Any holiday film or (better yet) commercial tells you that the "Holiday Spirit" triumphs over all. And for all I know, that may be true. But what is also true is my living the same things of which California Gold is all about. And it does not exist in Minneapolis.
Not that it ever has. And not that this is news, either. But it had been many years since my last sojourn to the north during the darkest of hours. Whatever had changed really hadn't. The fact that Best Buy built 5 buildings where houses and a car dealer used to sit, the fact that you have more chain restaurants than before, the fact that it's 35 degrees instead of 20...these don't hide the truth. This is where your ambition slowly goes to die. Here, it does not die a quick death. In fact, you might not even notice it leaving. The only way you WOULD notice it is if you contact the world outside this cavernous mindset.
It's visiting relatives of family friends. They're all from Greece. They know no English at all. But they know how to cook. They know how to drink. Immediately you are good friends. You dance, drinking Greek Government-made "Tequila" while talking to them. And they smile, not understanding a god damn word. But you're all having a fantastic time.
"Come on, Trip, time to go."
Huh? We're living on the Greek Soul Train of Good Eating right now.
"No, we're meeting another group at a generic Brewpub."
Soul, wilting.
It's meeting a middle-aged ad exec at yet another Family Carnival Circus. They want to know of the "TV Biz" and they respond as if you are the end all to it. Well, not quite, but they are interested people and so you go on. You give details few know, while describing the joys of this life.
"Isn't it great having him back? I don't know why he left!"
Soul, thirsty.
It's sending countless text messages to your lady back in LA. Sure, you miss each other for multiple reasons, but you have another angle - you're not warm. You're trapped. You're having to relive all that you left again and again. And as much as you change, as much as the surface of this dark cavern may change, the inhabitants won't. And they won't admit you have, either. And you can tell of what you do, places you go, girls you grope, but it doesn't matter.
My soul needs sun. And more than that, it needs warm breezes.
Doing a week's worth of work in a day and a half (all while the Sun Bowl is on) is no way to live. But there is swank, there is said girl, there is plenty of beer. And yet, already back in the groove that wide lapels endorse, you can hear their cry:
"Come back! Come back"
And finally, after all these "vacations" back, it made sense. The outsider IS the sun there. It is the soul. It is the warm breeze (even the gas from the insane amount of salt that is in every foodstuff made). Without the outsider there, it is black ice, windshield fluid, added weight. Overtold stories, expensive liquor at city-owned stores, cream soups. Us? We have deviated from this cave and are now at a mental beach miles away. Everyone could enjoy this gold if they got out of the cave. But they don't.
That's why it's so good here.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Friday, December 22, 2006
The Hardest Hue To Hold
Hot springs bubble and spit, retribution brought forth from the slate and shale below, opening valves to The Core. No, really, all you have to do is go rent a spade and be under 80, and you too can dig down and unearth the magma leftovers. "Naturally Heated" it's called, as if there's any other way. Cold and hot, shadow and solar, it's all swirling around you in a dense fog of Nature, connecting you to it until there is no more separation - til it runs together like water and ice.
Green trims everything here, you can't hide from it - not that you'd want to - and it's only a shade away from gold. In fact, the closer we get the more it washes away the rest, the more that it burns into the retina, blocking the sharp colors and blurring the outlines. Sunlight simply shifts the balance, not the color scheme. The grey only turns the light around, radiating now from some internal place, no longer thrown and reflecting from the Heavens.
You'll have to excuse me. I've been here two months and have walked in oceans that have lured me in to the agua azul, as they say.
I'd like to stay there awhile. At least until human voices wake me, and I drown.
A walk into this heavy chop will more than likely bottom you out and double you back, but not before you might actually feel something, might actually see instead of just watch. You can push it to the maximum in whatever way you choose, but this plan forces it upon you. Tumbling in over your head, surf pounding away - temperature becomes relative and the Thoughts recede.
Sometimes the moods are just too much though, not enough sand in the world to absorb it all, you've got to send the rest back to the sea. The mood is human, it only gets in the way of what this is really about. Gold filtering through the horizon like a blanket - flecks of it looking like rain, like you might wear it if not for the wind. My humanity makes me reconsider all this, the senses lighting up to and fro, but still passing through the old Grey Block, and for that I'm sorry. The stories aren't any kind of respite, any kind of substitute. You'd be better off experimenting with drugs. In the absence of shadow, you might as well seek the dark.
Reflections all around, sun bouncing off the sea, ricocheting off the sky vapor, through the lens, upside down, played back like an instant film, reversed and thrown into the brain cavity, then reflected back through these fingers and past the last outpost, into the digital realm to be forever floating, never tied down. Sometimes it's like a pinball, so fast you can barely see it, all bells and buzzers going akimbo with bonuses, no rationality to it. It's when that path narrows out, when the stimulant straightens and quits bouncing off the goddamned obstacles, when it's straight from the money to the money, no man in the middle - that's the magic time. When the experience stands on its own merit, no interpretation, no bonuses, no humanity.
The earth can open up and offer a volley of ash and violence that could tear it apart at any time. That's why we have to hold that hue.
The gold that rains, it will rain forever, and the reflections will never slow down. Nothing in the way, nothing to stop them, no filters.
Even as the clouds fade to grey, people 500 miles west of here are watching the show, in awe, isolated in their own wicked human space.
It will happen again for me tomorrow. I can wait.
Green trims everything here, you can't hide from it - not that you'd want to - and it's only a shade away from gold. In fact, the closer we get the more it washes away the rest, the more that it burns into the retina, blocking the sharp colors and blurring the outlines. Sunlight simply shifts the balance, not the color scheme. The grey only turns the light around, radiating now from some internal place, no longer thrown and reflecting from the Heavens.
You'll have to excuse me. I've been here two months and have walked in oceans that have lured me in to the agua azul, as they say.
I'd like to stay there awhile. At least until human voices wake me, and I drown.
A walk into this heavy chop will more than likely bottom you out and double you back, but not before you might actually feel something, might actually see instead of just watch. You can push it to the maximum in whatever way you choose, but this plan forces it upon you. Tumbling in over your head, surf pounding away - temperature becomes relative and the Thoughts recede.
Sometimes the moods are just too much though, not enough sand in the world to absorb it all, you've got to send the rest back to the sea. The mood is human, it only gets in the way of what this is really about. Gold filtering through the horizon like a blanket - flecks of it looking like rain, like you might wear it if not for the wind. My humanity makes me reconsider all this, the senses lighting up to and fro, but still passing through the old Grey Block, and for that I'm sorry. The stories aren't any kind of respite, any kind of substitute. You'd be better off experimenting with drugs. In the absence of shadow, you might as well seek the dark.
Reflections all around, sun bouncing off the sea, ricocheting off the sky vapor, through the lens, upside down, played back like an instant film, reversed and thrown into the brain cavity, then reflected back through these fingers and past the last outpost, into the digital realm to be forever floating, never tied down. Sometimes it's like a pinball, so fast you can barely see it, all bells and buzzers going akimbo with bonuses, no rationality to it. It's when that path narrows out, when the stimulant straightens and quits bouncing off the goddamned obstacles, when it's straight from the money to the money, no man in the middle - that's the magic time. When the experience stands on its own merit, no interpretation, no bonuses, no humanity.
The earth can open up and offer a volley of ash and violence that could tear it apart at any time. That's why we have to hold that hue.
The gold that rains, it will rain forever, and the reflections will never slow down. Nothing in the way, nothing to stop them, no filters.
Even as the clouds fade to grey, people 500 miles west of here are watching the show, in awe, isolated in their own wicked human space.
It will happen again for me tomorrow. I can wait.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Hang On To Your Ego
If you could, you would want to condense it all down, mash it together and release the awesome power of the Experience, devour it in one sitting. You'd probably like to relive the whole thing in one day, one hour, one minute if you could. If you had to have it, if it filled you up like some chemical, and seeing it was the only True Release you'd experienced in years, then you'd do whatever you could to personalize it, to capture it and lock it away, to take mental stock of the images and sounds, make it easy for replay later.
You'd want to, but it's impossible.
The Wanderers, they are out here on a whim, some accidental shove by society and they land all around the globe - tramping without so much as a windsock. The Believers, they look for it - specific, everlasting glory. They exercise faith in the Beauty, truths lying below layers of shells and obsidian sand. Their purpose is The Purpose.
I'm not either of those. Call me an Amnesiac.
They used to say that we're immortal beings, that one life just starts up when the last one runs out, and that the process of birth is so painful and terrible that it wipes our memory. Therefore, we have no recollection of any of the past things we've seen or done, even though we've been alive since the dawn of time. Pure mathematics and Common Reasoning has dashed this idea against the rocks, but it lives and breathes, if you give it room.
But maybe I'm too dumb for that. Maybe, if it's there, then I'm tapped into it because I'm lacking the motor-neuron development to push it aside. And hell, while we're at it, the Natives have some damn good ideas about the symbolism and function of the Sun, Moon, Stars and Earth. Much better than those fucks who bet against the stocks I own. Off the path I go, pull it back. It's too easy, too ignorant to push knowledge away, to say that a culture spent their entire existence believing and practicing something, but somehow we know better, so there you go, fuck off and we'll catch you on the dark side.
I'm tapped into it because I think I forget this shit too easily, and I need to record every moment, to somehow make it relevant in the future, as well as the here and now. It's not just images, it's the whole scene, the whole feel. The worst thing I can do is go back and work some dogshit job, clutching my fleeting memories of the Waves and the Gold Hue. But it's even worse to struggle to maintain it, only to lose it in the flush of Human Drama that exists throughout the entire American landscape. Goddamn it, there's not enough time for HALF of this shit, so why all the talk?
If we're going to do it, then let's walk right into the fucking surf, meet the monster on its territory and fuck telling the story. If I'm having a problem remembering the specifics of the bluish-green sway of the inlet, then I'm going to have to just go the fuck to another place, a better one, and define my life that way. It can never go away if it can't hide. And if I have to flush it out by ratcheting up the meter to Full Go, then so be it, I'll be that.
There's enough people in this world who are content to see what movie is TV tonight and live the Fake Life, through other people who may or may not even be real.
How do you prepare a face to meet the other faces that you meet? What if we can't connect, what if the sensors aren't lining up? What if this is the true drug, the opiate not of the masses but of the One? The one thing that causes all light and shadow to meld, the Brain Breaker, the breezes carrying ominous warnings of slipping thoughts and dying melodies?
It's not changing, because that would be to isolate it and make it separate from the rest of the world, which doesn't ever stop changing. But it's growing. The push and the pull, the sea singing back and forth, eternity staring right into your face - you with your petty concepts of time and space - this spiritual enigma is growing and exposing more and more.
I'm not a Convert yet, but only because I might be too stupid for it just now. But I'm on the list, and they'll be visiting my house more often in the future.
You'd want to, but it's impossible.
The Wanderers, they are out here on a whim, some accidental shove by society and they land all around the globe - tramping without so much as a windsock. The Believers, they look for it - specific, everlasting glory. They exercise faith in the Beauty, truths lying below layers of shells and obsidian sand. Their purpose is The Purpose.
I'm not either of those. Call me an Amnesiac.
They used to say that we're immortal beings, that one life just starts up when the last one runs out, and that the process of birth is so painful and terrible that it wipes our memory. Therefore, we have no recollection of any of the past things we've seen or done, even though we've been alive since the dawn of time. Pure mathematics and Common Reasoning has dashed this idea against the rocks, but it lives and breathes, if you give it room.
But maybe I'm too dumb for that. Maybe, if it's there, then I'm tapped into it because I'm lacking the motor-neuron development to push it aside. And hell, while we're at it, the Natives have some damn good ideas about the symbolism and function of the Sun, Moon, Stars and Earth. Much better than those fucks who bet against the stocks I own. Off the path I go, pull it back. It's too easy, too ignorant to push knowledge away, to say that a culture spent their entire existence believing and practicing something, but somehow we know better, so there you go, fuck off and we'll catch you on the dark side.
I'm tapped into it because I think I forget this shit too easily, and I need to record every moment, to somehow make it relevant in the future, as well as the here and now. It's not just images, it's the whole scene, the whole feel. The worst thing I can do is go back and work some dogshit job, clutching my fleeting memories of the Waves and the Gold Hue. But it's even worse to struggle to maintain it, only to lose it in the flush of Human Drama that exists throughout the entire American landscape. Goddamn it, there's not enough time for HALF of this shit, so why all the talk?
If we're going to do it, then let's walk right into the fucking surf, meet the monster on its territory and fuck telling the story. If I'm having a problem remembering the specifics of the bluish-green sway of the inlet, then I'm going to have to just go the fuck to another place, a better one, and define my life that way. It can never go away if it can't hide. And if I have to flush it out by ratcheting up the meter to Full Go, then so be it, I'll be that.
There's enough people in this world who are content to see what movie is TV tonight and live the Fake Life, through other people who may or may not even be real.
How do you prepare a face to meet the other faces that you meet? What if we can't connect, what if the sensors aren't lining up? What if this is the true drug, the opiate not of the masses but of the One? The one thing that causes all light and shadow to meld, the Brain Breaker, the breezes carrying ominous warnings of slipping thoughts and dying melodies?
It's not changing, because that would be to isolate it and make it separate from the rest of the world, which doesn't ever stop changing. But it's growing. The push and the pull, the sea singing back and forth, eternity staring right into your face - you with your petty concepts of time and space - this spiritual enigma is growing and exposing more and more.
I'm not a Convert yet, but only because I might be too stupid for it just now. But I'm on the list, and they'll be visiting my house more often in the future.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
When's The Last Time You Heard A Funky Diabetic?
The blue Pacific and the green Tasman come together here, violently butting up against each other forever, struggling not against each other but against Order. Eventually, their battle will shift, but not because one of them wins. The Natural Order will bring an end to their fight, long after humans are gone from here.
You know how we do it for the World Cup, meeting in pubs to watch our boys at 8 in the fuck morning? Yeah, it's like that for the All Blacks' EXHIBITION GAMES.
The Country With A Thin Soul, that's what you could call this place. Morals and Ideals are awash in a frothing sea of easy living and controlled drug use. I suppose there must be someone, somewhere on this island concerning themselves with the Proper Life, but I'm not exactly sure where they live. Perhaps south. As Dave told us, don't go east. And if you do, make sure you have a gun. Forget all that though, tell the story. Ah yes, this society, their lives defined by recreation, nobody having any substantial amount of money, yet bathroom attendants willing to plunk down 150 dollars to jump out of a German plane sold at cutrate discount at a WWII auction over farmland with a chute that may or may not go when it counts. Hell, why not? You're going to get your fix, you better ratchet it up and tuck your nuts in.
The national fear seems to be running out of things to push experience to the max. Self-medicating by way of the life-death continuum. The natural crossover being the ultimate rush, the goal. They're not crashing planes into towers, but only because someone else needs to use the plane when they're done.
I'm an outsider here, but I was an outsider at home, so the only difference is the color of the currency. They're as welcoming as they can be, as usually I'm just standing between them and their own sensory addiction. Yesterday I had a thermal mineral bath from a hole in the ground run by a group of Koreans who spoke absolutely no english. Hand signs only, please. I felt better there than I did at Subway. It's hard to fuck up hand signs, but when someone fakes their way through english, you end up with turkey. And you don't want turkey.
You look into that ocean, that nothingness, and there's nothing to look back, so there must be no one watching it, and everything must be nothing. But you know that there is something, someone has to be observing it, something has to draw you here and keep your gaze. Nothing has a hard time conversing with you. Nothing cannot speak. So why when we throw a rock into nothing, does it not hurt nothing? No, something's there. It's just too goddamned massive to contemplate. Our language can't describe it. So whether we're here for that or not, it doesn't matter. There's nothing to figure out. Again, we're back at the experience, the rush, the neurons going all cock hammer and jibber jabber. Ah, never mind all that. It's just local talk.
