California, why wouldn't they? They need fast cash, and this is always an easy alternative. The state lottery says it's moving forward...casinos there are quickly creating makeshift sports books with giant screens. (I'm positive these will look better than the majority of "sports books" in downtown Las Vegas). The parlays will continue.

Still, with this news, and Time magazine's spot-on review of how Las Vegas fucked itself (they left out Binion's danceteria!), it leaves a lot of people in a daze. The economy hit a lot of people, as did the job market. The remodeling in downtown LV pushed away some of the sleaze for better or worse. And now, Delaware's news hurts our chances for legal, no BS online gambling. All a guy wants to do make some deals. And when the homework is done, the deal goes through, and actual cash goes in the pocket...well, that's Gold.

Dog Days in Dealville

When you go outside, you might not notice anything unusual. It is July, it is summer, therefore: it's hott. (That's two T's) You'd think all there is to life out here at this point is jumping in the van and hitting the beach for the cooler temps. Maybe you find someone who has a pool or, failing that, a pool at their apartment complex. Bullshit them, bother them, do whatever it takes. Everyone feels better after a swim, especially at night. Later, you can drink beer and eat pizza and watch The Honeymooners at full volume and laugh. Call it a day.

But this time of year, there are tectonic plates of deals going on underneath your feet. All of the big deals are planned well in advance, you remember. While the majority are on vacation (and, in all honesty, where you'd rather be) there are a handful that are in control. They are spinning wheels for the future. And this is where we are.

I added up the vacation bill from last summer, and it was a doozy. If you count a needed trip to the great white north, it was 5 locations, hotels, gas, flights on small planes. That's the golden life. But there's always two sides to a coin. And when you're trying to get deals going, it would be brazen to hit the road at this point. Others might not understand, but fuck them. They spent your tax dollars long ago. If these things hit, we're on the move. That takes equal prep.

If it doesn't...why even think that way? There will be more deals. And if life is one long vacation, which is what it should be, isn't it worth working for the ocean front room? Make it happen.

Sound Off (before) California

(Editor's Note: Trip Darvez, Pacific Gold's sole correspondent, was searching for "what [I'm] looking for, wiseass" when he found a box of old photographs. Through prompting from an assistant, Trip shared some tales of his youth and the search for gold)

"Yeah, that was a staff party at Z-93 in Amarillo. I told you I worked there, right? Yeah, that was before heading to LA. Let me look at this. Shit...OK, this was during a party, I think it was a ratings party, but it could have just been Friday and we were in the mood to drink. But that's everyone. Guy in the suit holding a glass was the sales manager...something Whitfield. Afternoon guy is holding the secretary Nancy. Phil 'the Pill'...and you want to talk about bad nicknames, did overnights. I'm in the back, totally obscured because I was on the air at the time. And someone yells 'Trip!' That was a lot of fun - that girl in the jean jacket in front of me...we had some good times together. A town like that, it doesn't take long to figure out where the hot spots are, and back then everyone knew who you were. She grew up there...what the hell is her name? Linda? No - Mary. Mary...yeah, she grew up in Bishop Hills...some small town out there. One time we took the van and...well, I don't need to go into that. It gets hot there over the summer, you know. When I moved to California, she was going to come out here, but I think her friends talked her out of it. You know how it is - they don't want them having fun without them. I think I sent her a picture of me in that hot tub giveaway a few months after I moved which was kind of 'wish you were here, but, you know, you're missing out' kind of thing."



"Holy fuck - who is this guy? Ha, no, it's me. Yeah, I'm in front...well, OK, this is right before I left. In fact, this had to be weeks before I left. Somehow, the station knew someone at United Artists who could get us a print of The Spy Who Loved Me about 3 weeks before the actual premiere. This probably wasn't legal at all, but you know...back then, in a town like that, how the fuck would they know? So, they had their 'world premiere' at a movie theater down there. Part of our contest was that you could try to win tickets, but the big winner could choose the DJ of their choice to escort them to the show, and then I think we went to Pizza Inn or some restaurant. So it was on my shift, and this girl wins and thankfully...to my ego...picks me. OK great. So, they get me in this tux because they really wanted to make this a big deal. You know, they had spotlights and a red carpet even though there was no press beyond us. I think the remote van was there or (editor's note: Trip walks into the kitchen to make another drink and is unintelligible on the recording). OK, so I'm in a Lincoln or some big car, and we're going to pick up this girl. Now, you can't go into situations like this thinking you're going to get some hot babe or anything...I couldn't tell much because when she won, she was screaming and everything. This reminds me...did you ever see the WKRP when they're going to the concert and Johnny is picking postcards, and he...OK, yeah. So, you know what can happen. I hear a voice coming from outside, so I hide my flask and look and see this girl who was still in high school...and you get enough jail bait in radio as it is...but oh man was she clingy. She had pictures of me from the survey, all this shit. When we got to the theater, one of the jocks and an engineer were giving me shit, but you have to be a pro about this.

