That Smell

Ohhh, that smell. Can't you smell that smell?

The smell is a lingering one. It arrived yesterday, about 8PM Gold Time. It wafted in from the East like a hundred angry, dirty crows. And the next thing I knew, a legitimate Brown Crown sat over the city. I was left to do my own musings...what exactly was it that had gone against the jet stream to hover over us?

After a while, I began to notice a scent and recognize it. It smelled of canned beer and sausage. Maybe I left the window open in the kitchen. At that moment, the color of the crown turned to rust, and then moved north east, to specifically hover over Pasadena. At then it all made sense.

26 years ago was the last time the Steel City felt this way (with it taking part in Super Bowl XIV, which is essentially the most gold Super Bowl ever). Or felt close to that way, at least. When you win your 4th in 6 years, it's not the same as first in 26. But the ghosts of big games past, the combination of sausage, Iron City Beer, Pull Tabs, Mustaches, towels, and polka sat and hung over Pasadena. The memories of the last big win were there, if ever so briefly. Then, like a lingering fart, it shot back east, returning to its musty home.

They'll talk about how the team is a gritty bunch, that millionaire players are "blue collar guys." The type who "take their lunchpail to work." I don't need phony baloney analogies, guys. I don't need people pretending Hines Ward is a nice guy. Give me the fans. It means more to them. Tonight, I raise my can of Hamms to you.

This is the year we get that one for the thumb

Here we go.

The black and gold soldiers deserve this. Don't take it away, Microsoft. They worked too hard to get here, they deserve recognition and admiration.

Their bars close at 5:30, for fuck's sake.

Arm-Pit-sburgh is a broken city, a forgotten landscape with pieces of history tossed into gutters and alleys like yesterday's Gazette. The haunted still roam, but the industry will never catch up. In what once surely bustled and jumped with excitement, now it is filled with the slow human decay of Development. Churches converted to bars, train depots into hole-in-the-wall diners, and parks into shelters. The cruel hand of irony clutches the burly city by the neck, and it squeezes until the old feelings are gone, replaced by the Coastal Imagination, and the soft whisps of prairie wind.

They used to build fucking trains here, god dammit.

But they deserve this not out of pity. Fuck that. That's too easy. It's too easy to pull for the Yankees in the Desert World Series because the planes went into the towers. It's too easy to cuddle up with the Red and White Sox because - AWWWWWWWW - aren't they cute?!!? They haven't won in 86 YEARS!!! Here's a championship, you loveable band of misfits.

They deserve it because they're better than you. They're better fans than you. They live this life, and they make no reservations about their pride. They are singular in their mentality: Go Steelers. They form their entire existence out of their sports, they plan entire months around game-times, and they know more about their team than any place else.

And it's not noble. And they're not pious. And they eat huge sandwiches with coleslaw on them and drink beer out of aluminum bottles because their city is FLAT BROKE. But none of that matters. They are what they are, and they could plain give a shit if you care or not.

They can't keep the streets clean. And they can't keep their strip of bars open late because they just lose money. They have to serve everything with a Steelers theme just to compete with one another. The city dies, but it lives. It is a triumphant defiance to the New American Way. The old is swept away, but never really disappears. It echoes now, reverberating through time and the Monongahela, rippling it's crumbling facade. Progress doesn't have to be like it is everywhere else. The winds of change bring sweet notes of redemption and revitalization.

But don't tell these people. They care about Reed, Ben, Bill and all the rest. They love the Bus more than we'll ever know. They are not heroes, these footballers. They are just like the rest of them. They are representatives. They carry the black and gold flag north to the Canadian border. And if you take them lightly, they'll plant it in your turqouise-blue ass.

So belly up to the bar and order yourself a Rothlis-burger. Grab an Iron City to wash it down (don't you DARE forget to recycle). Make sure you order that burger "loaded". They'll be generous with the slaw, don't worry. And eat it in peace, perched next to off-duty cops and electricians. The conversation is dim, but don't be suckered in. They don't care for your dissenting opinion. We're not here to discuss the "chances". We're not here to discuss "what might happen".

We're here because "if all 22 men do exactly what they're supposed to do, they will be victorious".

Here we go.

Happy Fucking New Year….25 Days Late

So it has begun. 2006 is off to a rambling start. In the past three weeks I’ve drowned my liver, burned my lungs with various types of smoke, and was attacked by a rabid Guiness bottle. Well, truthfully, the Guiness bottle attacked me right after Christmas, but I had to spend New Years with a giant white middle finger. One thing at a time though.

Every new year seems to bring up resolutions, both new and old. One more thing to judge my failing life based on. Last year, for instance, I was to quit smoking.

“Hey, you got a light?”

The year before that it was to work out three days a week. Well, I guess if that doesn’t include the days that end in ‘day’ then I’ve been successful. I don’t even remember what I promised myself I’d do before that, but fuck that, I don’t give a shit. I hate resolutions, probably because I have no resolve, but nonetheless I hate them – of course I have one this year, but we won’t discuss that yet.

2006 finds us in a very interesting world. There’s war and terrorism raging beautifully in the Middle East. The ship that is New Orleans is still trying to rebuild itself in spite having one of the worst leaders as its captain. Washington is unraveling as more rumors of widespread lying continue to bury the current administration. In short, it’s a fucked up world at the moment, but boy does it provide great entertainment. The Mayor of New Orleans finishes a sentence about the government being racist by making a racist comment himself. The President finishes his sentence about how he lied, by telling another lie. Maybe it’s because I pay more attention now, but it seems that right now we are in a very fragile political climate. I remember the past crises as coming up, being dealt with, then going away, most likely not to resurface until another generation has forgotten how to avoid such trouble. Now though, it seems like each issue that comes up is compounded by other, related problems. September 11th happens, we try to get Osama, we follow him into Iraq, then decide based on “intelligence” to oust Saddam because he has weapons of mass destruction. As the war rages on, it comes out that Bush lied, thus giving no immediate justification for attacking Iraq – we all know Saddam is bad, but not for the reasons we were given by our government. There just feels like there’s a lot of tension in the air these days, whether there is or not, I certainly feel it more now than I did when I was taking bong rips in college. But that’s a different story…

As For The Picture…

Well, funny story about that. A couple friends of mine got married on the 27th of December and they were kind enough to extend me an invitation. I, being the wonderful friend and booze hound that I am, accepted and attended their ceremony. It was nice and quick and they finished with a Native American prayer. The food was served buffet style and the booze was on the table next to the food. Well as I made my way up the line, another friend asked if I would be kind enough to cover him while he got some drinks. “Sure, why the hell not, I like serving drinks almost as much as I like pouring them down my throat.”

There’s a plethora of beer, booze and mixers to play with, so I’m having myself a grand ol’ time. A young lady asks for a Guiness. I compliment her on her selection and offer to open it for her. I reach for the bottle and it strikes. So quickly too. As soon as I touched the cap with the opener, the bottle grabbed my finger in it’s mouthful of glass teeth. I pulled my finger away quickly, but that’s all it took. Spouting blood from my finger I made for the kitchen, where I proceeded to clean out and bandage my wound. Of course, like the drunkard I am, I return to my post and finish the night by drinking more drinks than I served. After the reception, we went over to the bar across the street and kept the glasses full of fire water. Shortly after midnight I decide it’s time to leave, so I make my way back downtown to meet The Lady Luck for a couple drinks and a game of pool. The clock strikes bar time and we leave. I get home, remove the bandages, and I’m still bleeding like a hemophiliac. A stern look from her tells me it’s time to go to the emergency room. “Damn you devil woman, you can’t make me go see him, I’ll sick my lawyers on you!”

My protests are futile, mostly because at this point I agree with her. Fortunately this is a Tuesday night, so the ER is quiet and I’m back to see the Doc before I can blink. “Doc, she got me, got me good.” A puzzled look. “I tried to open the nice girl’s beer for her and it bit me.” A more puzzled look. “The bottle man, the bottle.” I’m pretty sure that at this point he’s convinced I’m insane, but then I tell him how it all went down and we move on. Six shots, seven stitches, and three hours later Doc finishes up. He offers me a prescription on the way out. My eyebrows go up until he tells me it’s for Tylenol 3.

“That shit’s for pussies, can’t even get a good buzz going off that.”

I thank the kind doctor and go home to bed.

It’s healed now, but I’m gonna have a nice scar to remember that wedding for a long, long time. And I still drink Guiness, just not out of the bottle.

And So We Go…

As the thunderheads roll in on this new year, mine’s off to an interesting start. I look forward to watching the fucked up climate we’re in develop and take us to the promised land, wherever that is.

Hey Doc, pass me the painkillers.