So the fight wages on, the same gas that brought this magma to the top heats the water I sit in. And god damn, that's the ticket right there. No kids allowed in this pool, and the no smoking sign has been turned off. Walk along the path, turn the corner, we're going somewhere.
Off the cliff, the razor's edge, the mortal coil. Slough it off.
You know how we do it for the World Cup, meeting in pubs to watch our boys at 8 in the fuck morning? Yeah, it's like that for the All Blacks' EXHIBITION GAMES.
The Country With A Thin Soul, that's what you could call this place. Morals and Ideals are awash in a frothing sea of easy living and controlled drug use. I suppose there must be someone, somewhere on this island concerning themselves with the Proper Life, but I'm not exactly sure where they live. Perhaps south. As Dave told us, don't go east. And if you do, make sure you have a gun. Forget all that though, tell the story. Ah yes, this society, their lives defined by recreation, nobody having any substantial amount of money, yet bathroom attendants willing to plunk down 150 dollars to jump out of a German plane sold at cutrate discount at a WWII auction over farmland with a chute that may or may not go when it counts. Hell, why not? You're going to get your fix, you better ratchet it up and tuck your nuts in.
The national fear seems to be running out of things to push experience to the max. Self-medicating by way of the life-death continuum. The natural crossover being the ultimate rush, the goal. They're not crashing planes into towers, but only because someone else needs to use the plane when they're done.
I'm an outsider here, but I was an outsider at home, so the only difference is the color of the currency. They're as welcoming as they can be, as usually I'm just standing between them and their own sensory addiction. Yesterday I had a thermal mineral bath from a hole in the ground run by a group of Koreans who spoke absolutely no english. Hand signs only, please. I felt better there than I did at Subway. It's hard to fuck up hand signs, but when someone fakes their way through english, you end up with turkey. And you don't want turkey.
You look into that ocean, that nothingness, and there's nothing to look back, so there must be no one watching it, and everything must be nothing. But you know that there is something, someone has to be observing it, something has to draw you here and keep your gaze. Nothing has a hard time conversing with you. Nothing cannot speak. So why when we throw a rock into nothing, does it not hurt nothing? No, something's there. It's just too goddamned massive to contemplate. Our language can't describe it. So whether we're here for that or not, it doesn't matter. There's nothing to figure out. Again, we're back at the experience, the rush, the neurons going all cock hammer and jibber jabber. Ah, never mind all that. It's just local talk.
So the fight wages on, the same gas that brought this magma to the top heats the water I sit in. And god damn, that's the ticket right there. No kids allowed in this pool, and the no smoking sign has been turned off. Walk along the path, turn the corner, we're going somewhere.
Off the cliff, the razor's edge, the mortal coil. Slough it off.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
You Don't Understand My Plight
All an actor has is his instincts. If you know anything about me you know I'm not an actor, which makes my own personal instincts a whole other matter.
"Are you an actor?"
As I said, no, but I had to answer this question for a second time at a local "Irish" bar. Times is rough and I sat, solo (my attorney was in jail, located in a town I couldn't even spell, never mind pronounce. His communiqué didn't shed light on anything other than a mule was involved: the animal kind). So this is what I've become? Slingin' back Malibu while NOT in Malibu, looking for good times?
Well, the first two hours had yielded nothing despite a crowd which all seemed to already know each other. I wasn't sure if I was stepping in to some other realm, that the reason I was ignored (save from the bartender) was that I didn't belong. And I was about to leave (as I finished some Jim Beam...remorse was setting in) as I was somehow dragged into a conversation about how getting married wasn't for them. At least, these two girls and one guy. This man claimed to have been a farmer for 10 years before coming to LA. He said it with pride, but later drunk ramblings lead him to admit he collected chicken eggs. Hmmm, not one in the same. Such admissions of truth lead these two ladies to me (they both had 10 years on me, supposedly). Despite having their guard up (insert NBA analogy) almost so high I could barely get to know them, the convo flowed. Nice folks, just drinkin, shootin the shit, talking LA. This is what I was after. And naturally, it came as quittin' time arrived. As we left out the back door, I heard surprising news as to why it was so hard to open.
"Yeah, it's locked. A lot of crime around here."
Uh...
There's no way around this god damned climb. We're talking upward skiing, no poles, nothing but grit. And these are the options. I've got a long way to go. But there are alternatives. And no, I won't use any. You don't like the James Beam, brown shades, or these pants...you might as well move on.
"Are you an actor?"
As I said, no, but I had to answer this question for a second time at a local "Irish" bar. Times is rough and I sat, solo (my attorney was in jail, located in a town I couldn't even spell, never mind pronounce. His communiqué didn't shed light on anything other than a mule was involved: the animal kind). So this is what I've become? Slingin' back Malibu while NOT in Malibu, looking for good times?
Well, the first two hours had yielded nothing despite a crowd which all seemed to already know each other. I wasn't sure if I was stepping in to some other realm, that the reason I was ignored (save from the bartender) was that I didn't belong. And I was about to leave (as I finished some Jim Beam...remorse was setting in) as I was somehow dragged into a conversation about how getting married wasn't for them. At least, these two girls and one guy. This man claimed to have been a farmer for 10 years before coming to LA. He said it with pride, but later drunk ramblings lead him to admit he collected chicken eggs. Hmmm, not one in the same. Such admissions of truth lead these two ladies to me (they both had 10 years on me, supposedly). Despite having their guard up (insert NBA analogy) almost so high I could barely get to know them, the convo flowed. Nice folks, just drinkin, shootin the shit, talking LA. This is what I was after. And naturally, it came as quittin' time arrived. As we left out the back door, I heard surprising news as to why it was so hard to open.
"Yeah, it's locked. A lot of crime around here."
Uh...
There's no way around this god damned climb. We're talking upward skiing, no poles, nothing but grit. And these are the options. I've got a long way to go. But there are alternatives. And no, I won't use any. You don't like the James Beam, brown shades, or these pants...you might as well move on.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
"Cheese cup please."
“That’s it?”
Yup.
I don’t ask for a lot, I never really have. Throughout the past week or so I’ve been watching the Tigers tease the Twins with the AL Central crown. The Twins would lose and the Minnesota faithful would lose faith, but then the Tigers would cough up a game to the Royals. For four days I watched this, each day resigning myself to the AL Wildcard with a sort of satisfied dissatisfaction. I didn’t totally crush out my hopes for a divisional title like I do my Pall Mall butts, but I figured I should stop smoking once I hit the filter otherwise I might burn my fingers. I attended two games during this nerve racking week, both of which resulted in Twins loses. I felt bad when I left the baggy-like confines of the Dome, somehow it was my fault that they couldn’t grab the division with the Tigers stumbling down the stretch.
One of these games was the opening game to the series against the White Sox on the final weekend of the regular season. They got down early, and stayed down for most of the game, so my mood was slipping from hopeful to demoralized when a man sits down next to me. The powder blue Twins jersey should’ve sold me on this man, but it wasn’t until I noticed what he was holding that I realized what had just stumbled upon me.
“Holy fuck, man! What the hell is THAT!?”
He looks at me like I’m from Mars and simply states, “well, this here is a Chicago dog son. Add cheese sauce.”
Add. Cheese. Sauce.
It was like magical words to my ears. I mean, I’d heard of a Chicago dog, stuffed a few into my face on more than one occasion as a matter of fact, but add cheese sauce!? At that point I lost total interest in the game, I was focused on the man eating the Magical Glory Cheese Dog next to me. I was having a hard time fathoming its existence.
Well, I wasn’t the only one who noticed it. A couple of older gentlemen in front of us started babbling incoherently, then kept trying to get my hotdog-holstered friend into a conversation. He wasn’t biting, at least at their attempts at talking. His mouth was busy with other things.
After a few meetings with the local beer man, and a couple more innings of less-than-encouraging baseball, my processed-meat eating neighbor made a comment. “Bhlhat Phbil blebin ish proddy fet.” I could do nothing but agree with him as I was mid guzzle on my Budweiser. The older gentlemen sitting below me made a few golf jokes about some of the swings the Twins were taking, to which I had to role my eyes. When I did, I caught another glimpse of greatness in the act.
The man had gotten half way through his Meal for Kings, and still looked fairly lucid. He looked like he might be struggling a little bit, but not too badly. When I asked him how the cheese sauce was, he looked at me, grinned his big grin, nodded in approval, and got back to work. I’ll take that as a big time yes. Big time.
Mid way through the 5th inning I get a little hungry, so I grab myself a bag of peanuts to go along with that half inning’s beer.
“Hey, cunnah ghat schaum pen ahts?”
“What?”
He swallows the bite, takes a couple pulls of his MGD and starts again.
“Can I get some peanuts, y’know, for the dog.”
In awe, I can do nothing but give the man my bag of peanuts.
“Thanks man.”
No problem sir, I can’t even begin to fathom what’s going to happen next, so I turn back to the game. It’s not looking good, but that’s okay, we still have tomorrow night. I’ll be sad to lose, but that’s okay.
Then I get the tap on the shoulder
“You want a bite? I mean, you gave me the peanuts, so it’s the least I can do. I mean, they ain’t as good as the roasted almonds, but they add some crunch anyways.”
Speechless, I stare at this man with blank eyes, mouth ajar, unable to wrap my brain around what he just said. Not as good as the roasted almonds!? He gives me a moment to answer, shrugs his shoulders, and has himself some more dog - with a little crunch this time.
Phil Nevin strikes out badly to end the game and my boys go home losers, but the man sitting next to me did not. He won.
Big time.
Yup.
I don’t ask for a lot, I never really have. Throughout the past week or so I’ve been watching the Tigers tease the Twins with the AL Central crown. The Twins would lose and the Minnesota faithful would lose faith, but then the Tigers would cough up a game to the Royals. For four days I watched this, each day resigning myself to the AL Wildcard with a sort of satisfied dissatisfaction. I didn’t totally crush out my hopes for a divisional title like I do my Pall Mall butts, but I figured I should stop smoking once I hit the filter otherwise I might burn my fingers. I attended two games during this nerve racking week, both of which resulted in Twins loses. I felt bad when I left the baggy-like confines of the Dome, somehow it was my fault that they couldn’t grab the division with the Tigers stumbling down the stretch.
One of these games was the opening game to the series against the White Sox on the final weekend of the regular season. They got down early, and stayed down for most of the game, so my mood was slipping from hopeful to demoralized when a man sits down next to me. The powder blue Twins jersey should’ve sold me on this man, but it wasn’t until I noticed what he was holding that I realized what had just stumbled upon me.
“Holy fuck, man! What the hell is THAT!?”
He looks at me like I’m from Mars and simply states, “well, this here is a Chicago dog son. Add cheese sauce.”
Add. Cheese. Sauce.
It was like magical words to my ears. I mean, I’d heard of a Chicago dog, stuffed a few into my face on more than one occasion as a matter of fact, but add cheese sauce!? At that point I lost total interest in the game, I was focused on the man eating the Magical Glory Cheese Dog next to me. I was having a hard time fathoming its existence.
Well, I wasn’t the only one who noticed it. A couple of older gentlemen in front of us started babbling incoherently, then kept trying to get my hotdog-holstered friend into a conversation. He wasn’t biting, at least at their attempts at talking. His mouth was busy with other things.
After a few meetings with the local beer man, and a couple more innings of less-than-encouraging baseball, my processed-meat eating neighbor made a comment. “Bhlhat Phbil blebin ish proddy fet.” I could do nothing but agree with him as I was mid guzzle on my Budweiser. The older gentlemen sitting below me made a few golf jokes about some of the swings the Twins were taking, to which I had to role my eyes. When I did, I caught another glimpse of greatness in the act.
The man had gotten half way through his Meal for Kings, and still looked fairly lucid. He looked like he might be struggling a little bit, but not too badly. When I asked him how the cheese sauce was, he looked at me, grinned his big grin, nodded in approval, and got back to work. I’ll take that as a big time yes. Big time.
Mid way through the 5th inning I get a little hungry, so I grab myself a bag of peanuts to go along with that half inning’s beer.
“Hey, cunnah ghat schaum pen ahts?”
“What?”
He swallows the bite, takes a couple pulls of his MGD and starts again.
“Can I get some peanuts, y’know, for the dog.”
In awe, I can do nothing but give the man my bag of peanuts.
“Thanks man.”
No problem sir, I can’t even begin to fathom what’s going to happen next, so I turn back to the game. It’s not looking good, but that’s okay, we still have tomorrow night. I’ll be sad to lose, but that’s okay.
Then I get the tap on the shoulder
“You want a bite? I mean, you gave me the peanuts, so it’s the least I can do. I mean, they ain’t as good as the roasted almonds, but they add some crunch anyways.”
Speechless, I stare at this man with blank eyes, mouth ajar, unable to wrap my brain around what he just said. Not as good as the roasted almonds!? He gives me a moment to answer, shrugs his shoulders, and has himself some more dog - with a little crunch this time.
Phil Nevin strikes out badly to end the game and my boys go home losers, but the man sitting next to me did not. He won.
Big time.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Golden Slumbers fill your eyes
How long is today going to take? I know how much time this is going to take, but is this going to be one of those things where an hour goes by and you don't even notice? I remember being in truly boring classes in high school and watching the clock go s l o w l y by, and thinking to myself "shit, when Rockford is on, it goes way to fast." We all wish life was all about watching Rockford. Actually, it is for some folks who's reason for waking up is getting the paper.
So, then, Twins.
Again, I can't stress this enough - winning the division is absolutely key. Another 4 and done series with New York isn't the kind of deal they need. Oh sure, it could be done, but isn't it easier when you get to play the Oaklands of the world and take a rest? One thing Loud Mouth McWriter won't mention is how depressed the Tigers are. They play and live in Detroit. So, once things go south, and it happens, it will drag you down. Of course, the Twins know the majority of their fans are just now dusting off that cap, realizing their new Twins shirt will have to be XXL, replacing the last one bough in 2002. But it could be worse. Actually, in some respects it might actually be even. OK, forget I even mentioned it.
So, then, Balance Bar
If I need to shit right away, I'd eat cold nachos for breakfast. Wash it down with room temp Hamms. I thought you were about nutrition and vitamins and whatever. Hell, if you're barely going to stay in my body at all, what is the point? Then again, yesterday's exercise consisted of a walk around the lot and parallel parking my car, so what do I know?
So, then, Cubs
Wow. OK, in three years you've become the worst team in the league. Took longer than I thought. With minimal optimism, I suggest a new manager. I suggest new starting pitchers. I suggest new people in the front office. Hmmm, this should only take 12 years.
The summary of everything you read is actually "bite the bullet." If the really hot girl just wants to ask you questions about TV for two hours, just go with it. You'll "get to know her" later. If the guy at Carl's Jr. forgets to give you the correct order of fries, ask for a refund instead. If your landlord is channeling your father, just drop off the check and run like you just robbed a typewriter store. If a guy with a mullet is actually playing the "Eliminator" at the bowling alley, laugh once you're outside. You heard him say "Dude, what the fuck?" to a mechanical arm.
Why? Because tomorrow, college football. Because Sunday, more parlay money comes in. Because there's actually a bar called the "Fox Fire Room" and you will go to it.
Shit, only 19 minutes later?
So, then, Twins.
Again, I can't stress this enough - winning the division is absolutely key. Another 4 and done series with New York isn't the kind of deal they need. Oh sure, it could be done, but isn't it easier when you get to play the Oaklands of the world and take a rest? One thing Loud Mouth McWriter won't mention is how depressed the Tigers are. They play and live in Detroit. So, once things go south, and it happens, it will drag you down. Of course, the Twins know the majority of their fans are just now dusting off that cap, realizing their new Twins shirt will have to be XXL, replacing the last one bough in 2002. But it could be worse. Actually, in some respects it might actually be even. OK, forget I even mentioned it.