Movie was good, and then at dinner, she's asking all these questions about the radio station. Then, we get back - after we had to wait for the car to arrive, and she was trying to take pictures of the two of us with her camera...I have no idea if it came out or not. So, we pull up to her house, and she's just staring at me, as if to say 'are we gonna...?' And I'm trying to make eye contact with the driver to say 'Trip, we have to get back to the station' or something. So I think we kissed a few times, which was all I was going to do, but I could tell she was going to talk about it all summer. Eventually the driver must have come to his senses because then he says we have to go, or return the car or something. And on my way back to the station I kept thinking that this was fun, I...no, I mean, these station things are all right but how much longer can I do this? And, I was on highway 40 out of town in a few weeks. And the reason I remember all of that - I left some really cool T shirts in that apartment, but I couldn't ship anything anywhere.

"But now, it was a whole new enchilada."

"Summer," by our own sense, is less than a week away. As time passes there are glimpses of good fortune while, surrounding me, changes that can't possibly be for good.

1. Michelob has changed their bottle...again.

I simply can't understand the decision, nor can I be expected to enjoy the result. So often, so many products fail to understand their own role and why they are where they are. Those dolts in St. Louis did this earlier this decade: they attempted to make Michelob their version of Sammy Adams. This way, you wouldn't want those good beers, you'd want A/B's version of them. Too little and too late, slick. Those few beers seemed to be ignored and Michelob went to a similar version of the classic bottle. Yes, I'll consider buying it again. Hell, weekends are for the beer, right? Doesn't the night belong to it as well? Not no more, sucka. A/B marketing has failed again with this bullshit, and here comes an entire designer line of elixir that is somehow supposed to make my wallet explode. Would you like the "craft sampler pack?" No, I'd like to get drunk. I have no idea what I'm getting with this, other than paying too much. Sure, a heavy beer or one with high alcohol content might do the trick. But in beer 101 you've just failed. I don't see a lot of commercial prospects on the advanced courses.

2. God Bless America is now played before the 7th Inning Stretch at Dodger Stadium.

Ned Colletti claims it was the owner's wife's idea. I wasn't aware she could make such decisions, but her man IS the boss. But let's get some facts straight: this was never done in the history of Dodger Stadium. Secondly, we already have the national anthem. Why yet another song? Does this make me un-patriotic to demand its removal? No, I'm just wondering what the hell it's doing in the middle of a baseball game! If we need to be so patriotic, why not rotate the songs at the beginning of the game? Maybe one night we can "sing" Stars and Stripes Forever. Could we begin a game with I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy? (Boston wouldn't go for that) And why do we have to keep it just to the United States? I propose in the middle of the 3rd inning, we sing the California State Song, "I Love You, California." Oh, is that too much? Would that delay the game?

At first I thought I was the only one who noticed this. At a game a couple of weeks ago, I knew what was coming so I went to the feedbags. Two guys were in front of me and one turned to the other to say "Oh, it's time for the 7th inning stretch." When God Bless America was sung by a weather girl from a local TV station, I was not alone with a confused look. By the time Take Me Out showed up, the enthusiasm in the stands was GONE.

Jon Weisman writes the Dodgers blog on the LA Times website, and he wrote a column in mid-April stating this was overkill and that he'd probably get a lot of shit for it. What happened? Over 90% of the commenters agreed with him! Maybe this will change...or maybe the god of your choice (if you have one) doesn't care if you have an American flag or a San Francisco 49ers flag on your porch.