Quit selling me a car

All right, true, I haven't bought a lot of cars in my time. I was "given" one (the price was so low it was insane), a giant beast with wood paneling that was your best friend on the road except when it snowed or rained, or it needed gas, or had to start in weather below 40 degrees. The next car, my current car, was purchased so easily considering I wanted the car, they wanted to sell it, and it's been good ever since.

But the tried and true approach of any salesman, once they kind of have you in, is to keep the positive reinforcement. Uncle Rico knew what he was talking about. "So, we're feeling good about this 24 piece set?" Rico knew that if he made it known and agreed that EVERYONE in the room (including you) already thought this was a winner, well, all we have left is the deal.

So why do I bring this up? It's that people (the same people I seem to have to interact with on a daily basis) think this works when we're talking about my time. For instance, here's a recent e mail from someone who didn't have plans with me because I was unavailable the night she was free - a fact that was already stated twice in a previous phone call.

"So, we still on for Wednesday?"

NO, Rudy Russo, we are NOT on for Wednesday. We never were. And you know this, man. So let's fucking save each other this entire scene and admit that things didn't work out, you were unable to flex...Bottom Line: You didn't get what you wanted and it pisses you off.

Do you want to take these souvenir cups home?
No, I have enough.
Why not?
I already have about 20 cups. I live alone. I have no need for other cups.
Oh. Well, I thought you'd want these. I saved them.
Well, thank you for thinking of me.
(Uh oh, backup arrives)
What's the matter?
Well, Trip doesn't want these cups.
Why not?
I have enough cups.

And on and on it goes. And it's never "Oh, Trip, we're feeling good about that bottle of Rum I was going to give you, right?" Nope. It's always shit I don't need: people who want to make their problems mine, people wanting to give me things I don't want, people not wanting to do tasks and trying to get me to do them. That shit plain doesn't work.

It'll happen again. Some yahoo will try to get me to think I've agreed to some jangle entry-level tripe. No need to play dirty, just keep the honesty. A small war broke out, one of which you caused, and you lost. Reminds me of my days covering the Falkland Islands, except you don't see me responding to the call by sending a boat that will take WEEKS to get there.

Yup, you'll have to do it. Solo. Me? Oh, I'll be wearing a judge's robe, drinking from a spiked juice box, fixing the record player again as my plans are in full swing.

The Guts

It's coming. The war looms on the horizon and the best lack all convictions. Mere anarchy is about to be loosed upon this little world.

We cannot hold it. We can give way to it, we can fight it, but the guts will be scattered. No, more accurately, they will be killed. They will all die, all these scumbag degenerates. This rotting pile of human waste will be cleaned away, swept to other areas, where it will continue to fester. You can't fight them, but you can move them, easily. They are going to be here forever... in one form or another. You push them from The Club, they'll land at The Shoe. You push them from the Shoe, watch out Silver Saloon. They're coming your way.

And at the end of it all, when this downtown goes through its "renovation", the Powers will have sapped the lifeforce from this place. They will have taken what was once beautiful, strange and magnificent, and turned it into a cruise with neon. Not many people will notice. Kids will walk the streets, gladly holding their father's hand as they sing a song about the funny bear who greeted them at the Big Wheel. Mom will put the mascara back into her purse and retrieve a pamphlet informing her and her kind of the next Big Belly Busting ComedyZone show at the building with the cascading lights.

And somewhere, Moses will die.

But fuck all that, let's get into this thing. The mentality of this place is becoming suffocating. The thoughts and conversations of the damned have penetrated my thoughts, and no doubt, the battle lines have been drawn all around us. We're at a serious disconnect here. The negativity is running high... we cannot even hold dialogue anymore. The broke scum just go deeper, they hide in their caverns of insufficient self-worth. "Right on brother! My name's Jack from California. I'm trying to quit smoking.... would you mind if I had one of your cigarettes?" Jesus Christ, of course not. With a statement like that, I'd be a fool not to.

The Message is one of those guys who is just flat out going to end up getting the shit kicked out of him in front of some pawn shop one night. The guy doing the kicking might pull a knife or he might not - it's irrelevant. The point is that eventually, the bill comes due on all the gab. And also, like Ice Cube said, eventually he's going to need to cut that jerry juice and get a ball-head. Because the locks keep dripping, and when you talk like he does, you put a sign on yourself. Bet all you want, cheer however you please, but when you call people out, you get a name. And a name to us is just a way of identifying you. To others, those who slam fists down onto tables because they want to go to jail, your name is your certificate. Cube would call it the Death Certificate.

They're not all like that though. Most are caricatures of lost life, of ambitions broken and remade into more modest goals. Dollar hotdogs at Fremont, ham and eggs in the basement, 4 finger omelets in the Great Moments room. They stay low, under the radar. When the Club closed, they were the great silent majority. They're here now, but they are nameless. They occupy their space, occasionally asking for smokes or berating a waitress, but they are the ultimate in expendable. With all due respect, they are the reason places like this close. They bet their 2 dollar shows, they fill the air with stench and foul language, and they eventually try to steal someone's wallet on Fremont. Just hope it's not yours.

Sitting directly in front of me is one of the smallest asian men I have ever seen. He talks about things very quietly, but occasionally, he watches a missed basket and screams out "Fixed!" Apparently, the entire NBA is fixed, with everyone in on the take. It's funny in a way, because he maintains a smile throughout the whole thing, but he also represents something here. He represents that paranoia, that internal gas that comes with being a Gambler. We all feel it... Kobe makes it more real than others. But there is a palpable sense that We Don't Know What's Really Going On. And it hurts. Blackjack dealers can hide cards, and Pai-Gow is just plain stilted towards the house, but in sports, we feel free. We don't want to think that the man behind the curtain makes all the calls, that he determines who wins and who eats nachos from the Plaza snack bar. But it's always there. Rather than hide from it, Fixed has decided to embrace it. If they're going to fix the game, god damn it, he's going to call them on it. Doesn't make him a winner, but it does make him a person, which is more important than just about anything here.

You can see it everywhere you go. It never ceases, only grows stronger. The battle between the Clean and the Real. There is a middle ground. It's called Dep, Dizz, B'n P, and Chief. We are here to observe it all. We are here to understand it, to celebrate it, and to offer a bridge from one side to the other. We're just as comfortable listening to Talk About It talk about it as we are seeing the big superfans #99 Wisconsin dyed-in-the wool homers sit quietly and root their Badgers to certain victory against the scumbags from N'Western. I mean, what's the goddamned point anyway? It's all nothing... it's all some grand game that's going to continue to churn and froth maniacs and cast-offs into the night sky like so much fairy dust, so why worry?

Am I worried about getting my wallet stolen by someone who just dumped a hog on the Bears? Yeah, as much as usual. Am I a bit uneasy about a late-night trek to the Fitz for gamblin and eatin? Sure, you never know what the shadows hold. But the biggest thing that worries me is the re-allocation. These things, they are on foreign turf. Softball wanders into the Nugget with his protege, and everyone stands at attention. What is going on here? What's a scumbag in windpants doing in a nice place like this? Hell, these guys sitting behind me bought land in the 50s for 5 grand an acre, now they're selling it for 150,000. I guess they are right to be smoking cigars right now. But Softball is never right. It's his kind that make the Barrick machine stronger.

You can't rip the guts out of this place, it's true. But you can rip this whole place out, and you can replace it with a brand of fun that is better described in an US Weekly than "Young Roomates" flyers in newspaper dispensers. The game is on now, and we have no way of fighting it. They're killing my Vegas, destroying it one supersized lunch at a time. Yes, that's right.... cater to them. Make them comfortable. Give them the comedy shows and the slot tournaments. More food, that will do it. The sex, ah, there's the rub. How to get rid of it? Put it everywhere, incorporate it, but don't let the horses stray too far from their television. I Dream of Jeannie machines in every corner. Hit them up for the Player's Club, get the info, lower the rates, kill the sportsbooks. Shed the scum, keep the Money.

And so it goes. A little bit more is chipped away from the fading Golden Dome. And these bastards don't even put it on their helmets. I suppose it's inevitable, this progress.

But that doesn't mean I have to wear pants yet.

By the grace of god, there go I

At midnight last night, my surroundings were in disarray. Clothing, for a weekend hunt to Las Vegas, was everywhere. There were crackers deeply embedded in the carpet. The bottle of James Beam was on its side and (thankfully) not spilling. The mail, it's piling up. After that first bill from Sierra Ski Ranch (I've never even BEEN to Sacramento, so they've got the wrong guy, but it's such a fucking mess I want nothing to do with it) I just stopped paying attention to my surroundings.

About 20 minutes later, I was vacuuming the crackers out of the floor, instantly turning it to a shop-vac. The wondrous machine didn't seem to mind. The Beam was salvaged with deft-if drunk-hands, and I felt like I just fucking built a ship in the god damned thing. And then this LV anticipation hit me like a long, feel-good fart.