So, then, Balance Bar
If I need to shit right away, I'd eat cold nachos for breakfast. Wash it down with room temp Hamms. I thought you were about nutrition and vitamins and whatever. Hell, if you're barely going to stay in my body at all, what is the point? Then again, yesterday's exercise consisted of a walk around the lot and parallel parking my car, so what do I know?
So, then, Cubs
Wow. OK, in three years you've become the worst team in the league. Took longer than I thought. With minimal optimism, I suggest a new manager. I suggest new starting pitchers. I suggest new people in the front office. Hmmm, this should only take 12 years.
The summary of everything you read is actually "bite the bullet." If the really hot girl just wants to ask you questions about TV for two hours, just go with it. You'll "get to know her" later. If the guy at Carl's Jr. forgets to give you the correct order of fries, ask for a refund instead. If your landlord is channeling your father, just drop off the check and run like you just robbed a typewriter store. If a guy with a mullet is actually playing the "Eliminator" at the bowling alley, laugh once you're outside. You heard him say "Dude, what the fuck?" to a mechanical arm.
Why? Because tomorrow, college football. Because Sunday, more parlay money comes in. Because there's actually a bar called the "Fox Fire Room" and you will go to it.
Shit, only 19 minutes later?
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
I'll Be Lonesome When I'm Gone
Play it on to the dawn.
The weasels are backing down. In the face of the Fear, they cower. All comers have been served. The melting vortex has consumed all but the Strong. And the Strong live here, in the blue.
God, Nick Punto might be the dumbest person I've ever seen.
They have absolutely no reason to be here. None at all. That sounds cliche, and boring, but I'm telling you, if you haven't seen them play this year, you've missed some low talent ballplayers. Besides The Baby Jesus and The Terror From Tovar Merida, there are few players on this team who have any discernable "skills". None of them are talented in any sort of metric, any sort of definition, by scout or stat. I think many of their games have simply boiled down to the opposition staring in disbelief as tiny children careen around the basepaths like kids with pockets full of quarters at the Chuck E Cheese.
They'll suck you in, this bunch, they'll give you something to watch, that's for sure. When God decided he needed someone to run down balls in centerfield earlier this year, Captain Ahab announced they were going to play every day like number 34, and that we wouldn't ever be wanting for more effort. But, christ in heaven, did he know what he was saying? Is it possible for a team to possibly play this reckless, this unhinged, and still maintain any semblence of sanity for a fanbase? I mean, 3 years ago we thought guys like Jones and Koskie didn't give a fuck about jail. Yeah, well, LIRIANO SPENT A NIGHT THERE IN SPRING TRAINING.
The Twins would be served just as well to stop playing right now and let us off the hook. We can't take this abuse, this violent shifting of emotions, much longer. We've invested too much, we watch the charts climb with organized nausea. But coming over the top of it, blanketing us, comforting the soul, is that ever present feeling of righteousness. Is this what Pious Pat thinks when he steps up on the stage of the 700 club? Bulletproof? The rest of the game seems to be happening beyond our fingertips, behind our Brainly 8 Ball. We float, as one, unflappable, eyes ever onward, smiling.
It's their fault. They put us here. We tried like hell to bail on this team, get back to work (for some of us, that meant back to "eating"), enjoy life and articulate. But that's gone now. We can only stare, glowing, into the magic that is happening on Puckett Place. And when the rest of the world asks us why we have that dumb look on our face, well, you'll have to excuse us.
We've been watching Punto all year.
We're starting to merge.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Torii's Nuts
are bigger than yours.
What? It's true.
(I'm incredibly sorry. I have nowhere to write about baseball, and... umm, the A's are good and stuff, right?)
The sloths are out in full force. They scour websites and hunt statistics, they do it all from their bedrooms, greedily devouring information and Kit Kats, in what they think is a noble quest for Ultimate Knowledge.
Many of them were left off the team in tee-ball because mom couldn't keep the Mars Bars in the purse.
I'm talking about these rogue writers, these bloggers of the current age. They give us a level of coverage that the lumbering beasts of mass media could never hope to accomplish. They provide so much insight, so much analysis of game events, and free! Oh, happy day! Little to no pressure, evidence-stacked posts, discussions that delve into every debatable point in the entire sport. Shit, some of them rock photoshop and put smiles on faces.
But eventually, bullies clean up the mess these geeks get themselves into.
It happens every so often, these sniveling grinches in the dark of their caverns, the faceless masses of human cast-offs, they go too far. They debate too much. They use too many statistics. Yes, that's right. There IS such a thing as too many statistics. There IS such a thing as subjective reasoning. And managers know more than you. They just do. They have played baseball for their entire lives, they know every single thing about the game. They are paid to fucking run the game, not comment about it. Managers in baseball are the smartest baseball people in the world. Writers are not smarter. Bloggers are not smarter. GMs are not smarter.
Oh, but don't we think that we could do better? Sure, well, that's natural. Let it flow. But if you dumb down this sport, if you make the entirety of your pursuit that unattainable goal that is the Ultimate Knowledge, you're not going to have any fucking fun. You and your online buddies can talk all you want about Torii's ankle, his situational hitting, his VORP, his Isolated Power, and all the rest. It won't matter. Because when he pulls his nuts out, two things happen. You were proved wrong, and the ball goes really far over the fence.
Doubt him. Yes. That's right. Woof any amount of bullshit you want. Throw the twisted numbers, claim to have "seen things". We've all done it. But my eyes, they lie. They lie and tell me that he's done, that the whole fucking team is done. They lie and tell me that everyone's tired, and it's just not going to happen.
But then that ball goes screaming over the fence.
The world of information is perfect, it is essential that it remain without fail. The only problem that ever occurs is human meddling. How can one possibly debate statistics? They exist as truths, how can you debate truths? Can one thing be true and untrue at the same time? No, but our little minds (made smaller by Li'l Debbie) bend and warp things to fit into our own agenda. The framework is there, we pass it through like a fucking credit card. So we can ALL go out on websites and read numbers and make the case for WHATEVER we want. That's not healthy. Debate in and of itself is not a good thing. The expansion of ideas, there's the money. Go after that. I appreciate what Bill James is doing, it is admirable simply because it is growing our knowledge system. It is adding another algorithm to play with, another corner of the grey exposed.
But you bloggers have all gone too far. You've done too much with not enough information. You've stopped going to games and drinking beers, you've stopped taking smoke breaks during the Twins' halves of innings during a Santana start (because, christ almighty, you know you want to be back to watch Him). You've told yourself that this is a legitimate way to watch sports, that your passive mentality in life can bear fruit in this pursuit of some sort of knowledge about baseball.
Ah hell, what the christ. It's probably my fault for paying so much attention to it. I just can't help the information I take in, it's like a spigot above my ears.
The nerds, they take over. They breed in themselves, molecules gaining speed and violence. The collisions create more, the laziness is viewed as a virtue.
I still raise a glass to this team and this town. They follow their boys, they care, and if I was comfortable doing this and only this with my time, that might be enough.
But goddamn it, when 48 is launching pigs into the September night, I could give a good goddamn if his range factor is lower since his injury.
What? It's true.
(I'm incredibly sorry. I have nowhere to write about baseball, and... umm, the A's are good and stuff, right?)
The sloths are out in full force. They scour websites and hunt statistics, they do it all from their bedrooms, greedily devouring information and Kit Kats, in what they think is a noble quest for Ultimate Knowledge.
Many of them were left off the team in tee-ball because mom couldn't keep the Mars Bars in the purse.
I'm talking about these rogue writers, these bloggers of the current age. They give us a level of coverage that the lumbering beasts of mass media could never hope to accomplish. They provide so much insight, so much analysis of game events, and free! Oh, happy day! Little to no pressure, evidence-stacked posts, discussions that delve into every debatable point in the entire sport. Shit, some of them rock photoshop and put smiles on faces.
But eventually, bullies clean up the mess these geeks get themselves into.
It happens every so often, these sniveling grinches in the dark of their caverns, the faceless masses of human cast-offs, they go too far. They debate too much. They use too many statistics. Yes, that's right. There IS such a thing as too many statistics. There IS such a thing as subjective reasoning. And managers know more than you. They just do. They have played baseball for their entire lives, they know every single thing about the game. They are paid to fucking run the game, not comment about it. Managers in baseball are the smartest baseball people in the world. Writers are not smarter. Bloggers are not smarter. GMs are not smarter.
Oh, but don't we think that we could do better? Sure, well, that's natural. Let it flow. But if you dumb down this sport, if you make the entirety of your pursuit that unattainable goal that is the Ultimate Knowledge, you're not going to have any fucking fun. You and your online buddies can talk all you want about Torii's ankle, his situational hitting, his VORP, his Isolated Power, and all the rest. It won't matter. Because when he pulls his nuts out, two things happen. You were proved wrong, and the ball goes really far over the fence.
Doubt him. Yes. That's right. Woof any amount of bullshit you want. Throw the twisted numbers, claim to have "seen things". We've all done it. But my eyes, they lie. They lie and tell me that he's done, that the whole fucking team is done. They lie and tell me that everyone's tired, and it's just not going to happen.
But then that ball goes screaming over the fence.
The world of information is perfect, it is essential that it remain without fail. The only problem that ever occurs is human meddling. How can one possibly debate statistics? They exist as truths, how can you debate truths? Can one thing be true and untrue at the same time? No, but our little minds (made smaller by Li'l Debbie) bend and warp things to fit into our own agenda. The framework is there, we pass it through like a fucking credit card. So we can ALL go out on websites and read numbers and make the case for WHATEVER we want. That's not healthy. Debate in and of itself is not a good thing. The expansion of ideas, there's the money. Go after that. I appreciate what Bill James is doing, it is admirable simply because it is growing our knowledge system. It is adding another algorithm to play with, another corner of the grey exposed.
But you bloggers have all gone too far. You've done too much with not enough information. You've stopped going to games and drinking beers, you've stopped taking smoke breaks during the Twins' halves of innings during a Santana start (because, christ almighty, you know you want to be back to watch Him). You've told yourself that this is a legitimate way to watch sports, that your passive mentality in life can bear fruit in this pursuit of some sort of knowledge about baseball.
Ah hell, what the christ. It's probably my fault for paying so much attention to it. I just can't help the information I take in, it's like a spigot above my ears.
The nerds, they take over. They breed in themselves, molecules gaining speed and violence. The collisions create more, the laziness is viewed as a virtue.
I still raise a glass to this team and this town. They follow their boys, they care, and if I was comfortable doing this and only this with my time, that might be enough.
But goddamn it, when 48 is launching pigs into the September night, I could give a good goddamn if his range factor is lower since his injury.
Friday, September 01, 2006
The loss of a friend
Often times when someone loses a family member, that is exactly as it is stated. When it's a friend, it's stated that way. That's not the case here. My brother Rik was a friend, a person who likely had more influence in my youth than anyone else, and someone who clearly made me the person I am. We're either related, or we were great friends from the start.
Why the two possibilities? Because he and I always like the same things. Same tastes in everything. Music, clothes, TV, anything. He'd introduce something to me, I'd like it. It was never otherwise. As a teen visiting for a while, or sometimes long enough to be enrolled at Jefferson, he easily could have been hanging out with neighborhood boozers, and he did. But not all the time. Before that would happen, we'd hang. At 4 years old, he would allow me to build a fort on his bed. At 10, he would tell me of late night thrills and what he told Maurie to get away with it. He'd watch reruns of the Gong Show with me even though he'd probably seen it before. At 15, he'd tell me of trying to make it in TV and video production, stunted by the "help" of dear old dad. He'd tell me of married life. At 20, he'd listen to my college problems, give me advice when I struggled creatively. At 25, he talked of his son. I told him how much it ruled to have a nephew named after Sid Vicious.
As I look back on it now, it's our similarities that will help me through the rest of our life. Each time I talked with him, I'd seem to get some sort of knowing reaction - he'd usually been through what I was going through, sometimes the exact same thing. And unlike people who just want to tell you what TO do, he'd say what he did, and leave it to me to figure out where to go from there. Our father has made all of the son's growing-up extremely difficult. I can only wish I was there for them in those "If you don't change your major to banking, I'm not paying for college" days. Being in California created distance, and I never pretended to be any closer than I was just because of the last name. But when I met Sid and we goofed around, with him singing Kiss songs (at age 5) while I played the drums, I had a brief flashback. It was me, at that age, point to a Led Zeppelin posted on the wall. "Who is that?" He'd tell me. "Can I put up a poster, too?" A small Superman poster went next to it, and he played more Zep for me.
It is impossible at this stage to try to step in, but all I really can do is be there for Sid V as he grows up as Rik was for me. It shouldn't be difficult. He's already a friend.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Brain Tornado
I'm taking too much in. I'm sitting at the table, and the greas'n sausage just keeps coming, I keep eating, too much, much too much. I'm not putting anything out, not contributing, feeding, but not reciprocating. Nothing happens, a standstill. I have ceased learning. Ceased the mind-growth. So we break it. We smash it and come up with something new.
The world spins on an ever-decaying cycle, and because of that, our human brains grow less and less agile, fertile, fluid. We settle. We establish our framework within to take knowledge, and then everything passes through this system; these doors only access a limited portion of the Human Database, and we only allow small amounts in. And then even when it's in, we process it in our own way, our simplified, lazy way. And it worsens over time. Every year we lose more and more of the ability to learn new methods, to discover opposing viewpoints, rationalize, re-think, re-focus. It's there, that ability, but it dies. That's why people become more stable, I suppose. That fire becomes a boring candle, that spark - a meaningless current. Those languages that we hear, we yearn not to learn them, only to put them down. That idea, that painting, more and more pieces fail to punch through our Brain Wall, the loop-ed dome protecting us from head-cram and Too Much Information.
We do this because we're lazy, and goddamnit, that's the way it has always been. Eventually, we figure out what we want to accomplish in Life, and we go about our plans and dreams and realities to make it to that point. The entire system is a lie, a big mystery, an unsolvable crime, and supposedly we were all present at the scene, with no alibi. What the christ can be accomplished if your goal is material in nature? The only good ideas are those that push, that innovate, that conquer and crush the malaise. We're not meant for the life we live. We're not meant to wear shoes everywhere, or eat food at specific times of the day. We're not meant to read stories we can never write, or watch television programs about situations we can never encounter. Ah, fuck, hell, that's just me up on the ol' box again. Pay it no mind. The slime will always take you down, you can try to fight against it, but it wins. Gravity gives it breath, makes it squirm. Decay is so fucking natural, even Nature decays.
So we battle against it, some sort of lost army amongst the sea of low expectations and wasteful rats. Debate can never rise - we're speaking different languages. The vast majority of us contents itself to those cute little human - excuse me, American - idiosyncrasies, those tiny little insignificant moments, interactions, knick-knacks, personality traits, likes and dislikes that all amount to absolutely zero. They toss these back and forth, bandying them about on the front pages of news network websites, because hey, THEY are now the audience. And us, the forgotten few, the ones who repel the laziness, we stand witness to it. They outbreed, they move in greater numbers. They behave like gas, trapped, violent, gaining energy.
And their sickening swirl creates gravity. And this gravity draws us all in. Until there is nothing, and it collapses on itself.
Jesus fucking Christ. Where did I learn that? 4th grade science class?
Or the Bible?