3. Someone new will be in the MNF booth this fall.

This could be a good thing because this new employee wants to be there. He also knows football. But as the late great Howard said "Monday Night Football is prime time entertainment, nothing more." Perhaps, with the games on ESPN, that notion is long gone. Merely, it is a sports network's coverage of games, meant for fans only. We do know that Jon knows how to speak in public, and he could give a goat shit about Brett Favre. Hey - this is a really good thing!

OK, point me to the stein. It's drinky time, and a nitwit is on television telling me about basketball. Make that two drinks.

Don't remember me as I am, remember me as I was

With John Madden retiring today (likely to end up in the Raiders front office, whether he admits it or not) you're reading a lot of tributes about him overall. As if he died, or something horrific happened. No, all that occurred is that he retired as a sportscaster. Yes, he did that longer than coaching, and that's likely how he will be remembered. When someone finishes up their career, it's easy to span time decades later and remember Joe Namath as the ultimate swinger, winning games for the Jets. You never think about Namath as the ultimate swinger, with bad knees on the bench for the Rams. But if you were a fan then, it stands out just as much as the success.

When Madden was beginning his broadcasting career, football color commentators limited themselves by simply telling you what you just saw. Maybe a stat or two would be added, professional or personal: he's an all-pro, that's a good catch for a singer in the off-season, it's the 5th interception of the year for the Bear from Baylor. The play by play man was left to do the heavy lifting and, if as mildly prepared as the color commentator, left the viewers confused. At the time, Tom Brookshier of CBS and Don Meredith of ABC were similar examples of what people thought of in the position.

It's no secret I enjoy seeing videos of Pat Summerall and Tom Brookshier do their thing on CBS football (in the pre-Madden days) because you can tell they're having fun and are friends. But that doesn't excuse football "insight" that might be better left unsaid. Here's an actual transcript from the 1978 NFC Divisional Playoff between the Atlanta Falcons and the Dallas Cowboys.

(The Cowboys fumble a kickoff, and players from both teams are scrambling to recover the ball)
Pat Summerall: And Atlanta will have it.
(Players are still going after the ball as it rolls back to the end zone)
PS: The Falcons recover.
(The ball now rolls into the end zone)
PS: The ball is still loose.
(The Cowboys recover the ball in the end zone which, since it was touched by an Atlanta player, is a touchback. The referees give the touchback signal.)
PS: Safety, I believe. Or is it touchback?
Tom Brookshier: They're signaling...they're signaling safety, I believe. Let's see if he gets his hands above is head, on the hat.
PS: Bruce Huther struggled back into the end zone, and it will be an Atlanta safety.
(By this point, said referee is placing the ball on the 20 yard line. Now, a replay is shown)
TB: The ball looked like something on Halloween night. Watch this ball move. That is a muff. Watch the action, as the ball is first hit by Falcons. The ball is loose, and remember that's an artificial turf just like your living room rug. And they are still struggling for it.
PS: There it goes, off to the right, and that's Huther, #57, who recovers it. The (unknown word) of the ball takes it into the end zone, the officials have ruled, and not a safety.
TB: I thought that was a touchback signal, but all the Falcons were jumping up and down.

In a similar vein, here's Don Meredith from the following season, calling a Dallas Cowboys/Cleveland Browns game.

Frank Gifford: Second down an 8. Ball close to the 23.
(Brian Sipe goes back to pass)
FG: Just underway from Cleveland.
(Sipe throws it deep to...nobody? A few players are on the ground back at the 10)
FG: Sipe throws it away as Rucker collides with Benny Barnes. No flags.
(The crowd boos)
FG: It'll be 3rd down and 8.
Howard Cosell: Rucker immediately proclaimed interference, but in point of fact...here, Don, why don't you run back the collision?
(The instant replay begins)
Don Meredith: Run back the collision. I think basically what it was...little slip back in there.
(The replay shows Rucker trying to cut but slipping into Barnes)
DM: You'll see he just slipped into him. So, obvious accident on both guys parts, no interference on the play.
HC: But claim it anyway. Remember the Swann/Barnes altercation, key play in the last Super Bowl?
(The following play, Sipe throws a touchdown pass)
FG: Going for Logan...he's open...he's got a touchdown! Dave Logan, a gifted receiver, beat Aaron Kyle in the corner, and right on target was Brian Sipe.
HC: Now this is Monday Night Football! Dave Logan, the man who with 14 seconds and no time outs remaining (the replay begins as Logan tightropes down the sideline) as we look at it again from the end zone, caught one from Sipe and set up the tying field goal against the Jets which the Browns won in overtime. This is a great overall athlete, Don.
DM: It really is.
FG: Cleveland picking up a safety blitz on the part of the Dallas Cowboys gave Sipe the time. Logan with a great move on Aaron Kyle. Cleveland's on the scoreboard.