Toss...turn. That can't be it. Turned on the air. (Shit, did I leave it on? LA Gas Co, you can have my wallet). And then, as the sun shined, I woke up on the floor. So, let's sum up.
1) My mind openly left me at some point.
2) At some point I said "fuck this" to the bed.
3) My attempt to stay awake didn't take.
4) I am at an advantage in my war with the Gas Co (Those schysters already "mis-read" me to the tune of $64, so they can wait) considering I had the air on, and my place is simply going to get colder naturally, thus, it won't turn on. Right, keep repeating that.
5) Let me bet on Old Dominion, while holding an Irish Coffee, wearing shades indoors, asking Potsy where he wants to go for Lunch #2.

I have work to do.

Back On The Bus

Once again, the 7pm bus home becomes the loony wagon to wonderville. As I sit on the bus, quietly reading, a loud conversation breaks out behind me.

“Hey, what do you do for a living?”

“I’m in construction.”

“Shit yeah? Me too man.”

This conversation goes on until another gentleman gets on the bus, whom one of them apparently knows.

“Hey man, where you comin’ from?”

“I just came from the strip club”

At this point the guy sitting behind me chimes in and all hell breaks loose.

“Oh shit man, you just got back from a strip club? Man, I just got back from Vegas on fuckin’ Sunday!”

“No shit man? Vegas, huh? What’d you do out there?”

“Man, what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”

Yeah, no shit man. No shit.

“Yeah, but what kinda shit did you get into out there?”

“Man, like I said, what happens in Vegas stays there man.”

Jesus, must've either been something really wicked, or you're lying. I bet you're lying, swine!

They go back and forth like this for a few minutes, the construction guy changes gears a little.

“Yeah, but what would your wife say about that?”

Oops, wrong question.

“Man, what the fuck!? I ain’t got no wife, and what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Man, shit!”

Wait, where does it stay? It hasn't been clear.

“Shit, I mean your wife might take that, but I’m just some stranger on the bus, you can talk all kinds of shit and I wouldn’t care.”

“Man, who the fuck are you to talk about what my wife would say!? I mean, who the fuck are you tellin’ me what’s what?”

The strip club guy is laughing at this point. It scales up a bit, to the point where they were talking so loud I couldn’t read. I put my book away and tune in.

Then the lady gets involved.

Oh, this is gonna get gooood!

“Man, so what would you do up in Vegas?”

“I’d do all types of shit.”

“Like what?”

Yeah yeah! egg him on!

“Man I’d be going into all those strip joints and lookin’ at titties and shit. Then I’d go into those legal places where you can get ladies and I’d nail all the hottest ones.”

“I WISH I coulda done that. I WISH I coulda done that.”

“Shit, I’d be payin for that pussy. I got $50 on it if you know what I mean!”

“I’d be getting them $5 whores. $5 whores. Yeah, that’s what I’d be into”

Oh. My. God! Gold, solid gold. I love the man's honesty! Oh, and that last one was the guy who'd just come from the strip club!

At this point Stripper Joe gets off the bus and the conversation dies down. Captain Construction is now wondering how to get where he’s going – after he’s on the bus. He just keeps asking “does this go to the uptown station?” Of course he’s not directing his question towards anyone in particular so he has to ask about ten times before someone turns around and simply says “no.” The guy behind me and his lady get off at the next stop and all is good on the neighborhood bus.

Most of the time my bus rides home are quiet and relaxing, but when I take that 7pm bus home, there’s always shit happening. It’s great!

Thank you public transportation!

Home To The Cretins

When the air whips and turns, when the sand sings at eye-level and the gentle spray of desert water cools your head and sets your brain straight, that's when you know you're there.

No, fuck it. We'll be wearing shorts. 50 degrees is warm, you scumbags.

This will be my 8th trip to the Heartland, and each one of them has brought a renewal in values and an examination of priorities. You can't make gold without protons, neutrons and electrons, and you can't make Vegas without change cups, whiskey and Sports.

Depending on the crowd, the old girl can be quite a mean monster. I've come home with less than nothing a few times. Hell, one time I went, blew every cent I had, then borrowed 300 bucks from my friend and lost that. I wrote him post-dated checks, he cashed them, and they bounced. They got words for that.... they start with G and end with "etto".

I'm obsessed with what I call "street level" in Vegas. I believe the town exists in certain strata, and that tourists rarely step outside their specific caste. You won't see the pretenders from Stratosphere or Sahara stomping downtown, just like you wouldn't see me and my attorney bellying up to a 50 dollar table at the Luxor. Those days have passed. I'm not pretending anymore. I don't pay for pussy, either.

You see, down here, you get the real shit. Real impulses are fulfilled. Real emotions are thrown up like $1.99 eggs from Binions. Real tears flow, and real lies are told. "Hey man, my car ran out of gas and I need ten bucks to get out of here". Sure, hell, why not? Go put it on red, pal. I'll be right the fuck next to you, betting big black. And odd. In this town, there's no other way to bet.

Ghosts walk these streets. Mutants sweep them. Rookie cops ride bicycles, underage sluts bark at patrons outside strip clubs, and mexicans drink footballs of beer. Jesus Christ. It's fucking nirvana. Crushed velvet furniture fills backroom bars that are hidden from view, and plasma screens show you how you are making money. It's a river, this town. Money flows like vodka from a backpack dispenser. Time doesn't move here, and neither do lines, unless you put down two big boys on a point total over. But not those lines... those are for upstairs. You wonder why they put "vanity" mirrors in the suites. Yeah, I'm vain alright. Vain like a fox.

There's whores out there, and there's whores in here, and we're all whores, I guess. We come from towns nobody's heard of to meet, congregate, and push things to their limits. I suppose there's a reason for all this, there's some cosmic debate that pits this place against, say, the Garden of Eden. There's good, there's bad, and we struggle to define both of them, to somehow give it language, to identify and deconstruct it. And while that happens, we're asked for change, told another sob story, ignored by a dealer with a diamond ring bigger than my fist, amused by drunks singing along to lounge entertainers, and served chinese food at 4 in the morning. Because sweet mother in heaven, we'd have it no other way. This is where it is, where it breathes. That never-ending dream, that vision of perfection and utter decay. That ideal. It's here. Look around. See that? That's your fucking life. It's American Life.

You play the games, you make the bets, and you offer yourself as a sacrifice to Money. You hold your trips, raise your Qs, and bet the Dragon hand when you've got 3 pair. If you need advice, here, I have some. Free of charge...

Put everything you have on odd.

Midnight In A Perfect World

As I fell asleep the other night a thought occurred to me. “Am I a clone of a miscarriage?” I must be. I’m too fucked up not to be. Of course this thought came to me the same night I watched AeonFlux so I’m sure that had nothing to do with it. But really, think about that. What if you were a clone of a miscarriage? Jesus, wouldn’t that be a mind fuck. You got the good stuff from the bad one. You’d be Arnold except Danny Devito would be dead instead of short and fat. Fucked up. “Hey son, the first version of you failed so we just copied that failure and poof! There you were.” Gee, thanks Dad. Cock.

Karma is a tricky bitch

Some people believe in it, others think its hogwash. I tend to be a believer, but only skeptically. The shitty part of it is that even if you do something nice, you may have to endure a bunch of bad things before something good happens. And that’s how we think about it too. “Oh, all the bad stuff had nothing to do with that one good thing I did, but man, now that I got a free ounce of Green Hornet for free, life’s allriiight!” Me, I get pissed when something bad happens after I do something good. I swear into the heavens and tell God, “Hey you, listen up! We had a deal and you’ve just handed me the shitty end of the stick. I demand redemption!” Usually lighting strikes the tree next to me, which lets me know he heard me. The worst is when something bad happens while you’re doing something nice. The other night, The Lady Luck was kind enough to drive a fellow drunkard home after she had danced the two-step tango with gang of Tanqueray. It had been warm enough to keep the snow that fell in a slushy mix of ugly and worse, and then it got cold, like a dead witch’s titty. Of course the slush turned to ice like it always does in this frigid, barren waste of a winter land, and the driving got dicey. The Lady Luck’s Icemobile did a 180 and slammed rear-end style into a guard rail. She had been driving like a decent Minnesotan – if you know Minnesota, then you know the un-decent assholes that roam the roads in the winter – so she didn’t get hurt and the car remains drivable. If I hadn’t been half asleep when she got home I would have let God know what I thought about the hand he’d dealt her, but alas, sleep was to powerful.

Pat Bush? George Riley? Stan Van Clinton?