The world spins on an ever-decaying cycle, and because of that, our human brains grow less and less agile, fertile, fluid. We settle. We establish our framework within to take knowledge, and then everything passes through this system; these doors only access a limited portion of the Human Database, and we only allow small amounts in. And then even when it's in, we process it in our own way, our simplified, lazy way. And it worsens over time. Every year we lose more and more of the ability to learn new methods, to discover opposing viewpoints, rationalize, re-think, re-focus. It's there, that ability, but it dies. That's why people become more stable, I suppose. That fire becomes a boring candle, that spark - a meaningless current. Those languages that we hear, we yearn not to learn them, only to put them down. That idea, that painting, more and more pieces fail to punch through our Brain Wall, the loop-ed dome protecting us from head-cram and Too Much Information.
We do this because we're lazy, and goddamnit, that's the way it has always been. Eventually, we figure out what we want to accomplish in Life, and we go about our plans and dreams and realities to make it to that point. The entire system is a lie, a big mystery, an unsolvable crime, and supposedly we were all present at the scene, with no alibi. What the christ can be accomplished if your goal is material in nature? The only good ideas are those that push, that innovate, that conquer and crush the malaise. We're not meant for the life we live. We're not meant to wear shoes everywhere, or eat food at specific times of the day. We're not meant to read stories we can never write, or watch television programs about situations we can never encounter. Ah, fuck, hell, that's just me up on the ol' box again. Pay it no mind. The slime will always take you down, you can try to fight against it, but it wins. Gravity gives it breath, makes it squirm. Decay is so fucking natural, even Nature decays.
So we battle against it, some sort of lost army amongst the sea of low expectations and wasteful rats. Debate can never rise - we're speaking different languages. The vast majority of us contents itself to those cute little human - excuse me, American - idiosyncrasies, those tiny little insignificant moments, interactions, knick-knacks, personality traits, likes and dislikes that all amount to absolutely zero. They toss these back and forth, bandying them about on the front pages of news network websites, because hey, THEY are now the audience. And us, the forgotten few, the ones who repel the laziness, we stand witness to it. They outbreed, they move in greater numbers. They behave like gas, trapped, violent, gaining energy.
And their sickening swirl creates gravity. And this gravity draws us all in. Until there is nothing, and it collapses on itself.
Jesus fucking Christ. Where did I learn that? 4th grade science class?
Or the Bible?
Friday, August 18, 2006
We've Finally Reached The Summit
Sometimes shit pops off. Sometimes we get into things we should be in. Sometimes some things cannot be avoided, no matter what advice I’ve been given by my lawyer. And sometimes we aim for the stars and shoot the shit out of everything just because we God-damned well can!This was one of those times. We never meant to let it get out of control but, with the way it started, I can’t believe we didn’t see it coming. First, we need to back up a little bit here.
Saturday 9 A.M.
I get a call from my lawyer and he’s quite upset. Something about getting thrown out of Mayslack’s for starting a fight with a glass of whiskey and a midget hooker – I didn’t ask any questions, as I was already eight fingers into a whiskey skank of my own. “Johnny, Johnny, calm down, what do you need?” His old lady is in the bar and needs to be exited before she “gets into some serious God-damned shit.” “What the Sam Fuck Hell do you need me for!?” He tells me he’s in the back of a car – cab, cop, or otherwise – and he’s making his way back to The Palace, but he’s being followed, and she can’t be caught. “By who?” He doesn’t know, but he makes it very clear to me that they mean fucking business and he needs some help. Fine, I say, I’ll head over there in a bit. After I get done fingering this eight-ball of Jameson. “Make it fucking quick,” he tells me, “and get The Chief on your way.” Oh fuck, now this really must be some serious shit. I chased down some uppers with the rest of my glass, and flashed out the door. I hope The Chief has some hash.
Saturday 9:30 A.M.
“Which one of you prostitutes stole my fucking car!?”
Jesus Christ.The problem with going on dates with six and seven fingers of whiskey is that you have a tendency to lose track of where you put shit. My car being one of those things. Then again, when you’ve gone out and repainted it and left it crashed into the tree in your front fucking yard, it’s bound to take awhile to pull that memory out of your drowning brain.
Fuck, finally. Off to see The Chief
Saturday 11:30 A.M.
After stopping to grab a carton of smokes, I’m on the road again. Hey, it’s gonna be a long fucking ride. I called The Chief on the way and he was as dumbfounded as I was, “The fuck you use that shit-head lawyer for anyways?” I reminded him that, while a good question, he’s gotten me out of more jams that I care to remember and frankly, I owe the man. On the way back over to Mayslack’s, God damn I could use some wings, sitting at a stoplight, Biggy lights up the airwaves. The Chief and I are swayin’ it gangster-style when he reminds me that he’s not on the radio, “unless this is an Elton John remix of Big Poppa and Rocket Man.” Fuck, he’s right, it’s my God damn phone. It’s Johnny again, he’s clear of the fucking swine and has gotten himself in some deeper shit. “I need to meet you. Somewhere safe.” I ask him about his old lady. “Fuck that bag, we’ve got bigger fish to fry. Where the fuck are you?” We’re in Northeast, headed to where he said we should go, where the fuck else would we be? “Get the fuck to St. Paul, on the fucking double. Go where God makes piss.” What the fuck? What’s he talking about. “You God-damned idiot, Gods piss. God’s. Fucking. Piss!”
It clicks, we’re gone.
Saturday Afternoon-ish?
Consciously, I didn’t really know where we were going, but my mind figured out where we needed to be by the sound of desperation in the man’s voice. So I let my subconscious do the driving. I just chain smoked until the car was too smoked out to see. Then I opened the window, and we were there.
“Pull around back, it’s not safe here.”
The Chief, when he’s on a mission, gives orders, and doesn’t give a shit who takes them, just as long as someone does. So I listened.
“Where fuck is that asshole!?”
It’s an eerie feeling when you get to where you’re supposed to meet someone and they’re not there, but you’re almost too drunk to notice where or why you’re there. It’s confusing, I know, but trust me, it’s rough.
We lose our patience and break for the door, but it’s locked! Son of a Bitch left us out do dry!!
‘CLICK’
“Oh thank God Johnny, you’re here.”
The three of us go in. Triple bolt that son of a bitch to keep the fucking ghosts out!
We sidle up to the bar, but it’s not quite right. There’s the bar, that’s okay. There’s plenty of variety of beer on tap, and the lighting seems right. So what the fuck is wrong?
“Hey Chief, I think something is seriously fucking wrong.”
“Jesus Dave, slow down. Here, drink this, it’ll calm you the fuck down!”
After taking down a few glasses of The Chief’s magic drink, I’m able to get my thoughts straight. “Hey Johnny, why did we mee..” As I turned, I realized for the first time that Johnny was not the man that had opened the door for us, rescuing us from The Ghosts. It turns out that this saint among men is neither my confidant or my lawyer. But he saved us nonetheless. Before I can get an explanation of who this mystery man is, he wisks The Chief and I into the back.
“Holy Sh – Where the fuck are we!?”
“This, my friends, is where God’s piss comes from.”
The Chief was lost in a state of awe and wonder – and drunkenness. Me? I was just confused.
“But fine sir, how the fuck does God piss into these things?”
He looks at me, shakes his head in that poor-little-unknowing-child kind of way and walks out of the room. I’m dumbfounded, I can’t wrap my simple-fuck of a mind around this whole thing. I slap The Chief, “We need to be back at the bar, NOW!”
We’re head back towards the bar, when a small door busts open right behind us. Jesus man, I really do need another drink. It’s our helpful little friend. “Get in here!”
He slams the door behind us and tells us to be quiet, “The fucking ghosts got in and we’ve got to flush those bastards out!” Now, as he’s yelling this, he’s nervously looking over a control panel that has so many knobs, switches, lights, and words, that I wasn’t really sure if I was seeing double or not. Or triple.
That’s when The Chief takes over. “Get the fuck out of my way!”
He’s sprinting up and down along the wall, reading and rereading instructions, manuals, and for Christ sake, the Bible. I’ve never seen a man, not on handfuls of pills, so possessed. Then he stops, and begins to cackle. Oh fuck, he’s lost it.
“I’ve got you beat you stupid fuck! Get ready to say hi to the bad guy!”
And then he does it,
And all shit breaks loose.
There’s a rumbling deep from within the ground, and we run! Door after door, we fly away from the giant beasts we’d awoken – The Ghosts forgotten, for now. The noise is getting louder and louder, and I’m running blindly for my life at this point. We’ve got the Devil’s attention now motherfuckers! One second I’m running, the next I’m flat on my back, head ringing, room spinning like it does the mornings I wake up after spending a night swimming in whiskey. What the fuck just happened!? I stand up and see my mysterious new friend standing next to me, staring in amazement. I look to see what he’s lost in.
“Holy fucking Christ!”
I leave my new friend to behold his wonder and continue on my escape from The Beast. I’m getting the fuck out of here. Hey, where’s The Chief? I pelt down a long hallway, surrounded by doors, I can only hope and pray that I choose the right one. The first three are dark. Only evil sits alone in the dark. The last door on the right is lit up, so I’ve found my exit – I hope. The contents of the room bring me to a halt.
Before I have time to register what I’m seeing, I hear a noise. It sounds like something that ‘s smacking it’s lips, or eating it’s prey. Oh Christ, I’ve found The Beast! As I slowly make my way around the corner, the noise becomes louder and more intense. Jesus, it sound like The Beast drinks it’s prey. I come around the last corner and peer into the dimly lit corner.
“Holy fuck! What the fuck are you doing!?” It’s The Chief!
“It tastes so good, when it hits your lips!”
Oh fuck it all...
There’s a rumbling deep from within the ground, and we run! Door after door, we fly away from the giant beasts we’d awoken – The Ghosts forgotten, for now. The noise is getting louder and louder, and I’m running blindly for my life at this point. We’ve got the Devil’s attention now motherfuckers! One second I’m running, the next I’m flat on my back, head ringing, room spinning like it does the mornings I wake up after spending a night swimming in whiskey. What the fuck just happened!? I stand up and see my mysterious new friend standing next to me, staring in amazement. I look to see what he’s lost in.
“Holy fucking Christ!”
I leave my new friend to behold his wonder and continue on my escape from The Beast. I’m getting the fuck out of here. Hey, where’s The Chief? I pelt down a long hallway, surrounded by doors, I can only hope and pray that I choose the right one. The first three are dark. Only evil sits alone in the dark. The last door on the right is lit up, so I’ve found my exit – I hope. The contents of the room bring me to a halt.
Before I have time to register what I’m seeing, I hear a noise. It sounds like something that ‘s smacking it’s lips, or eating it’s prey. Oh Christ, I’ve found The Beast! As I slowly make my way around the corner, the noise becomes louder and more intense. Jesus, it sound like The Beast drinks it’s prey. I come around the last corner and peer into the dimly lit corner.
“Holy fuck! What the fuck are you doing!?” It’s The Chief!
“It tastes so good, when it hits your lips!”
Oh fuck it all...
I grab The Chief by the collar and race towards the door – the one that say ‘Exit,’ smash it open, and we’re blinded by white light.
The next thing I know we’re in the Gorilla Lounge, the Twins on the television, and we’re soaking wet. But we’re safe. It was a long climb, but we survived The Summit Assault and made it back safely.
I think...
The next thing I know we’re in the Gorilla Lounge, the Twins on the television, and we’re soaking wet. But we’re safe. It was a long climb, but we survived The Summit Assault and made it back safely.
I think...
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Sometimes Thinking Makes My Brain Hurt
It’s amazing how quickly life can change. One minute you’re sitting at the bar pouring Tall Gingers down your throat, the next minute you’re sifting through the back of your garage looking for some paint to huff. Heeeere Krylon, Krylon, Krylon. I’ve been sitting around drinking Mojitos, next thing I know I’ve got a bottle of Wal-Mart mouthwash. It’s like time travel, except the clock hasn’t moved very much. It’s more like I’ve traveled between parallel worlds. Yeah, I’m in my backyard, but instead of sitting in a chair sipping Johnny Jump-ups, I’m digging through my dumpster in a hunt for the rotten gas can I tossed out last week. Ha HA! I’ve got you now!
It’s hard to explain, I’ve had many meetings with my lawyer regarding the subject and I still don’t have it all down, but I’ll try to explain.
We’re all layered people. On one level, I’m a nice guy who pays his taxes, brushes his teeth, even showers regularly. Fuck you guys who don’t believe me! But on the level next to that one, I’m the scumbag who’s licking gas off the pump and shitting in your front yard. On yet another level, I’m a truck driver snorting White, just to stay awake so I don’t run over your daughter on the highway, or I’m the guy who rapes your dog. There’s also one of those “personalities” that really stands out – like I’m mostly the guy who drinks and smokes too much, drives drunk, and doesn’t always wash his hands after pissing. It’s mostly liquor anyways. Of course every one of us has those times when you get stuck thinking on something much darker than you normally do – like drinking gas and raping your neighbors’ cat. You can deny it all you want, but that will only make that thought grow in your mind, as you mentally mutate it into something much uglier and brutal. I could throw numerous examples out there, but then again, I don’t want to go to jail.
Those thoughts, those actions that you take in your mind, those are your way of venturing into that other worldly-self. That’s the evil in your soul coming to the surface, to show you its face. Johnny, is that you? Like I said, you’re in trouble if you ignore those thoughts because they’ll mutate, but could be in even more trouble if you reach out to those ideas, especially if you don’t know how to control them. There are the ones that reach so far for those ideas that they can’t get back to their own world, their own mind. Instead of drinking their morning coffee and reading the paper, they’re gulping sulfur and molesting collies. Stop talking about my uncle, assholes. Or worse. The good ones simply end up in an asylum because their propensity for good keeps battling the evil and eventually they become bystanders in the war for their own mind. The other end of that spectrum, well, we call those ones serial killers. Those are the ones that embrace their evil undersides and end up enveloping themselves in those thoughts. They don’t care to get help because, in their minds, they don’t need it. They’ve been awoken by the demons and move to their beats, dance their dance, no longer in service to this world.
There is another group as well. Those are the folks that know how to harness the evil thoughts and use them, for better or worse. They can transition between worlds and use them to their benefit and still keep grasp on their own mind. They know the rules, the lines they can cross, and can, more often than not, make it back. Some can control when they delve into those other words, go todash if you will, but most cannot. They’ll find themselves switching between them, almost subconsciously. I am one of the latter. I can harness the power when it comes but cannot control when I come or go. At least consciously. My mind forces me either way and, if I get into trouble, it forces me back. It’s like being on a rollercoaster wearing a blindfold. You feel it happen, but you can’t see when. Or when you wake up from a dream and don’t realize it was, in fact, a dream. Your mind turns it into a story, relating as much as it can to your right here and right now. Those who cannot go todash are unable to believe that those little trips were anything but dreams. They are disturbed by those trips so much that their minds cannot wrap themselves around the idea that it was actually happening and forces the belief that they were imagined. Even when it’s so real, they’ll call it a “waking dream.”
One must be very comfortable with their mental state to believe and embrace these trips because the mind has trouble hanging on. Imagination and acceptance are the keys to success, but one must be very careful as to how much of each one has. Too much imagination can lead to going over the edge and not enough can leave you out, no matter how badly you try to accept it.
Oh Christ, I’m supposed to be in an AA meeting right now!
It’s hard to explain, I’ve had many meetings with my lawyer regarding the subject and I still don’t have it all down, but I’ll try to explain.
We’re all layered people. On one level, I’m a nice guy who pays his taxes, brushes his teeth, even showers regularly. Fuck you guys who don’t believe me! But on the level next to that one, I’m the scumbag who’s licking gas off the pump and shitting in your front yard. On yet another level, I’m a truck driver snorting White, just to stay awake so I don’t run over your daughter on the highway, or I’m the guy who rapes your dog. There’s also one of those “personalities” that really stands out – like I’m mostly the guy who drinks and smokes too much, drives drunk, and doesn’t always wash his hands after pissing. It’s mostly liquor anyways. Of course every one of us has those times when you get stuck thinking on something much darker than you normally do – like drinking gas and raping your neighbors’ cat. You can deny it all you want, but that will only make that thought grow in your mind, as you mentally mutate it into something much uglier and brutal. I could throw numerous examples out there, but then again, I don’t want to go to jail.