In those examples, you had people in these spots who weren't adding the insight to what you saw. Brookshier might have been into a Margarita or just looking at the Falcons (instead of the refs who would have the right call). Meredith around this time complained that he was getting cut off by Cosell, but here Howard gives it to him and just watches the replay, and serves as a yes man. What I've put above are not isolated incidents; these are simply examples of how it used to be. Some might have wanted more, but no one knew what else there was.

Madden, once comfortable in front of the camera and in his role, changed the position almost immediately. CBS producer Terry O'Neil, in his book The Game Behind the Game, mentions how announcers and analysts were given game film to watch, and told to interview coaches about game plans. Serious questions would replace cocktail hour conversation, and the difference showed in who embraced this logic, and who ignored it. The "chalkboard" graphics pen furthered this ideal. Even his first use of it, in a 1982 playoff game, showed a difference as clear as night and day. In the play, Dwight Clark caught a pass wide open, and had a big gain. Instead of a tight shot of Clark, catching and running, here was a wide shot of the field.

From The Game Behind the Game, by Terry O'Neill:
"Madden explained that the two Giant safeties were playing deep zones, each responsible for half the field. The safety on Clark's side, Larry Flowers, had been influenced by another 49er receiver who ran a deep route, straight at him. By the time Flowers saw Clark, also working his half of the field, it was too late. Eureka! After years of hearing the inexplicable term double zone, America was now seeing it. Coach Bill Walsh's design was brilliant, and finally it was evident. This was history-making video."

And with that, John Madden exploded onto the TV football scene (he had already arrived) just as he did in Miller Lite ads. The combination of football know-how, and the funny comments of which viewers were conditioned, made for exciting viewing. You'd always heard someone say "We got a real barn burner here!" But now it was the energy that never existed in the booth. For every play that was dissected, you'd have sheer energy if there was nothing there but fine play. Take this 1980s Redskins score:

"This is goalline! This brings out everything in a man! They just get in there behind big Grimm and big Jacoby. Boom! Here comes big Riggins. Whap! He just pounds that thing into the endzone. Now that's football! That's a goalline offense!"

This fine effort was steady through the 1980s. However, the trouble was by the time John went to Fox for their NFC coverage, the energy was slowly sliding away. Viewers began to hear the same phrases over and over, with less and less of the analysis that brought him such balance. Sadly, as Pat aged and slowed down, John did as well. Viewers began to hear things like "there's a lot of hitting down there." Good plays began to elict the following thoughts from John:

Actual quote, 1998
"This guy, I mean, he's been a, he's been a starter. He's not just a back up guy, a plugger who does things, like, you know, short yardage blocking and stuff. This guy is a good runner. And he's a good open-field runner, he's a good pass receiver, he's a complete running back."

By the time Summerall "retired" and Madden moved to ABC, Al Michaels was beginning to wane in enthusiasm as well. (Michaels claims to love his job as much as ever, but watch a game and see him mail it in) Around this time, he also began to talk as if he was being questioned on what he saw. Without a play by play man to give him energy, he sunk further and further into parody. More and more turned to the simulcast on the radio as John would give out information such as this on a weekly basis:
"He would have scored a touchdown if he wasn't tackled right there."
"When the quarterback's arm is hit, the ball won't go where you want it to go."
"See, he takes the ball, cuts back there, and that's just a great run by (insert name)."