So this nonsense in Miami with Stan “stepping down” and Riley being “the most qualified option,” especially considering he has “a responsibility” to the organization is total garbage. There’s always a bullshit cover story and company line when a coach gets fired in professional sports. We all know that, and at some point in time someone takes the lid off and we find out what really happened. Boy, I can’t wait til the raccoons get into this trashcan. “Hey Pat, you want some more attention, errr?” Now don’t get me wrong, Riley is one of the better coaches in NBA history, what with the 4 rings he’s got. “Kiss ‘em bitch, kiss ‘em!” It’s not that Miami won’t be a better team with him at the helm, shit he built that team. It’s the way Stan “stepped down” but “will remain” with the organization. Sure, I’ll believe that. After getting into a Dog Fight.

Pass the Mad Dog, it’s onto round two

Stanley Williams And The Flying Idiot Parade

Every time something politically, socially, or morally strenuous is being debated, people flock. People for and against, stand up in support or defiance. The mild mannered speak their hearts, the aggressors are enraged, and the politicians skate around. “Victory Jazz , okay!”

The people with money or power get up on their soap box and make a stink, and the media is right there recording every juicy minute of it. The people who don’t have the money or the power, group together and come out in force to get their attention, and their point across. The media, once again, is there letting the rest of us sitting at our desks or on our couches know that there is civil uproar. The message? “Goddamn it! We Americans care!”

That’s all fine and dandy, but what really tweaks my hide are the celebrities. They get up to their podium and begin preaching what they believe in their fantasy world of the rich and crazy. They talk with confidence and conviction. They talk like they’re authorities on the subject at hand. They talk like they’re trying to paint a picture of themselves. They talk like everyone cares what they think

Here’s the thing. NO ONE DOES!

Well, I’m sure there’s somebody who really cares what Triple X thinks about the war in Iraq, but for the most part people like to form their own opinions. Or rather, I’d like to think so.

“Hey Hunnicut! Pass the syringe!”

In thinking about my feeling about celebrities getting up and preaching about certain political issues, the first thing that popped into my head – well, after the voices from the void – was “hey, they’re people, US citizens, most of them. They have just as much right to yell about something they feel strongly about as I do.”

As this thought line progressed I came to the conclusion that it’s not really their fault they’re plastered all over the television, internet, and newspapers. When anyone shares an opinion, they need an audience. You and I, our audiences are usually the scumbags we associate with, our co-workers, our readers, and our lawyers. Sure, you may know who I am, but your next door neighbor probably doesn’t, and certainly not Mike Wallace. “Dave who? You don’t mean Kliznuzki, the coach of the Doop Blue Boovers?”

No, and fuck you.

The people with money and power usually have more drive for the spotlight, true, but they’re not usually the ones holding the cameras, pens and pads of paper. They may announce the press conference, but they don’t give the orders to the TV camera crew to “get the hell out there, this is gonna be fuckin’ great news!”

Sure, they may invite the attention, but they certainly aren’t in charge of it. Sometimes they use the attention to endear themselves to their fans or to raise awareness for their side of an issue. But who gives them this attention? Who allows them to think they can get up and speak and because they are who they are, it means something? The fans certainly have some responsibility because, as money paying entertainment hogs, we dictate how much they’re worth. To an extent.

The media is the ones that have their Soul Suckers pointed at these icons of pop culture. The cannons of visualization are what transpose these famous faces and voices into our homes. Who wants to be at the spot when John Wayne calls Bush a fucking pussy? They do! The media giants. Well, to be fair, everyone would want to see John Wayne call G Dubbs a pussy, but...

There’s this vicious circle of stupidity that surrounds any touchy issue. People get up in arms because someone else, somewhere else, disagrees with what they think. The fans feed the celebrities and make them famous, then the media helps spoon feed their egos by showing up to give them back to us at home. Then we feed the media moguls their ratings by watching and salivating over what Jessica Simpson might think about racism in the South. It’s goddamned ridiculous.

Now, I was going to finish this tirade with my opinion on the Tookie Williams case, but Christ am I tired of reading about it and presumably so are you.

Peace be with you, I need a drink.

A Foreign Film without rain

I was surrounded by New Yorkers. And, sadly, I couldn't have been more miserable. They arrived, ready to carry their "scene" (whatever that is) but by day 3 had readily embraced ours. Not mine, or someone else's, but the vibe. Unlike the first day, it was all about LA's virtues. It took someone I didn't know to say

"LA is the old New York!"

That brought a hearty laugh to some, sullen looks from others, and a reflection to myself. I already knew this get together was a mistake, that I shouldn't be there, that I had no idea how I was even invited, the usual. Funny how even the "hippest" people just stop churning the machine around 11PM. They asked what I'm doing for "the holidays." As far as they know, I'm going to Mentone, Alaska, my hometown. Stunned looks. I complimented one man's girlfriend on looking like "A proficient milk vending machine." More looks. No words. They walked away like undignified telephone hookers. I hit the bricks.

Damn it. Give me a Old Style. Fuck these people. Ronny and Monica at the boat club...well, they can stay, even if they don't know me. Can we just shoot the shit?

"Not in this neighborhood, bucko. Only Amstel Light here on Melrose."

Diet beer? Am I in Delta Phi Fatfuck? Is this a Nifty Fifties boat ride?

We left, finding an all-night Chinese restaurant that served up mean drink. Rum and Rice. Microphones and gold chains. The night was salvaged. Lesson, as always? Don't help those who are helpless.

Johnny San Gria To The Rescue

So I’m at the Dragon Beets show the other night, sitting back by the bar, where I can stay lit up like the season’s décor and smelling like a movie bum. Opening Akt just finished and I wasn’t really sure what they hell they had accomplished on stage, being as though they didn’t do much but look at me, presumably trying to pry into my mind. It was quiet, finally. My head throbbing from over exposure to the drink and the smoke – and we’re not talking the smoke you get at Ralph’s. Reeling madly into the void of grime, I realize something. Was I on stage? Maybe. What? This is crazy talk. I’ve been sitting on this stool since I arrived at…Well, I can’t remember exactly, but it’s been long enough to lose track of my cocktails. Where was I? Jesus! “Get this man another round of drinks!”

There’s a girl sitting next to me wearing a Wicked Warlordz t-shirt. She didn’t look old enough to be dumping booze down her throat like she was, let alone old enough to know who the hell those crazy fuckers were. She had a look in her eye like she’d just been on a date with the devil and he was so disturbed he hadn’t called her back. Without saying it, she asks me for a cigarette, I put it in her mouth and light it. “Thank you.” “God damn it, you talk too!?” I smile in acknowledgment and run to the bathroom. The sound of her voice awoke the demon in me. That hellish little beast that wakes up anytime someone evil decides to speak. “Get the hell out of my head devil woman!” I throw some water on my face, trying to get myself back together, and exit the bathroom. Okay, good, it’s safe now. I sat down at a table with a couple that apparently had missed the boat on rules against sex in public. Oh well, fuck ‘em, they’re fucking, right? The bouncer clearly doesn’t mind watching the show, but boy, he’s sure giving me an evil eye. “Don’t look at me like that fuckwad! I’ll shrink your brain!” He looks away, then moves on.

Lights drop, on with the show

The feline wearing alligator boots offers me another cocktail, I say yes. “Bring some for my friends too,” motioning to my fuck buddies at the table. She waddles off, tail swishing back and forth as she goes.

There’s something about the DB crew that gets me going. They’re so Goddamned evil on stage, and yet, their evil does not try to seep into my brain, at least not in the bad way. They share their violence, hatred, and plots to destroy the world with me, but in no way seem to want to destroy me, like all the rest. One by one the MCs come out of stage, spitting words fueled with a lunatic kind of psychoticism that I can’t begin to believe.

“What the fuck? Can’t be!”

Back when I was kid, growing up in Minneapolis, there was always these two dudes that used to kick it on the corner. I’m pretty sure they didn’t have jobs and lord knows they didn’t have money to buy clothes – not yet anyways. Spilt 40oz at their feet, smokes in their mouths, and that Goddamned microphone. They were always talking into it. Even then, at the tender age of 11, I knew there was something wrong. Something so blatantly wrong that my mind couldn’t grasp what it was but I sure as shit knew it was there.

As I got older, I began to understand what it was. They were good for nothings. They didn’t do shit. No jobs – couldn’t have had them, they were always on the damn corner like fucking vultures just waiting for some poor hapless soul to get hit by a bus. “Hey guys, can I hang out with you?”

John Flakmasterson, James Gallactic, and on occasion, Benjamin Pennyworth became my friends, or rather, a trio of screw-ups that helped get me started in the world of the fucked. Thank God. I don’t know what would’ve happened had I not be introduced to the drink when I did. I may have ended up a banker, or worse, a novelist. Jesus! Having to write with all those rules? Following diagrams and plot lines that everyone knows works? Fuck man, my life would’ve ended a long time ago. My mind would’ve eaten itself from the inside and then I’d have been one of the fucking Bobsy Twins. But I digress….