Those thoughts, those actions that you take in your mind, those are your way of venturing into that other worldly-self. That’s the evil in your soul coming to the surface, to show you its face. Johnny, is that you? Like I said, you’re in trouble if you ignore those thoughts because they’ll mutate, but could be in even more trouble if you reach out to those ideas, especially if you don’t know how to control them. There are the ones that reach so far for those ideas that they can’t get back to their own world, their own mind. Instead of drinking their morning coffee and reading the paper, they’re gulping sulfur and molesting collies. Stop talking about my uncle, assholes. Or worse. The good ones simply end up in an asylum because their propensity for good keeps battling the evil and eventually they become bystanders in the war for their own mind. The other end of that spectrum, well, we call those ones serial killers. Those are the ones that embrace their evil undersides and end up enveloping themselves in those thoughts. They don’t care to get help because, in their minds, they don’t need it. They’ve been awoken by the demons and move to their beats, dance their dance, no longer in service to this world.
There is another group as well. Those are the folks that know how to harness the evil thoughts and use them, for better or worse. They can transition between worlds and use them to their benefit and still keep grasp on their own mind. They know the rules, the lines they can cross, and can, more often than not, make it back. Some can control when they delve into those other words, go todash if you will, but most cannot. They’ll find themselves switching between them, almost subconsciously. I am one of the latter. I can harness the power when it comes but cannot control when I come or go. At least consciously. My mind forces me either way and, if I get into trouble, it forces me back. It’s like being on a rollercoaster wearing a blindfold. You feel it happen, but you can’t see when. Or when you wake up from a dream and don’t realize it was, in fact, a dream. Your mind turns it into a story, relating as much as it can to your right here and right now. Those who cannot go todash are unable to believe that those little trips were anything but dreams. They are disturbed by those trips so much that their minds cannot wrap themselves around the idea that it was actually happening and forces the belief that they were imagined. Even when it’s so real, they’ll call it a “waking dream.”
One must be very comfortable with their mental state to believe and embrace these trips because the mind has trouble hanging on. Imagination and acceptance are the keys to success, but one must be very careful as to how much of each one has. Too much imagination can lead to going over the edge and not enough can leave you out, no matter how badly you try to accept it.
Oh Christ, I’m supposed to be in an AA meeting right now!
Monday, August 07, 2006
If This Seems Racist, It Probably Has Something To Do With How You Were Raised
These are the roots of rhythm and the roots of rhythm remain.
This ecclectic combination of the corners of the human race befuddle and confuse, but I guess that's their goal. Well, maybe not. Their goal likely is something like deals or contacts, not some dropout sporting a 2.4. My attorney once advised me the only way to couter-attack this nonsense was to shave and wear shoes, there-by vaulting us to status known as "passing". "In a world filled with solid F's", he would say "we only have to be a C minus". Wise words from a prophet bereaved of pants long ago.
It's 7 goddamned thirty in the morning, central time, so you know that we've had about enough of the talk. Strong coffee and sweets will kickstart this day, and possibly some violence. Some ragged thoughts to bounce around the old noggin, some twisted memories peeking through the time curtain. We will walk towards the convention center, oh yes, we will. The hippie place, the meeting frenzy of sharks and wanderers. The deal Machine, kicking into full grip, its pistons lubing up and expending on the sweat of volunteers and the Cleaning Crew. The huddled masses, they belong here. They catch NWA flights (staight outta locash!) from all corners, twist and churn their way through the Hyatt lobby and end up here, in my fucking way.
It's hard to handicap the convention center. There are, in a matter of speaking, all types. At this hour, there are too many to count. Their numbers mean little; it's their faces I focus on. The red blazers and make-up.... and a gigantic sign that reads "Lifetouch - Celebrating 75 Years!" drawn in ragged strokes the color of blood. It gives me pause. What the fuck is Lifetouch anyway? I get to the safety of work, and I look it up. Photography. Well, right. Of course. A version of Glamour Shots, but with no glamour, and stocked full of white women who walk too fast and talk too loud. What the christ? The booths are full, and guys who used to roadie for the Pointer Sisters are setting up the grand display. It's goddamned mayhem, and the stock market hasn't even opened yet. Let's fast forward.
I walk through the abandoned caverns, with only a few scumbags floating by me. It's 5:15, and it's quiet and still all around, except not. There is a reverberation, a sickening murmur from the heart of this mausoleum. Just what the fuck is going on? There isn't a soul to be seen, but it sounds like a thousand police officers beating a drunkard outside Stand Up Frank's. Whistles and noise, bouncing and bumping, I can't keep up with it. It grows louder as I approach the main auditorium. Rounding the corner, it hits me like the smoke from the Lounge on a rainy night: a violent display of noise and vibration not unlike a tornado. Twisting and turning in the widening gyre and so forth, I see and hear what I have been missing. Over a thousand 12 year old girls, decked in knee pads and jerseys that profess their sponsers' virtues. Parents, 14 deep behind benches, cheering not-too-loudly, and checking cell phones. The demon has descended upon Murderapolis, and this time, he's dressed as a volleyball tournament.
It's too much to handle when you've got a bag full of half-price sushi. Let's move on.
"Creative Memories"? Now, who in fuck thought this up? There are all manner of booths and giveaways, large women and larger men cavorting around the stalls looking for the elusive oat bag, all clutching plastic bags adorned with Medtronic's logo and stuffed with free bandaids and some sort of lotion. What the fuck is this all about? I see things that don't make any sense. A booth constructed to look like a New York newsstand. A clothing store, with racks and everything. A booth for health insurance. And then, in the middle of this drug-infused trauma, a gigantic goddamned red phone, looming like a sunset through the clouds of square people. Wait a minute. I take another look at those around me. Uh oh. That one's wearing a helmet of sorts. There's a booth giving away "photo business cards". Many, MANY people are confused. This isn't the kind of show you pay money to get into. Nope, they get here by bus. I have to get out of here, even if it means running through the "Office Supplies" tent to the nearest exit.
Finally, christ bless it, on a Friday, I find some matter of interest. As the escalator drops me into the maelstrom, I see women and men of all shapes, colors and ages walking around, and some of them are wearing hospital scrubs. They are dressed well, and don't appear to have been herded recently. As I round the corner, I see a sign... something that goes by too fast and I only have a chance to catch the part about "nurses" and "association" and "welcome". Well, that's just great. At least these people wear belts. It isn't until I hit the main floor that I see my first exhibit, a full size color picture of a bleeding bed sore. And there's more. Yes, this convention is for nurses who deal with wounds. Yes, wounds. "Hey, dog, where you at now?" "I'm up at HCMC, I'm working in the wound department." I see a sign informing me that just around this corner is the place for "fungal wounds".
I'll be going out the other exit.
Such a strange monster, these gatherings, and such a violent display of humanity, shoehorned into an expansive place and sprinkled with Minnesota charm like you can't get anywhere else. And you bastards from Ohio love this, don't you? The work that's done here benefits only a few. Me? Hell, jesus christ, I use it for the air conditioning.
Everybody knows they keep it under 70 in there. They have to.
There's too many people.
This ecclectic combination of the corners of the human race befuddle and confuse, but I guess that's their goal. Well, maybe not. Their goal likely is something like deals or contacts, not some dropout sporting a 2.4. My attorney once advised me the only way to couter-attack this nonsense was to shave and wear shoes, there-by vaulting us to status known as "passing". "In a world filled with solid F's", he would say "we only have to be a C minus". Wise words from a prophet bereaved of pants long ago.
It's 7 goddamned thirty in the morning, central time, so you know that we've had about enough of the talk. Strong coffee and sweets will kickstart this day, and possibly some violence. Some ragged thoughts to bounce around the old noggin, some twisted memories peeking through the time curtain. We will walk towards the convention center, oh yes, we will. The hippie place, the meeting frenzy of sharks and wanderers. The deal Machine, kicking into full grip, its pistons lubing up and expending on the sweat of volunteers and the Cleaning Crew. The huddled masses, they belong here. They catch NWA flights (staight outta locash!) from all corners, twist and churn their way through the Hyatt lobby and end up here, in my fucking way.
It's hard to handicap the convention center. There are, in a matter of speaking, all types. At this hour, there are too many to count. Their numbers mean little; it's their faces I focus on. The red blazers and make-up.... and a gigantic sign that reads "Lifetouch - Celebrating 75 Years!" drawn in ragged strokes the color of blood. It gives me pause. What the fuck is Lifetouch anyway? I get to the safety of work, and I look it up. Photography. Well, right. Of course. A version of Glamour Shots, but with no glamour, and stocked full of white women who walk too fast and talk too loud. What the christ? The booths are full, and guys who used to roadie for the Pointer Sisters are setting up the grand display. It's goddamned mayhem, and the stock market hasn't even opened yet. Let's fast forward.
I walk through the abandoned caverns, with only a few scumbags floating by me. It's 5:15, and it's quiet and still all around, except not. There is a reverberation, a sickening murmur from the heart of this mausoleum. Just what the fuck is going on? There isn't a soul to be seen, but it sounds like a thousand police officers beating a drunkard outside Stand Up Frank's. Whistles and noise, bouncing and bumping, I can't keep up with it. It grows louder as I approach the main auditorium. Rounding the corner, it hits me like the smoke from the Lounge on a rainy night: a violent display of noise and vibration not unlike a tornado. Twisting and turning in the widening gyre and so forth, I see and hear what I have been missing. Over a thousand 12 year old girls, decked in knee pads and jerseys that profess their sponsers' virtues. Parents, 14 deep behind benches, cheering not-too-loudly, and checking cell phones. The demon has descended upon Murderapolis, and this time, he's dressed as a volleyball tournament.
It's too much to handle when you've got a bag full of half-price sushi. Let's move on.
"Creative Memories"? Now, who in fuck thought this up? There are all manner of booths and giveaways, large women and larger men cavorting around the stalls looking for the elusive oat bag, all clutching plastic bags adorned with Medtronic's logo and stuffed with free bandaids and some sort of lotion. What the fuck is this all about? I see things that don't make any sense. A booth constructed to look like a New York newsstand. A clothing store, with racks and everything. A booth for health insurance. And then, in the middle of this drug-infused trauma, a gigantic goddamned red phone, looming like a sunset through the clouds of square people. Wait a minute. I take another look at those around me. Uh oh. That one's wearing a helmet of sorts. There's a booth giving away "photo business cards". Many, MANY people are confused. This isn't the kind of show you pay money to get into. Nope, they get here by bus. I have to get out of here, even if it means running through the "Office Supplies" tent to the nearest exit.
Finally, christ bless it, on a Friday, I find some matter of interest. As the escalator drops me into the maelstrom, I see women and men of all shapes, colors and ages walking around, and some of them are wearing hospital scrubs. They are dressed well, and don't appear to have been herded recently. As I round the corner, I see a sign... something that goes by too fast and I only have a chance to catch the part about "nurses" and "association" and "welcome". Well, that's just great. At least these people wear belts. It isn't until I hit the main floor that I see my first exhibit, a full size color picture of a bleeding bed sore. And there's more. Yes, this convention is for nurses who deal with wounds. Yes, wounds. "Hey, dog, where you at now?" "I'm up at HCMC, I'm working in the wound department." I see a sign informing me that just around this corner is the place for "fungal wounds".
I'll be going out the other exit.
Such a strange monster, these gatherings, and such a violent display of humanity, shoehorned into an expansive place and sprinkled with Minnesota charm like you can't get anywhere else. And you bastards from Ohio love this, don't you? The work that's done here benefits only a few. Me? Hell, jesus christ, I use it for the air conditioning.
Everybody knows they keep it under 70 in there. They have to.
There's too many people.
Friday, August 04, 2006
Picnic '76
It was August 6th, 1976, and all my friends in Cincinnati knew I was going to be in town for the weekend. We kept going back and forth on what exactly we should do for my visit...some people said we should rent a boat. Others said we should have a swinging party (not a lot of winners in the pool, if you grasp the concept). After all this haranguing I said fuck it, let's get the grill in the wagon and we'll have a picnic. YES. That'll do.The photo is the usual gang and even a kid from Taylor High School who was getting high with his girlfriend inside a dense pine tree. That guy smoking is Gene Rhodes, who knew a lot of these people but is not much of a talker. In fact, I remember this day to be a warm one, but for him it was his usual denim outfit. Crazy old Gene. His girlfriend is in front of him...was she a loose cannon. If we all didn't know Gene was packing heat (a point we'd kid him about constantly, especially since he couldn't bring the gun into work anyway) his girl would have acted like a nympho that just figured out how to pick a lock. To her left is Shelia, a cute number who became friendly with me in the WMGK Magic Bus Chevy Van later on while "Moonlight Feels Right" played. Can't remember the name of the girl that's standing behind her, but the one on the end was that girl's mother, who kept asking why we were drinking beer so early in the day. I could complain about that but then she was a friend of Gene and she worked at Channel 19, so I couldn't get her out of the picnic and still accomplish the goals of the work trip.
The guy next to the teen is Steve Kurk, who owned his own Coast to Coast hardware. I figured, being an owner of such a store, he'd have tons of cool outdoor grilling stuff or whatever. But that dunce didn't bring a thing. He also drank all of the Dr. Pepper. But he was all smiles so you couldn't really get upset with the guy.
So, the long cool woman on the bench? Oh sure, she made the trip. Those teens who shared their stash were really friendly, and were more than happy to take some brew as a trade. Of course, they didn't convince anyone with a phony baloney deep voice while holding a can of Stroh's. But that shit happens. The burgers were fantastic - so were the corn and the fresh melon that the mom on the end cut. We had a good time watching a wandering dog have some trouble with the melon rind; I've got to find those pictures. All in all, a great afternoon to get away from business. Shit, that was 30 years ago?
Friday, July 14, 2006
You're not lookin' in a mirror, trust me
Last night's events didn't take a lot of convincing, but they took a lot of explanation. This was directed to Elvira, my spaced out but incredibly polite waitress at Nicky's Pizza in Silver Lake.
"This is a game show convention of producers, talent, and fans. This band will supposedly be playing famous songs."
She stared at me for a moment, which could have meant anything, really. "Wow, I wanna be in a band that plays at game shows." (Don't correct her, just go with flow.) "If they have openings, come back and let me know." (OK, you got it.)
An old friend arrived first to the Burbank Airport Hilton's Convention Room #4 just before I did. "This place smells like eggs." I figured it was because of a million buffets in the mornings. He agreed. Then I looked around. My friend, THESE are the true game show fans. They don't live out here. They don't work in or around TV. And yet, they've come to Burbank to play tons of games and listen to producers and meet Peter Marshall (Hollywood Squares, among others) and Wink Martindale (Tic Tac Dough, among others). It was giant guts. Constant smiles. Tucked in T-Shirts into Jean Shorts. Videotaping everything. Silence. Minimal social skills.
The first tune, a medley of Price is Right prize songs, made everyone cheer. Suddenly, a wave of guilt washed over me. Yes, I recognized every god damn song. We moved on to Tic Tac Dough, Super Password, and others...and this band played them all. Finally, I had to turned to another old friend, a rare girl in this oasis, and tell the classic Triumph joke:
"How does it feel to be surrounded by a room full of people who have no idea how to please you?"