I would contribute more, but I can sense my brain (what's left of it) beginning to melt. I won't mention his love of Brett Favre...all of this is recent memory. Having become a parody of himself, he was knowingly or otherwise dispensing the kind of non-analysis that left viewers wanting more when he began at CBS. So, the circle is unbroken. A man who many still viewed as a top flight color commentator was bringing little to nothing for each game. It's sad that the John Madden that went out was either dripping with cliches, or telling you what you just saw. Yet, I hope that when people look back on his career, there is a focus on his innovation, not stammering obvious sayings. It's doubtful that the highlights will be kept to 1981-1994. Announcebot X-131 (known on Earth as "Joe Buck") will likely do a sappy montage of him during the first game of the year, as will NBC. Michaels had better look alive; his new partner actually has insightful things to say about football.

But yes, John, the football world will feel that one tomorrow.

Come on Down!

Like most Americans, The Price is Right was a steady daytime rock during my youth. My game show fandom was likely cornered around that show and USA's reruns of The Gong Show before Cartoon Express. With Chuck Barris not returning to the helm in nearly 20 years, TPIR fueled the fire.

My first real experience with the show was in 1996, when California Gold took a hold of me on the first visit. The show I was to attend was not a CBS production, but it would be taped at the haven for television gold, Television City...


Upon arriving I found out the taping was cancelled. Some bullshitting lead me inside. A friendly guard (when is the last time you read that?) sent me to the stages of The Bold & the Beautiful and TPIR. There it was - the stage, some of the games, the giant wheel. It was the show, with just me on stage. I had always told anyone that it was almost better than attending a taping because I was EVERYWHERE and never lost.

Well, now we're now trying to make game shows happen, and John was nice enough to make the call to have us meet with some of the staff. Similar to Wheel of Fortune, this is another well oiled machine, specifically so they can get right to commercial. However, having never been in the audience for a taping, I was intrigued on how things would go.

We enter through the employee entrance, and John is already lamenting how the truly insane TPIR fans have lead CBS to cut out the perks for the VIPs. "It used to be nice. We could go here, talk with some other folks, have lunch at the commissary. Now, it's this." As we are waiting, we are suddenly surrounded by contestants of the German version of America's Next Top Model. These women are wearing different "costumes" and yet I can immediately tell they are a bit intimidated by this whole thing. They also know little to no English. We refrain from any jokes. A Page (who keeps talking to me like she knows me) herds us upstairs to the studio. I make my first "how did you know my name?" joke while wearing the price tag on my shirt. To me, it never gets old.

Backstage, we are excited to see the CBS "eye" red and white curtains still there. If those could talk...this stage housed Carol Burnett, Match Game, Elvis' TV Debut. It seems agreed that anyone with these in their home should be sent away. After being seated in the second row center (my god, we'll be on screen) some of the worst songs ever recorded begin to play. Screams are heard, and here they come. Who knows how long they've waited, or where they're from (most likely, not here). I turn to John and state the collection of songs played are included in the CD "Wedding Reception From Hell." Right as I say this, "Last Dance" by Donna Summer begins, and before I can groan a large housewife lets out a yell and claps along. This can't start fast enough.

Rich Fields comes out to give his usual statements on what to do. The plastic surgery worked for him - he no longer looks like he's been awake for a week. We take this opportunity to talk about Johnny Olson and Rod Roddy. And just like that the show begins. At the start I'm trying to always smile and clap, playing along in case they show us. Once the bidding begins, I'm just yelling out random numbers. At first I'm chastised for giving out an incorrect amount, and later, we argue on a pricing game. If you have no idea how much surfboards cost, everyone will realize you don't know.

In the end, the brisk taping offers few highlights. Only one pricing game is won. A kid wearing "Seattle Sounders" gear is chosen to come up. Mr. Carey owns a piece of that team, and John and I trade Jack Barry quips. In the showcase showdown, both contestants overbid (the woman next to me predicts this, but I wasn't paying attention to the prizes. The beauties were in some nice outfits). Unlike the Barker days, Drew and the beauties go to center stage and wave. And that's it. I feel for those who actually waited, looking for consistent excitement, and saw this episode. And yet, it also makes me realize how cool this show was when it really was regular folks in the audience. Groups of 20 on family reunions, the truly insane...it all makes me wonder if this show ever gets cancelled, that it will move to the farmers market next door. Sure the prizes will be cheaper, but tourists can still jump up and down while guessing the price of Rice-a-Roni. Yet, the good feelings were also compounded by the reality that its 2009, and the old gold days are long gone.