As the last member of the Dragon Beets took his encore, I recognized him as one of the same assholes I grew up with. Of course he’s now known as Chief Hottstixx, but was once known as Flakmaster Jack. And instead of being a member of the Dragon Beets, he had been a founding member of the group Wicked Warlordz. Now, I hadn’t thought about this fucker in at least 10 years, since they hadn’t really been around since the early 90’s, and to see him here blew my fucking mind. “How did I not know? I thought I paid attention!?” Well shit, I guess not. Of course I’m sure smoke, snow, and booze had nothing to do with that.

“I gotta talk to that asshole, tell him what I think about him!”

I hand my lawyers business card to the security guard and he gives some gum-flap about how he knows me. “Oh you don’t know me asshole, you only wish you didn’t!” Tripping over a stack of adult content magazines, I make enough commotion to get these assholes attention. “Hey you fucks, I’m here, where should I go?” As it turns out, not only are they not surprised to see me, they sounded like they were expecting me. “You’re late!”

“What? What the Goddamned hell are you flapping about? You crazy asshole!”

Then, out of the corner of my eye I see her again. The Devil Woman. “What the hell are you doing here!? Shut your mouth!” She doesn’t seem phased at all. She continues her walk to the backstage bar. She’s wearing fucking pigtails now. “Oh-ho! The Devil thinks he’s crafty, huh!? Well, fuck that, I’m a step ahead!” I grab the scissors out of my back pocket and make for the bitch’s hair. “Yo! Jimmy!”

“How do you my name!?”

“Jimmy dude, it’s me, Chief.”

“Jesus Christ, when did you get here?”

Oh thank Christ, I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to tell him about the imposter on stage, Flakmaster Jack is back and he’s on the attack. “Chief watch out! Behind you!”

“What up Jim Timmons?”

“Who the Sam hell are you, and how do you know that name!? I want my Goddamned lawyer! NOW!!”

At that point I can’t recall exactly what happened, but next thing I know I’m on stage spitting lyrics like I know them – shit, maybe I even wrote them. I walk back off stage and sit on the couch, next to the Devil Woman, and things seem okay. “Excuse me, Dave?”

“Oh thank God. Good to see you Johnny. We need to talk.”

If the phone doesn't ring, you know it's me

This town is famous for attempting to destroy anything of a local historical value in the name of money. Even really old places have to get a face lift of some sort to get back in the game. Then, and only then, can we start talking about how great it's been through the years. We're talking about a strip of land where more wackos come each day in search of the dream - when the New Yorkers finally step aside or move back, that land has to be snatched. Hell, the kid who grilled up the tasty grub at Skooby's last night just arrived off a cow from WI, ready to make it in punk rock. Or, "video production." Of course. But Skoob's is such a place where that kind of talk gets you a reward. Another employee oh-so-casually mentioned that their storage room used to be The Masque. HAH??! The first punk club in Hollywood? Early gigs by Fear, Black Flag, X, Circle Jerks? Don't fuck with me, is this the Truth?

Well, it was. Places like this don't just spring up...plus, anything you read about them doesn't give an address. So, it was a quick (thankfully, this thing doesn't have many rides left) elevator trip to the basement of an old building. And there it is, it hits you. Graffiti. All over the place. "Boredom in the 80s." Shit about Blondie, the Germs. Even an old flyer or two is stuck on the wall. Shit, this was like stumbling on the Pyramids.

The more I walked around this legendary hell hole, the more I was figuring out what went where. The always-broken bathroom. The stage. The backstage. As full of history as it is, it makes sense for why it survived beyond all others - if you didn't know it was there, how in god's gray earth would you find this place?

A trip to Amoeba to find some of the bands that played this haunt didn't turn up so successful. The Germs Anthology was a pricey $17...a charge Minnesota Laughs debated but I knew had to be cheaper online (I was right). Just looking for these bands brought the old, fat punks out of the woodwork. As I stood by the X section:

"Dude, I saw them last year, they still rock." Oh, really? Ok. "Dude, that's a great album." I know. "Their first album, that shit rocks." Yes it does. Go eat something.

The trip home wouldn't have been as amazing as earlier if Laughs didn't have to use the can. At that moment I looked across the street and to my amazement, the Pacific Theater, long since dead, was open. Lights on. Barricade gone. Hmmm...let's see. And see I did. Some smooth talking to the guy at the door about "digital projection testing" and we were in.

Suddenly, it's 1940. Well, maybe not, but it's all coming through my head. Giant movie palace. Times tough on the Boulevard in the 70s...they add screens in the balcony (?!). Earthquake hits. It's done. For years it sits unused. USC wants to test there - could it be open? Is it safe? LA says yes, but who'd want it? The plush carpets, if worn, are clearly of a bygone era. Chandeliers hang above me as wide hallways escort you anywhere. Oh - I see stairs down. Hmmm. Walking through there is a sight more impressive than a bathroom untouched since the 40s. (It had been cleaned up but not really used) Two giant fireplaces. And then...a banquet room, UNDERNEATH THE STREET. How in the hell did they find this? It's as if someone started to restore this place and just stopped halfway, finding everything. Oh, and the screen? The size of a football field.

You know, Trip, LA isn't the 70s anymore. Ay yingo, have I heard that tripe a billion times. But in an image-conscious town, it's hard to find. When you do, it's swank. When you uncover it...well, that's gold. California Gold.

Mongrel Meets His Maker

Last night I hopped on the number 4 bus after work and began my commute home. Nothing out of the ordinary. Traffic is a little lighter, as it's an hour later than I normally go home. My entertainment is the activity on the streets and my sound track is DJ Shadow. I'm relaxed, unwinding from another long Monday, then He gets on the bus. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, like a dog when a predator is near. The guy is wearing a Budweiser jacket, unkempt, and speaking loudly with a crazed look in his eye. He, we'll call him Bud, sits down across the isle from me and immediately calms down.

"Next Stop, MCTC"

A few people get off, more get on. A guy sits down next to Bud. The bus gets going again, I turn my attention back to the scenery outside, glancing nervously to the other side of the bus. As I'm swimming in my thoughts, I hear his voice. I look back over towards Bud again, and I see he's a little excited. I turn off my headphones just in time to hear Bud yelling about how Jesus wants him to die. “Jesus wanting you to die? Then why the hell did he put you on this bus with me!?”

The guy sitting next to Bud, then turns to the guy in front of me and makes a motion like smoking a three-footer. He's got a smile on his face. I assumed he was just making the "this guy is fucked up" signal. Bud continues his tirade about JC tightening the noose around his neck. Bud's seat buddy then gets up to go to the front of the bus, and that's when I see it. Bud is leaned over, with a lighter. "Holy shit! That guy's.." And the guy talking to the bus driver finishes my sentence for me. Hitting a crack pipe.

Now, I’ve done a lot of smoking and in a lot of crazy places. I mean, when you get the itch, you get the itch. Of course it’s not every day you see crack heads getting’ jarred up on the bus.

“Don’t you do it Jesus. Don’t let him at me! My mind’s already melting at the sight of this lunatic, don’t make me get the golf shoes out!”

Right at this moment, I look back outside and realize we're on Hennepin, not on Lyndale. The bus driver missed his merge onto Lyndale. “Great, someone else failing at their job – hey, you aren’t hitting the glass tube too, are you?”

Some people get off, and as the bus driver makes his way back to deal with Bud, he darts off the bus. “You ain’t never gonna catch no crack head.” Jesus man, this was fucked up, but now I can go back into my head and revel in my mental fodder, right? I wish...

We go up to Franklin and take a left back down to Lyndale. While we're stopped at the light, the bus driver is yelling out his window, to the people at the stop he missed. He seemed to be yelling for a long time, which can only mean, the people he was yelling at thought he was indeed a nut job. Finally, a couple people come across the street and hop on the bus. As we're pulling off the curb, an older woman runs up and furiously pounds on the door to be let in. She gets on, which causes us to miss the light. Not a big deal. A woman in the front of the bus gets up to offer her seat to the woman who just got on. The woman who got on the bus the gives that woman the dirtiest look I've ever seen an older woman give anyone, and that's when I see it. The fury in her eyes. “Jesus, not again, not another one!” She's insane. I see now that she closely resembles the crazy cat woman from the Simpson’s, except with glasses. She all but pushes the woman, who was nice enough to offer her a seat, down in an attempt to get to a seat further back. The nice woman is stunned. She's confused. She pauses, then makes her way back to her original seat.