Eventually, after a self-enforced two drink minimum, I had to hit the road. This was a bit too much. And frankly, no one likes to be shoved into one interest. Sure, I enjoy game shows, but I enjoy punk, I enjoy reading, I enjoy Columbian imports. I enjoy having lunch with Dr. Naguchi. Thankfully, the interests are spread. For those that are there this afternoon, send that giant tray of fried everything to them. They all came out here to just sit and be with each other, eat fatty foods, and make jokes that only a handful would get. This one's for you.
"This is a game show convention of producers, talent, and fans. This band will supposedly be playing famous songs."
She stared at me for a moment, which could have meant anything, really. "Wow, I wanna be in a band that plays at game shows." (Don't correct her, just go with flow.) "If they have openings, come back and let me know." (OK, you got it.)
An old friend arrived first to the Burbank Airport Hilton's Convention Room #4 just before I did. "This place smells like eggs." I figured it was because of a million buffets in the mornings. He agreed. Then I looked around. My friend, THESE are the true game show fans. They don't live out here. They don't work in or around TV. And yet, they've come to Burbank to play tons of games and listen to producers and meet Peter Marshall (Hollywood Squares, among others) and Wink Martindale (Tic Tac Dough, among others). It was giant guts. Constant smiles. Tucked in T-Shirts into Jean Shorts. Videotaping everything. Silence. Minimal social skills.
The first tune, a medley of Price is Right prize songs, made everyone cheer. Suddenly, a wave of guilt washed over me. Yes, I recognized every god damn song. We moved on to Tic Tac Dough, Super Password, and others...and this band played them all. Finally, I had to turned to another old friend, a rare girl in this oasis, and tell the classic Triumph joke:
"How does it feel to be surrounded by a room full of people who have no idea how to please you?"
Eventually, after a self-enforced two drink minimum, I had to hit the road. This was a bit too much. And frankly, no one likes to be shoved into one interest. Sure, I enjoy game shows, but I enjoy punk, I enjoy reading, I enjoy Columbian imports. I enjoy having lunch with Dr. Naguchi. Thankfully, the interests are spread. For those that are there this afternoon, send that giant tray of fried everything to them. They all came out here to just sit and be with each other, eat fatty foods, and make jokes that only a handful would get. This one's for you.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
AK The State, Not The Assault Rifle...
Part I: Daylight, Forever
It’s Wednesday night. It’s 11:47 and the sun is shining like it’s five in the God damn morning. What the fuck!? Did I slip off into an alternate reality? Sort of. I’ve traveled off to the world of the Midnight Sun, the last frontier; Fairbanks, Alaska.
Having spent the past 8 hours in various modes of transportation, I’m pretty fucking out of it. My watch says quarter of midnight, my body says it’s three hours later than that, but my mind is screaming at me to stay awake. Wake up you asshole! It’s still light out! It’s an incredibly disorienting feeling. It feels like 3 a.m. but look like 4:30 in the afternoon – like that feeling you get when you’ve tied on more than a few cocktails before noon and have just stepped out of the bar into the bask of the mid-day sun. Give a stretch, catch myself from falling over, and make my way to dreamland.
It’s now Thursday morning, 7:30 a.m., and they’re redoing the roof on the neighbors’ house, RIGHT OUTSIDE THE BEDROOM WINDOW! Great. Good morning Dave, hope you didn’t sleep at all. Gee, thanks, hey can I get a cup of coffee? No, we just have steamed piss, will that do ya? Fuuuuuck.
Never mind, time to hit the links.
As I made my way over to the golf course – yeah, I played golf in Alaska – I started noticing things that I hadn’t seen through the haze of travel the day before. Almost every building I saw was a tin box with windows. There were four strip malls on the 10 minute drive, none of which had any stores that I recognized save the Radio Shack. Almost every car I saw was either fifteen years old or banged up. This town is fucking poor. Fairbanks is 30,000 people but feels like 5,000 spread out of two hundred miles of white trash shit hole. Or as the Lady Luck put it, “it’s like a third-world country with fast food joints.” Clearly I had crossed the tracks somewhere. Hey, you wanna grab some Arby’s? What, they only have Cheb’s? What the fuck? We’ll get back to this later.
Part II: America’s Pastime
There’s something to be said about watching baseball about as far north as possible. Or when it’s still light out in the 13th inning of a game that started at 7:30 p.m. “What” you say? “What the fuck are you talking about Dave, have you gone and double dipped in the bag of reds again?” No sir, I have not.
In the middle of the northern-most state that is united, in the middle of a city that looks a poor El Paso, Texas, there is one day that Fairbanks, Alaska is famous for. Unfortunately due to some untimely events, I missed it. But I did get a partial experience for my trouble, so I guess I can move on. The Midnight Sun Game is held at Goldpanner Field every year on the Summer solstice – this year being the 100th anniversary. But I don’t have enough facial hair to schedule myself correctly. Too much hair of the dog is more likely. Either way, it was an experience. For those unfamiliar, the Alaska Baseball League is a training ground for college kids looking to make their way to the Big Leagues. When the losers come home from the College World Series, they make their way to various teams, in various leagues, in various states, around the country. Southern California, Hawaii, Florida, and various East Coast states have leagues.
Why the fuck would they come to Alaska then?
The ABL is one of the tougher leagues to play in and the Goldpanners are one of the better teams. Bob Boone, Barry Bonds, Jason Giambi, and Dave Winfield are among the players who have graced these fields in the barren wasteland that is Fairbanks. The turf infield, with yellow base paths, is not glamorous but it’s like nothing you’ve ever seen. The players who aren’t playing are keeping the book and manning the radar gun from the stands and the dugouts would be almost embarrassing for most high-schoolers. And yet, it was a great experience. There were probably sixty people there and most of them had clearly spent a fair amount of time watching these teams – the eighty year-old chewing on the ump the entire game was especially entertaining. “Hey Blue! That was a foul ball, incase you wanted to know!” Is that me? Am I a clone of that asshole? They even have season ticket packages.
Part III: Depressing Impressions
Back to being a poor city - that’s not all that’s wrong with Fairbanks, Alaska. It’s right in the middle of the largest state in the union, and also the most desolate. There’s twenty hours of daylight during the summer which you would think would be uplifting, but you’d be wrong. It’s one of the most depressing places I’ve ever been. It’s sunny and warm, yet it’s dark and dreary at the same time. There’s mountains and trees and blue skies, but there’s a feeling of dread just beneath all of that beauty.
“It’s like when you’re sifting through the last of your bottles under the sink a week before payday just looking for a taste and you stumble upon what you believe is Jameson, but ends up being cleaning solution you stored in the empty bottle.” – Johnny San Gria
When he’s right he’s right. I’d rather likened it to the bottle of cough syrup that you had to refill with water to keep your wife from finding out you’re thirteenth step, but we’re just splitting hairs here. It’s a horrible place to go, to be, and imaginably, to live. I don’t know how they do it. I suppose that if it’s all you’ve ever known it’s not that bad, but it just has a suffocating depressiveness about it.
I’m glad I went because it was definitely an experience. We did spend a day in Denali National Park which, unlike Fairbanks, was beautiful. I’m glad I got to see where the Lady Luck grew up because I now have a better understanding of her mental state when she speaks of that place. It’s a tough, ugly place, full of tough, ugly people, and one place that, if I can help it, I will never venture to again.
Oh, and I lied earlier. I was double dipping in the bag of reds, but it was all I could do not to slit my own throat.
Saturday, July 01, 2006
The Swine Wear Letters On Their Uniforms Now
These bastards focus our energies. They invade our behavior. They take from us and from everyone. The price is high, a moral theoretical price that they can never repay, nor would they want to. The Pigs run the sty, and our power lies just beyond our ability, our senses weakened and our brains at an impasse. So hell, Jesus, I suppose none of that matters. The reaction is the thing, the brutal comeback or the cowardly shrinking. You do as you do, and not much changes that. If you can figure a way in or out of this goddamned mess, then you've got a leg up, you're doing ok, have yourself a grape soda. If not, join in line, because it's going to take one king hell bastard of a change to get this thing right.
The Swine that sit at border patrol lurk like dormant yellowjackets. The sweet nectar of fear is what perks them to attention, and nothing short of pollenation in all its forms will quench the thirst. It is necessary to examine this transaction in animal terms, and divorce it from the Human Experience, because it's not human, nobody's human in this deal. And it IS a deal, in as much as exchanging currency for goods, services or the fantastic possibility of More Money is, this is too. The fucking Filth are trading a piece of our Time and Psychic Energy for a bit of their power, their piggish grab on the infinite supply of misery, the word game that they control, and we lack the tools for.
Rules? Are you fucking kidding? Christ, rules would be completely out of place here. It's a transaction, a deal, and nobody's telling any of us any information. There are no rules, and there is bound to be stretching of any sort of order that is in place. Nobody reports to anything, the swine rub their noses in the Hypocrisy of it all, and nobody can do anything. The hopelessness is, quite frankly, the last sort of emotion we can hang on to, that golden noose that we can still hang ourselves with when it all tumbles down. Jesus, if that's the way it's going to happen, then there must be something else, some Wizard behind the booth, casting spells and pulling away. But no, it's not. Dick Cheney doesn't live here. These rats work without a net. Nothing holds up a ropewalker when he walks on a rope 40 feet thick. There's no sense in it.
The reaction though, that's the thing. And that's what we're left with. The assault complete, the deal done, the reaction haunts, but it gives meaning. It tells us we're still human. We're still capable of feeling, of working this thing out from the Other Side. Just like all else, the money might tell the story. But not, no, maybe not. Maybe the cruel hand of fate that this country has dealt to itself - because even an idiot can see that fate has nothing to do with the United States of America - is disinegrating of itself, it's falling to the ground and under the table. The cards don't match anymore, the suits don't hold. The Fucks take over, but they don't; they just take it all down. What in fuck's name would a Scumbag like that do if he had any REAL power? I would venture to guess that the end result would be quite a bit of Blood, and blame longer than any horizon. We're not there yet, but shit like this only turns the engine over, and slides us into gear. But back to the point, is that it, are we doing this to ourselves? Hell, if anyone deserves this, it's us. It just makes sense, I guess, to have this feeling, to wonder why it all had to go down, but yet, the question answers itself. IT WENT DOWN BECAUSE WE LET IT GO DOWN. We didn't stand in the way, we didn't make any demands, and now the Filth make decisions, and we can do nothing but examine it. But examination doesn't lend human feeling to the Filth.
The Scumbags are back. And their bullish behavior now builds upon itself. The machine grows, and nobody has the keys. Jesus, we built this fucker. But the brains, they have been reprogrammed. Hope is out there, but it can be killed very easy, it's very fragile. No, the way out of this is with brute force. That's the only thing that resonates with the Pigs. Reinforcement doesn't work on a farm animal. You beat its brains in with concepts, and hope to holy hell you don't have to kill it before it learns. Will they ever learn? I've seen a pigeon peck a red circle to keep from getting shocked, so I suppose anything is possible. But it doesn't matter. Because as I head down to sleep tonight, the beast feeds, and I am only one small pellet coming out of the shoot. I can't change the behavior. The shock isn't enough. The world cannot conjure the energy, let alone our pitiful band. The work we must do is too daunting, we will accept our positions, and deal with our small tragedies.
And the Swine will feast, as they always do. I only hope the REST of the US hasn't turned into Vegetarians yet.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Speaking Of Craps...
In case you hadn’t figured it out yet, I’m a professional eating coach. My job is to prepare my students for any kind of food eating activity that they may come across at anytime in their daily lives. This could include meals, snacks, or contests. I’ve turned out a few of the great eaters of our time.
The following is a memo sent to one of my then-prize pupils, who happened to be in the Las Vegas area when he contacted me. He alerted me to a challenge laid before him at the Las Vegas Club in downtown Las Vegas. A 9lb burger consumed in 24 hours is free! And you get a plaque on the wall, showing proof of your great success. A hall of fame of sorts…
For security sake, we’ll refer to him as Ben.
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Okay, so I've worked out your marathon schedule Ben. It's a pretty solid schedule that should keep you full of wonderful cheese burger - but not too full. You'll have some time to gamble, sleep, rest, jog and whatever else it is you'll need to keep the juices flowing.
I've done some research and I've got good sources that tell me beef loses about 25% of it's actual weight when it's cooked. So assuming the 9 lbs is pre-cooked weight, you're looking at roughly 6.75 lbs of deliciousness. Or, in terms you may better understand, 27 quarter pounders. That's a little over 1 an hour. It's a very attainable goal!! Of course, you can't just stay up for 24 hours - you'll need your beauty sleep and sports as well. So, below you'll find your schedule. I'm sorry Coach can't be there, but I'll be rooting for you the whole way!!
Saturday January 14, 2005
11am - 1pm You're eating. A lot. You're going off with a big bang here. You're goal - 10 QPs right off the bat (only 5 per hour!). It'll be like a delicious snack to start your day!
1pm-3pm You're resting - rooting against Michigan as Illinois hits jumpers in their eyes all day! Oh, and don't for get the NFL - oh yeah, it's on then too!
3pm-4pm It's time for your afternoon snack! Grab 5 more QPs and, as my mentor said, "GET 'ER DONE!"
4pm-9pm This is your first big break. You'll be hard pressed to choose between sleep and watching OUR North Dakota State Bison fight it out with the Jackrabbits of South Dakota. Oooh! And Tark's old mates will be tearin' at the towel as the night goes on.
9pm-10pm Dinner is served! You've got a light 3 QPs to eat! This would be a good time, if you felt like "Goin' off," to grab a couple extras if you wanna lighten the load for the later rounds!
10pm-12am Nap time! Well, either that or you can fight your demons at the Pai Gow table. You might get lucky and catch a little Aussie ponies, but don't count on it.
12am-1am Boy, those naps sure to leave a young strapping lad famished! Time for 3 more QPs! Of course if you had gotten neck deep in QPs in an earlier round, you could use this time to extend your next break!
1am-8am This should probably be used for sleep, but since you can’t tame a wild animal, I'll leave you to your JokerPoker machines.
8am-11am Home stretch!! You've got 6 QPs to kill in 3 hours! You'll either be rested and ready for a lovely breakfast, or red eyed and ready for a bed time snack!!
I think the plan I've laid out is one that will lead you to success. I see great things in your immediate future - namely your picture up on the wall in the Vegas Club and 24 hours worth of free eating!!
Good luck son, make me proud!
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Unfortunately, this challenge was not what it seemed. Apparently you had to stay in the restaurant the whole time - 24 hours. Ben, unfortunately, was not able to do without gambling for that amount of time, so he did not attempt the feat. Ponies and Pai Gow called more loudly than pounds of delicious red meat. I was forced to let him go. When the student cannot show discipline he is forced out of my school of eating and sent West, as the saying goes. It’s always sad when that happens. Many o' good eaters have been sent into exile.
The following is a memo sent to one of my then-prize pupils, who happened to be in the Las Vegas area when he contacted me. He alerted me to a challenge laid before him at the Las Vegas Club in downtown Las Vegas. A 9lb burger consumed in 24 hours is free! And you get a plaque on the wall, showing proof of your great success. A hall of fame of sorts…
For security sake, we’ll refer to him as Ben.
--------------------------------------------------------
Okay, so I've worked out your marathon schedule Ben. It's a pretty solid schedule that should keep you full of wonderful cheese burger - but not too full. You'll have some time to gamble, sleep, rest, jog and whatever else it is you'll need to keep the juices flowing.
I've done some research and I've got good sources that tell me beef loses about 25% of it's actual weight when it's cooked. So assuming the 9 lbs is pre-cooked weight, you're looking at roughly 6.75 lbs of deliciousness. Or, in terms you may better understand, 27 quarter pounders. That's a little over 1 an hour. It's a very attainable goal!! Of course, you can't just stay up for 24 hours - you'll need your beauty sleep and sports as well. So, below you'll find your schedule. I'm sorry Coach can't be there, but I'll be rooting for you the whole way!!
Saturday January 14, 2005
11am - 1pm You're eating. A lot. You're going off with a big bang here. You're goal - 10 QPs right off the bat (only 5 per hour!). It'll be like a delicious snack to start your day!
1pm-3pm You're resting - rooting against Michigan as Illinois hits jumpers in their eyes all day! Oh, and don't for get the NFL - oh yeah, it's on then too!
3pm-4pm It's time for your afternoon snack! Grab 5 more QPs and, as my mentor said, "GET 'ER DONE!"
4pm-9pm This is your first big break. You'll be hard pressed to choose between sleep and watching OUR North Dakota State Bison fight it out with the Jackrabbits of South Dakota. Oooh! And Tark's old mates will be tearin' at the towel as the night goes on.
9pm-10pm Dinner is served! You've got a light 3 QPs to eat! This would be a good time, if you felt like "Goin' off," to grab a couple extras if you wanna lighten the load for the later rounds!
10pm-12am Nap time! Well, either that or you can fight your demons at the Pai Gow table. You might get lucky and catch a little Aussie ponies, but don't count on it.
12am-1am Boy, those naps sure to leave a young strapping lad famished! Time for 3 more QPs! Of course if you had gotten neck deep in QPs in an earlier round, you could use this time to extend your next break!
1am-8am This should probably be used for sleep, but since you can’t tame a wild animal, I'll leave you to your JokerPoker machines.
8am-11am Home stretch!! You've got 6 QPs to kill in 3 hours! You'll either be rested and ready for a lovely breakfast, or red eyed and ready for a bed time snack!!
I think the plan I've laid out is one that will lead you to success. I see great things in your immediate future - namely your picture up on the wall in the Vegas Club and 24 hours worth of free eating!!
Good luck son, make me proud!
--------------------------------------------------------
Unfortunately, this challenge was not what it seemed. Apparently you had to stay in the restaurant the whole time - 24 hours. Ben, unfortunately, was not able to do without gambling for that amount of time, so he did not attempt the feat. Ponies and Pai Gow called more loudly than pounds of delicious red meat. I was forced to let him go. When the student cannot show discipline he is forced out of my school of eating and sent West, as the saying goes. It’s always sad when that happens. Many o' good eaters have been sent into exile.
When you're hot...
I have no idea where the hell I got this cowboy hat, but it's been with me the whole trip. The damn thing barely fits, and I have to hold it down as I run. How the hell I ended up at a Craps table is a mystery to me. I still have no idea what to do...he gave me some dice, I kept rolling them, people kept yelling. I never moved my bet.
My initial bet has now grown 20 times its original amount. I've had enough. No one liked that answer. They treated it as an excuse. Instead of people cheering, I got groans. The cashier wasn't far from where I was, until a very large man (more tall than fat...fat doesn't intimidate me) stopped me and said "Out."
So, I do as I am told, but see that there's one last cashier cage before I exit. So, I weave between machines, and cash everything in. Good, I'm in the clear. I don't want to turn around to see if this guy is still behind me. I have no idea how to get back IN here considering I'm actually STAYING here. Whatever, I make it outside. Good lord, it's hot.
OK, this guy is still following me. We're outside. I try to play it calm, but my mind keeps telling me otherwise. Before I adjust my hat, the guy is in front of me again.
"I'm a judge." I had no idea what that had to do with anything, so I asked "In Japan?" This wasn't a good answer. "No, not in fucking Japan, wiseass." I didn't want to seem like I was trying to please him, so I said "How the hell would I know? Don't they have judges in Japan?" By this point, maybe I've confused him. He's looking blank, and not at me.
"I saw you in there. You should know that, for a piece of the action, I gamble with my life." El Alto put his hands on his hips, as if trying to mean business in the old west. "What's it going to take?"
By this point, asking him just what the fuck he meant was NOT going to work. I had to come up with a solution. "Do you like Baked Beans?"
"Whaaa? No, what does that have to--"
"Well...I guess it's off, huh?"
He pleaded. He said he wanted more information. I turned away. Now, it could have been a mistake not to see his reaction. Was he hurt? Had he turned around? Did he reach for brass knuckles - or a gun? Was he coming after me? I didn't know. I just remember counting to 100. And then running. And this god damn hat keeps coming off.
My initial bet has now grown 20 times its original amount. I've had enough. No one liked that answer. They treated it as an excuse. Instead of people cheering, I got groans. The cashier wasn't far from where I was, until a very large man (more tall than fat...fat doesn't intimidate me) stopped me and said "Out."
So, I do as I am told, but see that there's one last cashier cage before I exit. So, I weave between machines, and cash everything in. Good, I'm in the clear. I don't want to turn around to see if this guy is still behind me. I have no idea how to get back IN here considering I'm actually STAYING here. Whatever, I make it outside. Good lord, it's hot.
OK, this guy is still following me. We're outside. I try to play it calm, but my mind keeps telling me otherwise. Before I adjust my hat, the guy is in front of me again.
"I'm a judge." I had no idea what that had to do with anything, so I asked "In Japan?" This wasn't a good answer. "No, not in fucking Japan, wiseass." I didn't want to seem like I was trying to please him, so I said "How the hell would I know? Don't they have judges in Japan?" By this point, maybe I've confused him. He's looking blank, and not at me.
"I saw you in there. You should know that, for a piece of the action, I gamble with my life." El Alto put his hands on his hips, as if trying to mean business in the old west. "What's it going to take?"
By this point, asking him just what the fuck he meant was NOT going to work. I had to come up with a solution. "Do you like Baked Beans?"
"Whaaa? No, what does that have to--"
"Well...I guess it's off, huh?"
He pleaded. He said he wanted more information. I turned away. Now, it could have been a mistake not to see his reaction. Was he hurt? Had he turned around? Did he reach for brass knuckles - or a gun? Was he coming after me? I didn't know. I just remember counting to 100. And then running. And this god damn hat keeps coming off.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Dispatches From Detroit
Editor's Note: Recently, we sent Dee Louis on a fact-finding mission deep into the heart of the U of M campus. While on the trek, strange vibrations halted his journey, and forced him to seek shelter. After months of searching, he ended up at a graduation ceremony being held at the Gerald Ford school of public policy. His manuscript somehow survived...
The ambitious and their goals... they often cloud my head, and make me wish for breath. Those that aim to calculate and deconstruct the issues at hand, those that rise above their fellow man to become the filth at the top, those that run in circles, fly on radars, and coagulate into taskforces, eh. It usually leaves me tender, like the last of full pack of Winstons.
They come from all over, these overachievers. Their lives like arrows, their minds like carving stones. And they learn, they adjust, and they grow. And sure, hell, it's hard to be upset at that sort of thing. There's no roofer's mentality that drives me towards the screaming of obscenites or any southern anti-intellectual pride that scorns universities within me. Hell, christ, we don't have a choice. Either we all start reading books, or we'll be pets to the Chinese in less than a decade. Start with Faulkner, that's what the Owl tells me.
There is something special about these young prodigies, something endearing about their ethic and understanding, but it doesn't last. I still wouldn't share a Leine's with them (Sunset Wheat, now in stores!), and lord knows the success won't rub off. It may, in its best form, fill in a small gap, add another patch to this ever-growing tapestry. In its worst form, I'm left still trying to figure out how Tom Selleck can consistently do it so well, yet I'm just left with a bare upper lip.
But they don't do it for me, and they don't do it for you. They see it bigger, better, more complex. The street level is missing, the global psychology fits their equation. These problems, these shortcomings of societies, their solutions don't lie in telling people like me and the scum I run with how to live our lives. I mean, hell, that's a good start, but it's not fixing any energy crisis. We bet our good money on the Oilers and Yankee overs, not the free trade economy. Jesus, you could call what we do free trade, except some wanker in Peekwuoak, Ontario is raking 10 points no matter if Clemens makes the start or not. So fuck it, I guess.
Lord almighty, look at where I'm going with this. The selfishness reigns supreme, and I can't do a damn thing to stop it. So MY world view is now fucked. I'm seeing everything with my nose in frame, the outlines of my eyesockets forming the border. What happened to the objective? The removal of self from the Greater Pasture? Jesus, it's not gone. Tell me it's not gone.
Possibly, that's why these people are here. They're here to overcome the misgivings and tribulations of a brokedown just-need-12-bucks-to-get-in-the-trunk-of-my-car sensitive castoff like me and everyone else. They aren't troubled with the Human Pain. They use math to explain why we do what we do, and maybe that has validity. I can't see it any other way. They have to be. There has to be some force out there that sees what we all do and appoints a small percentage of us to be able to control it, and fix our errors. If not, we'll just all hang flags and bet longshots. We need help with our society like we need our social security. You can't leave it up to the people... we're not smart enough. These glorious sons of bitches have gone to school for more years than I've had a savings account, and they deserve to manage my future.
So I guess, in the end, it's a Good Thing. They take what they need from the masses - data, mostly - and they spit theories and solutions that leave us scratching our heads and muttering into the darkness in front of television screens. Because we can't fix a goddamned thing without someone up there directing, and if that director lived like we live, then no chance, no way. They'd be doing double time at the Shoe, humping that table hoping to Score Big, and make it out of there with more Money than they came with. Doesn't that about sum up America?
So fight on, soldiers. I couldn't see myself out back with you scheming on a way to take the Polish White Eagle sign off the brick building down the street, but at least you have a GOOD reason for passing on the Grainbelts.
Because my reason is because I'm too fucking broke.
The ambitious and their goals... they often cloud my head, and make me wish for breath. Those that aim to calculate and deconstruct the issues at hand, those that rise above their fellow man to become the filth at the top, those that run in circles, fly on radars, and coagulate into taskforces, eh. It usually leaves me tender, like the last of full pack of Winstons.
They come from all over, these overachievers. Their lives like arrows, their minds like carving stones. And they learn, they adjust, and they grow. And sure, hell, it's hard to be upset at that sort of thing. There's no roofer's mentality that drives me towards the screaming of obscenites or any southern anti-intellectual pride that scorns universities within me. Hell, christ, we don't have a choice. Either we all start reading books, or we'll be pets to the Chinese in less than a decade. Start with Faulkner, that's what the Owl tells me.
There is something special about these young prodigies, something endearing about their ethic and understanding, but it doesn't last. I still wouldn't share a Leine's with them (Sunset Wheat, now in stores!), and lord knows the success won't rub off. It may, in its best form, fill in a small gap, add another patch to this ever-growing tapestry. In its worst form, I'm left still trying to figure out how Tom Selleck can consistently do it so well, yet I'm just left with a bare upper lip.
But they don't do it for me, and they don't do it for you. They see it bigger, better, more complex. The street level is missing, the global psychology fits their equation. These problems, these shortcomings of societies, their solutions don't lie in telling people like me and the scum I run with how to live our lives. I mean, hell, that's a good start, but it's not fixing any energy crisis. We bet our good money on the Oilers and Yankee overs, not the free trade economy. Jesus, you could call what we do free trade, except some wanker in Peekwuoak, Ontario is raking 10 points no matter if Clemens makes the start or not. So fuck it, I guess.
Lord almighty, look at where I'm going with this. The selfishness reigns supreme, and I can't do a damn thing to stop it. So MY world view is now fucked. I'm seeing everything with my nose in frame, the outlines of my eyesockets forming the border. What happened to the objective? The removal of self from the Greater Pasture? Jesus, it's not gone. Tell me it's not gone.
Possibly, that's why these people are here. They're here to overcome the misgivings and tribulations of a brokedown just-need-12-bucks-to-get-in-the-trunk-of-my-car sensitive castoff like me and everyone else. They aren't troubled with the Human Pain. They use math to explain why we do what we do, and maybe that has validity. I can't see it any other way. They have to be. There has to be some force out there that sees what we all do and appoints a small percentage of us to be able to control it, and fix our errors. If not, we'll just all hang flags and bet longshots. We need help with our society like we need our social security. You can't leave it up to the people... we're not smart enough. These glorious sons of bitches have gone to school for more years than I've had a savings account, and they deserve to manage my future.
So I guess, in the end, it's a Good Thing. They take what they need from the masses - data, mostly - and they spit theories and solutions that leave us scratching our heads and muttering into the darkness in front of television screens. Because we can't fix a goddamned thing without someone up there directing, and if that director lived like we live, then no chance, no way. They'd be doing double time at the Shoe, humping that table hoping to Score Big, and make it out of there with more Money than they came with. Doesn't that about sum up America?
So fight on, soldiers. I couldn't see myself out back with you scheming on a way to take the Polish White Eagle sign off the brick building down the street, but at least you have a GOOD reason for passing on the Grainbelts.
Because my reason is because I'm too fucking broke.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
A Strange Night
The scene: It’s a warm, Minnesota, summer night. There’s a storm brewing but it hasn’t begun yet. Of the 10 or so tables on the patio, most are filled with locals sharing stories, food, and laughs with cocktails in hand. In other words, it’s a nearly perfect night.
Then things get weird.
The patio has quieted down a little bit, when the front door of the bar comes banging open. The bouncer has a gentleman that has had a few too many cocktails – so many in fact, that he’s having one hell of a time walking. A cab pulls up. The bouncers drags the drunk towards the cab, nearly losing him as his legs give out. The drunk is dumped into the back of the cab, door closed, this looks like the end of his night. The bouncer talks to the cabbie for a minute, then makes his way back inside. A few minutes later the bouncer is right back outside. He talks with the cabbie some more, opens the back door, and helps the drunk back out of the cab. Good move by the cabbie. The bouncer, not really sure what to do with the guy at this point, grabs a chair and plops the drunk in it.
Now, to give you a better idea of what the scene looks like at this point, it still has yet to start raining, but the skies are becoming more threatening by the minute. The patio itself is covered, but the entrance is not, and this is where our drunk little friend is currently going in and out of consciousness. Then the rain comes.
And it comes hard.
It starts innocently, much like most storms do, but about 10 minutes later it’s a full fledged downpour. It is one of those wonderful Minnesota summer storms that blows in this time of year. The patrons are all under the protection of the roof over the patio, but our drunk little friend is getting soaked. By this point, he’s completely passed out, and has been unresponsive for about 20 minutes. A few of the people at the table are concerned because our little drunk buddy is out getting soaked. The bouncer – or any staff member for that matter – have made no attempt at all the move the gentleman out of the rain, one actually saying “the rain will do him good.” True or not, it’s not a nice thing to do. Detox has apparently been called, but it’s been nearly an hour since they were contacted. I don’t know how it is in other cities, but in Minneapolis, Detox usually has a very quick response time, so it’s strange that they have yet to make an appearance. Finally though, someone shows up.
But it’s not the ambulance.
The rain has slowed slightly – a lull in the storm. Up walks a Minneapolis Police Officer, but something feels different about this guy. He’s carrying a sort of ominous feeling with him as he approaches the entrance, and our little buddy. He speaks with the bouncer for a minute, then turns his attention towards his reason for being there. The officer slaps the drunk across the face once, presumably in an attempt to wake him up. Then he does it again. And again, but this time, he winds up a little more – WHACK! The cops slaps the guy pretty damn hard. At this point, he’s got the attention of almost everyone on the patio.
The guys who had been concerned about the drunk man sitting in the rain, decide they’ve had enough and approach the officer. In a completely friendly, and unthreatening, tone, one of the guys says he’s got a chair set up under the awning so they can move our buddy out of the rain. That did it.
The cop explodes at him.