At this point, we're back on Lyndale, there's no crack being smoked, and a few of us are rehashing the crazy rantings of Bud. The lady, who just happened to sit down next to Bud's old seat mate, turns to him and asks him what we're talking about. He tells her, and that did it. I'm not sure what happened, but she flips. "Shit! Goddamn it!"

All of us are stunned. Bud's old seat mate hadn't said anything offensive, he'd simply said "There was a guy on the bus smoking a crack pipe."

"Son of a bitch! I meant to get on the 2! Goddamn it!"

And then she runs to the front of the bus. When I say she ran, I mean she ran, or at least as well as you can through a packed bus. She berates the bus driver for a minute and he lets her off the bus. A few blocks later, I get off the bus and make my way home.

Whew, home sweet home, my ride on the Twilight Zone Bus is over. For today.

No time for second thoughts

It is beyond stereotype to consider this town as "body conscious." I guess it's one thing that pleases the locals as we fight on each day - that for every hungry person who's pressing novelty-sized chocolate-filled candy canes to their ample bosom at Sav-On Drugs, there's another who could just as well be a hooker, or a hooker's friend, or a hooker's roommate, looking through the aisles, confused as hell, not wanting anyone to know. Sorry, honey, we don't sell chicken broth. But it's this ying and yang that keeps things even.

Myself? Well, I had a father who slowly ballooned as time wore on as my motivation. As he finished plate two of Salmon Loaf, I'd be told "You know, I used to be slim like you." And it made no sense, this food logic: eat what's on your plate. Each and every walking log cabin is rip and roar to tell stories of "when I grew up" and how you had 12 war babies around you and there was one spring goose in the middle and if you didn't eat your Farina, by god, some other scamp would. Fine. Posty, you can eat my chicken skin. I don't care. I'm full.

Self-imposed rules do you absolutely no good when you don't live by them. A buddy had to hit that shithole Bob's Big Boy for a slice of their chocolate fudge cake. He made it sound like a big deal, but truth be told, he eats like he's about to get the firing squad in 10 minutes. So there I sit, looking at a greasy menu, knowing I'm not hungry in any way. Well, a scoop of ice cream with hot fudge can't be bad, right? That's not much. And it was, of course. This was a serving size for someone who sweats when they sleep. I didn't even finish it.

Sure enough, round 12:30AM, I take a big dump. Whew, now I feel better. Uh oh...it's warm in here. And then, sure enough, my brain told me those sad, sad words.

"You know, this is coming back."

No. No no no no no. Shit. (Honk) MY LIFE SUCKS I HATE THIS AGHGHGH FUCKING FOOD AHGHGH I'M NEVER EATING AGAIN.

Tiny Dancer was disgusted but not disgusted enough to offer this sage advice. "Why are you honking in the sink?" BECAUSE I HATE PUTTING MY FACE NEAR THE TOILET OH WHY GOD THIS SUCKS.

She's right, of course. One prayer to the American Standard god, and we were through. A good long night's sleep. I wake up, refreshed. Confused. Full of gas and life. Turn on the ball game, and pass the fortune cookies. We're at square zero again.

So, I'm more than happy to pass along the remaining foods to those with a zesty appetite, the remaining garlic bread, pie, potato skin. In LA's quest to be thin, my mind is giving me a deceptive advantage. Just don't ask if I want more.

Midnight Fistfight In Lost Nation, Iowa

Friday Night

As I'm making my way from Minneapolis to Clinton, Iowa, rocking out to the newest release from System of a Down, snow storm brewing, I realized something; I hate driving in the midwest, especially at night, between the months of November and April.

Here I am, flying down I-218, snow blowing, with a dirty windshield, and no grape Kool-aide in the sprayers. A truck flies by, throwing up a dusty cloud of snow. My first thought is, Jesus, If I was stoned I'd have driven off into the corn fields, never to return to the mental reality of the now.

"Hey Johnny, toss that bowl up here, let's roll!"

I blink, the truck is gone, and I'm left with Serg singing about blue skies fading.

I hit Cedar Rapids about 11:30pm, just in time too, cuz the road and corn fields were beginning to look one and the same. There is a smell in Cedar Rapids like almost no other in the country. Quaker Oats is on my right, my alma mater on my left, and the scent of cereal in the air. I'm cruising down I-380 and for a minute, the orange tone of the street lights hit the snow and it looks and smells like I'm floating through a cloud of Cap'n Crunch. "Man, I'm hungry! Mom! Where's the damn milk!?"

Jesus I'm tired.

"Wake up asshole, you're still an hour out!"

Shaking the cobwebs and voices out of my head, I exit onto I-30. Only 77 more miles of this barren, snow covered drive through the Wasteland.

"Boy, I really could use a sip of the crazy bird right about now."

I arrive at my hotel in Clinton about 1:30am. The lady at the counter looks at me suspiciously, like maybe this guy's flying on the Night Train, ready to crash land in the great flatlands. I get my room key and move my car around the building. "Three tacos for $3!? That's a deal!" Lasiters. This must be the center of the Clinton universe. Outside there are three rusted out, late 80s, Ford Broncos. The grossly oversized wheels tell me they belong to corn-fed, barley-fueled country boys. A breed to be avoided unless you're in the mood to drown your liver in whiskey and turn the bar into a scene from a certain Patrick Swayze movie. To top it off, I'm laying in bed, watching shitty TV, when the herd of SUV's starts to stampede. Off they went, glass packs and all, leaving me in a cloud of bassy resonance.

Lights out, off to dreamland, where it rains whiskey and we sleep on a bed of tobacco and cheeb.

Saturday Afternoon

After spending most of the morning sitting in my hotel room, watching TV and smoking like I could lose the ability any minute, I got myself all gussied up and hit the road for Grand Mound, Iowa. Now, why in God's name you'd call a city 'Grand Mound' is lost to me. I've always thought of a mound as a pile of shit leftover from somthing else. Someones unwanted leftovers, but certainly in no way grand. I guess a mound of Green Hornet would be grand, but let's be realistic here, we're in Iowa. I presume you're asking yourself why the hell would you go to Grand Mound? I know, I asked myself the same damn thing.

Well, weddings will bring to you strange and amazing places, some more strange or amazing than others. The risk with weddings is that you cannot choose where they take place, you're at the mercy of a greater power - like when you've just finished a QP of the stinkweed and you're walking through the store on a mission for food. Who knows where you're end up. Cookies? Chips? Shit, maybe some ice cream! You won't know until you get there. The suspense is killing me!

Point being, I had no choice but to go to the mound which is grand.

Saturday Night

It takes me an hour to get to the round mound of grandness, with an ETA of 40 minutes. Great, so I roll in the door at 2 minutes to the wedding, flirt with the bridesmaids waiting to make their way down the isle, and slide into the back row, groom-side. Throughout the whole wedding, the only thing I was thinking was "I wonder what would happen if those ceiling fans fell? Would they keep spinning as they fell? What kind of damage would that do?"

Yeah, I'm a sick bastard - and fuck you for agreeing with me!

The ceremony itself was quick and beautiful, like a happy ending at an Asian massage parlor, then it was back out into the snowy wonderland that is middle-of-nowhere, Iowa. I head all the way back through town, to the other side of Clinton to Vista Grande, the location of the reception. A buddy says to me, as we're out back making like Jamaicans, "This ain't no big vista, it's just a stupid hill." So true.

I sit at the bar for another two hours, trying to put the blaze in my stomach out with firewater, and then take off. No glorious exit, no fireworks. As a matter of fact, I hoodwinked the lot of them and dipped out the back door.

I got back to my hotel in one piece, talked to my lawyer, wrote this:

"Weddings are really interesting. One, the couples you see, your first question should be, "Do you really mean it?" Stats say 50% yes, I say 80% no, but I'm biased, which is why I'm not married now, but that's a different story."

Then went to bed. Five hours in the car the next day and I was sleeping back in my castle.

Lookin' Down The Barrell Of A Gun...

When I walked into Franklin Liquor at 7:45 last night, I had three goals.

First, was to acquire a fifth of Wild Turkey. The second was to procure a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20. And the final, much more respectable goal, was to get a 12 of beer. Now, before you judge my life a complete failure, please know that these purchases were film props. We'll call them "character development" items.

As I'm walking across the store, holding my bottle of Kiwi-Lime Mad Dog, looking for my Wild Turkey, I hear, "Oh man, Mad Dog!" My soul is crushed. I'm not naive enough to think no one will see me carrying my embarrassing prize, but I had hoped no one would talk to me about it.

"Stop talking to me asshole, I'm better than this! Right?"