He launches into a tirade about how my concerned friend is a snot mouthed puke and that if he doesn’t walk away right now, “he’s going to punch him in the fucking face.” The cope drops a few more F-bombs and threatens him again, finally telling him he’ll throw him in cuffs right now. I was stunned. I had never seen a police officer act in such an aggressive manor, especially since he was unprovoked. My friend comes back to the table, shaking with adrenaline. Okay, good, the ambulance is here. The cop heads over to attended to our drunk little buddy – slaps him again. He then pulls his flashlight out – it appeared to be a miniature Mag Lite, grabs the mans right hand and raps him across the knuckles. Hard. Twice. The paramedic, who is holding the mans left hand, checking for responsiveness, give the cop a look like ‘I don’t think you’re supposed to do that.’
The paramedics finally get the guy on the roller and into the back of the ambulance. The cop finishes up with the bouncer, then makes his way back to his squad car. Instead of just going back to his car, he stops, turns to my concerned friend and berates him some more, telling him “if he wants to help, why don’t you become a civil service worker.” His response is to mention the typical police motto, ‘To Serve and Protect.” Officer friendly points to his car and says “It doesn’t fucking say serve and protect anymore.” I’ve had enough at this point and holler sarcastically, “wow, what a great attitude,” and he responds equally sarcastically, “thanks.”
Then it’s over.
I have never in my life ever seen any public servant act in such an amazingly disrespectful way. Not only did the guy abuse our drunken little buddy, but he threatened a citizen who was only trying to be helpful. Then, after acting like a complete asshole, the cop has the bas sense to come over and continue antagonizing people. We did get his badge number, car number, and the ambulance number. We’ll – all seven of us – be calling in complaints on Officer Friendly, along with a few of the staff members. I know that coming from where I do, I don’t have to deal with some of the things that people who live in rougher parts of the world do, but it completely blew my mind.
It was like something out of the Twilight Zone.
Then things get weird.
The patio has quieted down a little bit, when the front door of the bar comes banging open. The bouncer has a gentleman that has had a few too many cocktails – so many in fact, that he’s having one hell of a time walking. A cab pulls up. The bouncers drags the drunk towards the cab, nearly losing him as his legs give out. The drunk is dumped into the back of the cab, door closed, this looks like the end of his night. The bouncer talks to the cabbie for a minute, then makes his way back inside. A few minutes later the bouncer is right back outside. He talks with the cabbie some more, opens the back door, and helps the drunk back out of the cab. Good move by the cabbie. The bouncer, not really sure what to do with the guy at this point, grabs a chair and plops the drunk in it.
Now, to give you a better idea of what the scene looks like at this point, it still has yet to start raining, but the skies are becoming more threatening by the minute. The patio itself is covered, but the entrance is not, and this is where our drunk little friend is currently going in and out of consciousness. Then the rain comes.
And it comes hard.
It starts innocently, much like most storms do, but about 10 minutes later it’s a full fledged downpour. It is one of those wonderful Minnesota summer storms that blows in this time of year. The patrons are all under the protection of the roof over the patio, but our drunk little friend is getting soaked. By this point, he’s completely passed out, and has been unresponsive for about 20 minutes. A few of the people at the table are concerned because our little drunk buddy is out getting soaked. The bouncer – or any staff member for that matter – have made no attempt at all the move the gentleman out of the rain, one actually saying “the rain will do him good.” True or not, it’s not a nice thing to do. Detox has apparently been called, but it’s been nearly an hour since they were contacted. I don’t know how it is in other cities, but in Minneapolis, Detox usually has a very quick response time, so it’s strange that they have yet to make an appearance. Finally though, someone shows up.
But it’s not the ambulance.
The rain has slowed slightly – a lull in the storm. Up walks a Minneapolis Police Officer, but something feels different about this guy. He’s carrying a sort of ominous feeling with him as he approaches the entrance, and our little buddy. He speaks with the bouncer for a minute, then turns his attention towards his reason for being there. The officer slaps the drunk across the face once, presumably in an attempt to wake him up. Then he does it again. And again, but this time, he winds up a little more – WHACK! The cops slaps the guy pretty damn hard. At this point, he’s got the attention of almost everyone on the patio.
The guys who had been concerned about the drunk man sitting in the rain, decide they’ve had enough and approach the officer. In a completely friendly, and unthreatening, tone, one of the guys says he’s got a chair set up under the awning so they can move our buddy out of the rain. That did it.
The cop explodes at him.
He launches into a tirade about how my concerned friend is a snot mouthed puke and that if he doesn’t walk away right now, “he’s going to punch him in the fucking face.” The cope drops a few more F-bombs and threatens him again, finally telling him he’ll throw him in cuffs right now. I was stunned. I had never seen a police officer act in such an aggressive manor, especially since he was unprovoked. My friend comes back to the table, shaking with adrenaline. Okay, good, the ambulance is here. The cop heads over to attended to our drunk little buddy – slaps him again. He then pulls his flashlight out – it appeared to be a miniature Mag Lite, grabs the mans right hand and raps him across the knuckles. Hard. Twice. The paramedic, who is holding the mans left hand, checking for responsiveness, give the cop a look like ‘I don’t think you’re supposed to do that.’
The paramedics finally get the guy on the roller and into the back of the ambulance. The cop finishes up with the bouncer, then makes his way back to his squad car. Instead of just going back to his car, he stops, turns to my concerned friend and berates him some more, telling him “if he wants to help, why don’t you become a civil service worker.” His response is to mention the typical police motto, ‘To Serve and Protect.” Officer friendly points to his car and says “It doesn’t fucking say serve and protect anymore.” I’ve had enough at this point and holler sarcastically, “wow, what a great attitude,” and he responds equally sarcastically, “thanks.”
Then it’s over.
I have never in my life ever seen any public servant act in such an amazingly disrespectful way. Not only did the guy abuse our drunken little buddy, but he threatened a citizen who was only trying to be helpful. Then, after acting like a complete asshole, the cop has the bas sense to come over and continue antagonizing people. We did get his badge number, car number, and the ambulance number. We’ll – all seven of us – be calling in complaints on Officer Friendly, along with a few of the staff members. I know that coming from where I do, I don’t have to deal with some of the things that people who live in rougher parts of the world do, but it completely blew my mind.
It was like something out of the Twilight Zone.
Friday, May 05, 2006
Flight School
This has been my first pilot season on the demand side (instead of the supply side), and as with most years there's more fat than steak. But what hurts more than anything is the great show that DOESN'T make it. We're a while away from finding out what makes it. But I want to tell you about two shows that didn't make it and the world is a sadder place because of it.
Heat Vision & Jack, Fox, 1999
Jack Black plays a former astronaut who, during an exploration, gets too close too the sun. This is actually a positive as the sun gave him super human intelligence. This occurs whenever the sun is down, however. Aided by Jack, a friend of his who died in a motorcycle crash and was reincarnated as a talking motorcycle (voiced by Owen Wilson), the duo ride the back desert highways fighting for justice, namely Ron Silver (as himself). Ben Stiller produced it.
I want you to read that one again. OK. It's FUNNIER than that. It's simply amazing. Unless the joke went over everyone's heads there (and they decided to instead air such winning comedies as Holding the Baby, Costello, or Getting Personal) this would have made everyone stars. Of course, that happened in time anyway...but just to see that cast when they were younger (JB still had the gut, naturally) is a thing of beauty.
Lookwell, NBC, 1991
Adam West is an actor who starred on a 70s cop show...problem is not only are roles dry, he continues to "help" the LAPD with crimes. Written by Conan O'Brien and Robert Smigel.
I think anyone would agree with me that West is quite possibly one of the best dry comedy legends, right there with Fred Willard. To see him screening episodes of the 70s show (titled "Banagan") for his acting class, and his delivery of lines such as "Used to...play detective...mind...can't help but make...deductions."
NBC...well, why pick this when The Adventures of Mark & Brian (LA radio DJ's real life escapades) or Flesh 'n Blood (A stuffy lawyer takes in her 'country' family members) sit right on the shelf?
These are rare occasions, and I don't want to give the impression that there's tons of gems in the hills. But every now and then, you can see the gold. Just gotta...grab.
Heat Vision & Jack, Fox, 1999
Jack Black plays a former astronaut who, during an exploration, gets too close too the sun. This is actually a positive as the sun gave him super human intelligence. This occurs whenever the sun is down, however. Aided by Jack, a friend of his who died in a motorcycle crash and was reincarnated as a talking motorcycle (voiced by Owen Wilson), the duo ride the back desert highways fighting for justice, namely Ron Silver (as himself). Ben Stiller produced it.
I want you to read that one again. OK. It's FUNNIER than that. It's simply amazing. Unless the joke went over everyone's heads there (and they decided to instead air such winning comedies as Holding the Baby, Costello, or Getting Personal) this would have made everyone stars. Of course, that happened in time anyway...but just to see that cast when they were younger (JB still had the gut, naturally) is a thing of beauty.
Lookwell, NBC, 1991
Adam West is an actor who starred on a 70s cop show...problem is not only are roles dry, he continues to "help" the LAPD with crimes. Written by Conan O'Brien and Robert Smigel.
I think anyone would agree with me that West is quite possibly one of the best dry comedy legends, right there with Fred Willard. To see him screening episodes of the 70s show (titled "Banagan") for his acting class, and his delivery of lines such as "Used to...play detective...mind...can't help but make...deductions."
NBC...well, why pick this when The Adventures of Mark & Brian (LA radio DJ's real life escapades) or Flesh 'n Blood (A stuffy lawyer takes in her 'country' family members) sit right on the shelf?
These are rare occasions, and I don't want to give the impression that there's tons of gems in the hills. But every now and then, you can see the gold. Just gotta...grab.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Train in vain
It's rare for me to find public transportation, let alone use it, but that all changed during his trip to Boston. Witness this exchange:
A wino picks up a half used bottle of juice on the floor.
"Aw man, you gonna drink that?"
Uuuugh, I'm thirsty.
"My god, you're disgusting. That thing got all germs."
But the person drinkin' it didn't.
"You don't know what's in there."
Uuugh, but they wouldn't do something bad to their drink.
"That's so gross. Oh my god."
This conversation went on, but I unfortunately had to change trains. To think, for 4 years, I usually had a portable music player with me at all times. The conversations I missed! The society, the people, the color of Boston.
It's a shame really. Too many conversations simply didn't last that long as I was on the go. Oh sure, there were gems here and there, and I never had to start a conversation:
Spoken to at Wendy's
Creepy guy: "I usually like to sit at the counter and look out at the girls on the street. But they took away the stools."
Spoken to on the plane
Old Lady: "Oh, you work in TV? Let me ask you, what's the name of the guy...the one, oh...who does the news in the morning on CNN?"
Spoken to in a convenience store
Wino: $1.50. You gimme...I get a dollar and...haha, shit.
In a cafe
Waitress: The tea is really good...a blend of green tea, some Chamomile, and we add some spices to make it really cozy!
On the plane home
Stewardess: For you sir, the pasta? It's a pasta...with CHEESE. A CHEESE pasta. Another drink, sir, or do you want to wait for the CHEESE pasta.
On it goes. And tonight, I meet a visiting sister, who's fear of the English language should yield more fun.
A wino picks up a half used bottle of juice on the floor.
"Aw man, you gonna drink that?"
Uuuugh, I'm thirsty.
"My god, you're disgusting. That thing got all germs."
But the person drinkin' it didn't.
"You don't know what's in there."
Uuugh, but they wouldn't do something bad to their drink.
"That's so gross. Oh my god."
This conversation went on, but I unfortunately had to change trains. To think, for 4 years, I usually had a portable music player with me at all times. The conversations I missed! The society, the people, the color of Boston.
It's a shame really. Too many conversations simply didn't last that long as I was on the go. Oh sure, there were gems here and there, and I never had to start a conversation:
Spoken to at Wendy's
Creepy guy: "I usually like to sit at the counter and look out at the girls on the street. But they took away the stools."
Spoken to on the plane
Old Lady: "Oh, you work in TV? Let me ask you, what's the name of the guy...the one, oh...who does the news in the morning on CNN?"
Spoken to in a convenience store
Wino: $1.50. You gimme...I get a dollar and...haha, shit.
In a cafe
Waitress: The tea is really good...a blend of green tea, some Chamomile, and we add some spices to make it really cozy!
On the plane home
Stewardess: For you sir, the pasta? It's a pasta...with CHEESE. A CHEESE pasta. Another drink, sir, or do you want to wait for the CHEESE pasta.
On it goes. And tonight, I meet a visiting sister, who's fear of the English language should yield more fun.
Friday, March 03, 2006
Here we go, again
What's happening in Hollywood isn't that much different than downtown Las Vegas. Swank leaving for the stupid. What do I mean? Well, look at the intersection developments that have showed up this decade. Hollywood & Highland is useless except for the Oscars. Sunset & Vine is nothing but the same old storefronts, but with tougher parking. And now, Hollywood & Vine:
From the LA Times
"Los Angeles officials cleared the way for a luxury hotel developer to seize buildings housing about 30 small businesses through eminent domain so a $400-million project with a W Hotel, condominium and apartment units, and glitzy shops and restaurants can be built on the southeast corner."
I am not sure I understand a new luxury hotel where, beyond the Pantages theater, there's not that much to do. What are these fucking ritzy people doing in Hollywood, anyway? This article accents the local business that gets the shaft, but it really is true. I lived in Hollywood for 4 years, and I saw new developments serve absolutely NO ONE. No drug stores, grocery, hardware, you know, things we NEED within walking distance. Could a new property, oh, I don't know, SERVE THE COMMUNITY?! Of course not. Just keep spending the public's money for the private gain. Meanwhile, the American Eagle becomes a Gap which becomes a Tommy Hillfiger, and they stand confused wondering why the fucking 99 Cent store gets more business. HMMM - LOOK AROUND.
If your name was Johnny Swank (which it is) and you were all about deals (which you are) would you stay on Hollywood Blvd. so you could dine at Burger King? Or would you stay at the Chateau Marmont on the Strip? Hunter and Belushi walk those halls. So does Morrison.
I bet there's folks in MN who say the same thing about stadiums. Why spend my hard earned money when I can't fit in the seats? I could spend that much for a dinner at Ponderosa, and we could hit Dairy Queen on the way home. Difference is the Metrodome sucks. Met Stadium was the shit. I don't make the rules.
Alas, instead of trying to make the best of it, I shall dodge the dumb and continue gold mining. After all, that's what making deals is all about.
From the LA Times
"Los Angeles officials cleared the way for a luxury hotel developer to seize buildings housing about 30 small businesses through eminent domain so a $400-million project with a W Hotel, condominium and apartment units, and glitzy shops and restaurants can be built on the southeast corner."
I am not sure I understand a new luxury hotel where, beyond the Pantages theater, there's not that much to do. What are these fucking ritzy people doing in Hollywood, anyway? This article accents the local business that gets the shaft, but it really is true. I lived in Hollywood for 4 years, and I saw new developments serve absolutely NO ONE. No drug stores, grocery, hardware, you know, things we NEED within walking distance. Could a new property, oh, I don't know, SERVE THE COMMUNITY?! Of course not. Just keep spending the public's money for the private gain. Meanwhile, the American Eagle becomes a Gap which becomes a Tommy Hillfiger, and they stand confused wondering why the fucking 99 Cent store gets more business. HMMM - LOOK AROUND.
If your name was Johnny Swank (which it is) and you were all about deals (which you are) would you stay on Hollywood Blvd. so you could dine at Burger King? Or would you stay at the Chateau Marmont on the Strip? Hunter and Belushi walk those halls. So does Morrison.
I bet there's folks in MN who say the same thing about stadiums. Why spend my hard earned money when I can't fit in the seats? I could spend that much for a dinner at Ponderosa, and we could hit Dairy Queen on the way home. Difference is the Metrodome sucks. Met Stadium was the shit. I don't make the rules.
Alas, instead of trying to make the best of it, I shall dodge the dumb and continue gold mining. After all, that's what making deals is all about.
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