The guy, who looked like a cross between Buzz Aldron and Buzz Lightyear, began reminiscing the days he used to drink Mad Dog, "out back at the train yard." Yikes! I immediately go into defensive mode, "movie prop, man, movie prop." He either doesn't hear me, or chooses to ignore me, and continues the conversation with a buddy of his. I find my Wild Turkey, a fifth mind you, and make my way to the checkout counter. I'm half way out the door when I remember I had forgotten to get my the beer. I leave my keep with the cashier and make my way back to the cooler to grab some Summit Winter Ale - so delicious(and respectable)! My second total comes to $13, which reminds me of my first total - $14. Ouch.

This got me thinking this morning.

Over the past few years I've become more and more of an alcohol snob. If I'm drinking whiskey, it's Jameson. Tequila? It's Patron. Beer is a bit more open, but I run away from the Bud and Miller products of the world. Most of the time. Well, okay, maybe half the time. That's not to say I necessarily judge anyone based on what they're drinking, but it does leave me with certain impressions of who they might be - at least when they drink. C'mon, we've all seen the guy who's just polished off a liter of Wild Turkey, the look of fire in his eyes, just looking for a fight.

Back away man, just back away.

I was thinking about all the horrible things that people drink. Apple-tinis, boxed wine, ANYTHING with Red Bull in it. I was thinking about this as well as my conversation with Mr. Train Yard, and started thinking about the horrible things I've consumed over the years.
My first drink was red wine - I think it was a good red wine - out of a Cherry Coke can, walking around my neighborhood in 8th grade.

Me: "Man, this fucking awful!"

Johnny San Gria: "Who cares! We gettin' lit tonight!"

The next was some Tequila mixed with Kick. Remember Kick? It was to Mt Dew what Jolt was to Cola. We called it 'Kick-tila' and it was awful. It was so bad that, while one of my friends was laying in the middle of the street passing out, me and another spent 35 minutes trying to divide 5 into 80. We didn't figure it out until the booze wore off the next afternoon. It's 16.

Speaking of...

When I was 16, a buddy of mine had a party and we raided his parents liquor cabinet while they were out of town. His family was not a drinking family, so the pickins were slim. I don't recall all what was there, but there certainly weren't any makings for Singapor Slings or Sidecars. We tried a lot of things. We drank a lot of Baileys straight and some screwdrivers, which, under the circumstances, were respectable. There was a lot of evil consumed that night as well. The worst? Peach brandy and Pepsi. You haven't tried anything until you've tried Peach Pepsi. Wow, just awful.

Imagine drinking sweet giant urine, mixed with carbonated rubbing alcohol.

Yeah.

I've done a lot of horrible drinking over the years. I drank a case of 3.2 Red Dog on the corner of a busy intersection at 3am, many cases of Busch Light, even saw the bottom of a couple bottles of Wild Irish Rose - both the red and the white. I've done keg stands of warm Olde Stlye on the porch, the morning after a night of swimming with a school of Beam Sharks. Bacardi 151 right out of the bottle? Check. Puked into the nearest receptacle - aka The Floor - an instant later? Check. Not to mention that my love of malt liquor has led me to consume so many Mickey's 40oz that I've lost count.

I guess the point of this whole thing is that no matter where we are in life, we can't ever let go of where we've come from. I was slightly embarrassed at first to purchase the Mad Dog and a fifth of Wild Turkey, but then I realized that I need to be proud of my bad alcohol history. I need to embrace it's trashiness and my desperate need to get shitty at a time when it only made me more awkward.

Come.

Sit.

And lets enjoy a box of Franzia, a fifth of Hawkeye Vodka, and stories we should be proud of rather than embarrassed by.

Cheers!

Just To Be Clear: I'm Not A Clipper Hater

So the Minneapolis Lakers won a championship, then moved out to sunny Los Angeles to soak up the sun and bask in the glow of so many adoring fans. They’ve spent the better part of three decades beating up on their step brothers, the Clippers. Now, as the Lakers begin to slide into nothingness, the Clip ship is finally sailing – versus sitting in port with a 35-foot hole in her bow. They’re off to the best start in franchise history and, maybe more importantly, have 5 more wins than their better brother. The fans are also showing this trend. Laker game crowds always feature the biggest of the big names in Hollywood. Jack Nicholson and Dyan Cannon have been seen courtside since before God was born. All your top tier celebrities have spent at least a couple nights watching the Lakers play hoops. Of course, when those Lakers go on the road, those same fans do as well. The light go down, then come back up, but for the Clippers instead. Now, rest assured, they play in LA as well, so they get their fair share of celebrities too. Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey showed up regularly until their 'Reality TV' relationship when sour. Ashton Kutcher has been spotted in the crowd as well. These are your second tier entertainers. They don’t have the name or the acclaim as many of their Laker-fan counter parts, but they’re climbing, making their way to center stage. They’re stepping into their own, “Gettin’ Some Kiiid,” as one man may say. As is their team.

But will it last?

That brings us back to Minneapolis. Instead of Lakers, they’re Timberwolves, and instead of winning championships, they’re going through a rebuilding phase. But let’s shy away from the Lakers and focus more on those wiley Clippers. They failed to make the playoffs last year, just like the Wolves. They had an active off season, just like the Wolves – hell involving the Wolves. They’ve even improved the team attitude, just like the Wolves. “Dude! They’re like twins dude!” The one thing they did that the Wolves didn’t do, was to improve the talent on their team. But the Wolves did that two years ago, remember? It involved a familiar face in Sam Cassell, the man T-Hud anointed “2 S’s and 2 L’s.” The Fourth Quarter Kid, Mr. Ice In His Veins himself. Remember how well that worked? It got them into a match up with – hey – the mighty Los Angeles Lakers in the Western Conference Finals. They lost, as you may remember, but boy was there hope. Hope for the next year, hope for another Midwest Division Championship, hope for a #1 seed in the playoffs. Hope for an elusive Championship ring for God Almighty Himself (That’s Kevin Garnett for those who didn’t know that). And what happened? Cassell bitched, Spree fed his kids, and Flip Saunders got labeled scapegoat. Now, a year after all the hope and expectations have faded, making the playoffs even seems like an extreme long shot.

How does this concern the Clippers?

Well, I’ve got two words. Sam. Cassell. Yeah, your off season acquisition. Boy, he looks good, doesn’t he? He’s just what the Clips needed, right?

Yeah, maybe. For one season anyways.

Has he helped revitalize the laughing stock of professional sports organizations? Sure, this year. Has he held up his claims of being healthy and still being a very dangerous player? Absolutely. So far. Will he help them get into the playoffs? He certainly won’t hurt their chances of achieving that goal. Will he be around in the future, to continue the Clippers growth as a franchise? Absolutely not. He wants a contract extension he won’t get. He wants to get paid more than his team will even consider. He’s playing on a team where a veteran point guard is not in the plans of the future. He’ll bitch, he’ll complain, and muck up the positive feelings in that locker room, until the Clips are right back at square one: Not playoff bound, lucky to get 41 wins, and again, the laughing stock of professional sports. Of course before he does all that he’ll get hurt. Bad hip, bad back, whatever it is, it’ll break. And with it, so will the spirits of the Clippers. They’ll crash land just like they did last year. I’m sorry to say that, but it’s true.

And so the Clippers fans, like their team, will slide into the background and play second fiddle to their big brother. The Hollywood stars will be center stage in Staples, while all the up and comers will be there on Laker nights off.

Clippers fans, you’ve just been Punk’d.

Again.

Just like Wolves fans a year ago.

Enjoy it while it lasts.

I'm a Rob You In Compton And Blast You In Miami

Ok, christ. You wanted it - well when it's all over, remember that you asked for this. You looked in my eyes as it happened.

I need to expound on a theory of sports, which will violently degenerate into a theory about my life, which will then bring us to failure, and that's where it always ends anyway, right?

Right, so get on with it. Roll it tight so when it lights, there's no fight. The money runs everything. We don't go to Canterbury park to watch the pretty horses run in circles. And we don't watch the Panthers play the Bears on a Sunday afternoon unless there is a Reason. And that reason is 33.5 points, of which you'd be smart to bet on the low side. So isn't that a good starting point? The money? It always follows the money anyway. You can discuss sports, but unless you're a Dallas commentator, you can't have a meaningful discussion without eventually touching upon money. This should be the basis of most of the conversation regarding modern sports. Everything else is so fucking played out.

You think Lou Brock gave a shit about the game? You think Barry Bonds is an arrogant asshole who cares only about himself and that Mickey Mantle is a hero to millions of big-nosed drunks in the Bronx? That's a load of shit. The only difference between then and now is the coverage. That's it. There is more coverage of the little things, and media giants like ESPN blow these out of proportion. Terrell Owens would have been a "crazy cat" in the 70s. He would have been known for the touchdown dances, sure, but his contract shit would have been back page news.

So, is it racism? Has the press become more racist? I wouldn't go that far. But I think it's a fundamental fact that needs to be addressed when examining the relationship between media and sports: most athletes are black (or foreign born) and most reporters, broadcasters and columnists are white. It's a fact, so let's deal with it. Now, that doesn't mean that because white people say bad things about black people that it's racist. Or vice versa. It just means... be careful. Be very careful when reading these reports, because there's often something there... something just beyond the print, something buried in the ambition. Personally, I doubt there is a big racist machine driving sports reporting in this country, but I'm not stupid enough to pretend that a good portion of NFL fans look at Randy Moss without a touch of racism. Especially in Minnesota, for fuck's sake.

(bring it back, don't lose it) It comes back to the coverage. The media giants are just fucking lost. I am constantly encouraged by blogs. The Twins community here is wonderful, and other communities are thriving as well. Basketball blogs are blowing up too. When NFL fans finally get down to Circuit City to get them that new Packard Bell computator, there'll be some of those too. It's growing, it's getting better. I don't even read MLB.com articles anymore. I don't read ESPN articles about baseball unless they are written by Rob Neyer or God Gammons. I go to my local bloggers to read their take on the game, and I read the box score from Sportsline. And I think the revolution is happening. And I also think that's WHY ESPN is looking so stupid these days. Because they are flailing their arms trying to gain attention, trying to out-do the blogs, trying to make their name in a changing market. Hell, it's admirable. But I don't like it. They used to be the worldwide leader in sports, now it's just a joke. This fake press conference thing? Sportscenter? It's just sad. Not to mention the dispropotionate time they give to "sagas" as opposed to real highlights. They are trying to gain an edge, to get a foothold while the sports reporting world changes. But they're going to lose. These big companies are going to lose. The power of the people will triumph. There are enough people like me out there - people who are pissed off at the way sports is covered and want it to change. There are enough idiots who carry iPods on the bus who can turn on their laptop and blog about slugging percentages of minor league players. They are out there, they have a following, and their energy will prevail. The old system will die.

But then, it all comes back to money, doesn't it? The money drives it, makes it real. And I guess the big sports reporting agencies have the money. The TV contracts, the endorsements, it's something that the bloggers will never have. I don't think any pud with an understanding of sabrmetrics and a worn copy of Ball Four is going to have much of a chance against fucking Disney. I mean, it's run by Jews, so you know....

Shout out to Gregg Easterbrook. Stay up, player! Don't let the Conspiracy get to you!

So will it ever change? The money stays localized, it hardly ever moves. Look at that fucking deal EA got with the NFL. That's just sad. And it's like that. Monday night football is going to be on ESPN? Strange. Is Stu Scott going to announce? Maybe Joe Morgan? And after the game, you can scoot over to ESPN U to watch... rowing. Anyway, it's an uphill climb, but hopefully, the discussion about sports will eventually return to the simplicity of the old times:

Drunk fan: Hey Aaron, you're a bum!
Aaron: Yeah yeah, shut your trap, drunk.
Drunk fan: (pause) Hey Aaron, you're a FUCKIN bum! (laughs, gives high five to his overweight friend)

I can smell the Miller from here.

Whip me, Beat me, Make me write bad checks

This is a rare moment for me, with work briefly subsiding as the sun sets on the end of November. Turning the speaker on its side, I gotta think about Devo. The start of all of their songs is eerily similar. Sometimes it just keeps that same thing up for three minutes. You ask for that small figure of life back. But then...sometimes, about a minute in, the lever is pushed up. They have something. It's unique. A voice. Something to admire in times of pap.

I still have Thanksgiving food in my fridge.

In my cupboards, all over the fucking place. I love the wild turkey (drink and meal) but I'm done doing the cooking for a while. Spending time in the kitchen to make the meal that you could get at a diner (aside from the processed Turkey loaf, which tastes like tires soaking in the ocean) any damn time. I guess that Tupperware of Stove Top is going to get some cheese on top and be washed down with some Jimmy Beam.

Don't be fooled: San Diego is not a "mini-LA"

It's cool to say this. It would sum up the feelings of people who want to live/stay in LA but just don't have the ka-jones to do so. But it's not. There's more homeless people than ATMs in San Diego. It's colder (on the water, sucka). It has a train that goes places. It has a lot of one-way streets. You can walk to a lot of things. But the best of all? It has a lot of high priced restaurants that will do ANYTHING to get people in. They're all over the place. So do your fucking homework. If the place is actually called Mr. Tiki Mai Tai Lounge, you'd better go there...and flirt with the waitress and give her a tip smaller than she expects. She had an attitude anyway. You will also down a giant Mai Tai that makes you so hungry you can barely eat. Then, as you watch the Hawaii/Wisconsin game on a big TV (out of place in a restaurant of this style, but the programming fit right in) have another drink. Pace yourself, dummy, you just put away a lot of bird.

The Texas football coach is starting to piss me off

If you were the coach, you'd be wearing at least a cowboy hat and an elliptical belt buckle. If natives would let you, you'd go farther. Why? Why the fuck not? Look, June Jones wears a lei around his neck. Jerry Glanville would have his players wearing black in a night game at a grocery store parking lot. What does this tell you? The school doesn't give a shit. So make it happen.

Notre Dame isn't that good, which is a phrase you've heard before

My job is not limited to the day-to-day volleys of question/answer. Coming soon, I will see if, in fact, Notre Dame IS a bigger draw to a bowl game. Let's see...the combined winning percentage of the teams they defeated is .450. Only 3 have winning records. Blah blah blah playoff blah blah.

Come on, Clippers!

Do it for the south side. Do it for Kobe and his tights. Do it to show the fans you've overcome a moron owner and GM. Do it because Hulk Hogan is on your team. Do it before Sam gets injured. Do it so I can see LA people figure out when to get excited about them, and what to do if they win.

Find me the cheesy chips...it's drinky time. I've said enough.

Truckin' Continues

It seems Steve Simpson couldn't find this page if it was taped to the inside of his pants. So, here's a swingin expose into his mind that I thought would fit here. Further writings to follow.
------------

I could never get into the posthumous releases from Biggie. I think it really all came together on Ready To Die. Life After Death has some rock solid hits, but Born Again doesn't have the same quality that RTD had. I think basically, Juicy is like the story of Notorious B.I.G. It's damn near a perfect rap song. "Blowin up like you thought I would, color "crip", same number same hood, it's all good..." All that said though, Dead Wrong knocks you the fuck out. Relax and take notes...Anyway, thanks to that panhandled segway, I guess we can get into the purpose of this post.


Sometimes, I need to just admit that I'm wrong about sports.

I am rarely one to really jump out there and give bold predictions. I content myself to make comments on the current condition of the sporting world, make snide observations about local athletes and sports celebrities, and generally just say shit that everyone else knows anyway. To the tune of rap lyrics. But there are occasions where I will go out on a limb and profess to know something about sports that few others do. It is in these times that I feel a sense of power, like I'm telling people something they don't know, and above all, I'm RIGHT, and they know I'm right, and there's no way to disprove it because it hasn't happened yet.

The problem, Jack, is that usually, I end up wrong about things. I'm only forgiven from being wrong by the fact that the people I give my predictions to have very bad memories. But I remember. And it tears me up.I'll give you a brief example. In October 2004, after game 3 of the ALCS, I wrote this to my friend:

"I'll say this about the Yankees and Red Sox, and you and I have different perspectives: The Yankees are all about winning. For the purity of the game, they represent the closest thing to perfection there is. They are built to win, always. They are the alpha and the omega. Now, most other teams in baseball have figured this out, and have gone about their business in their own way. It's like the Yankees are the Romans, and most of the other teams are content to just carve out their piece of land, try to prosper, have a good time, and occaisionally make an effort to take down Rome. But they don't obsess over it. Then there's the Red Sox. This is a team, an entire CULTURE built SOLELY for the purpose of defeating the Evil Yankees. They have the inferiority complex to end all inferiority complexes. Their entire existence is defined by the Yankees. Yankees get A-Rod, they have to go get Schilling. Yankees get Olerud, they have to get Doug from the Twins. Everything they do, every action they take is viewed through the lens of defeating the Yankees. But here's the thing: They're not as good at running an organization as the Yankees. Nobody is. Their culture breeds incompetence. Why is their manager so stupid? Why do their players act like idiots? Why are their fans so completely insane? Because their culture is so atomistic, so intensely focused on the Yankees, they don't ever stop to think about, oh, I don't know, PLAYING BASEBALL LIKE ITS SUPPOSED TO BE PLAYED. Now you've got the long hair, the beards, the goofy handshakes and the general clown-ness of the team. And that's all good and everything, but I think they're selling their fans out. The fans in that city expect them to eventually, some day, best the Yankees. But the players are playing the role of the stoner going in for a job interview. Yeah, to the stoner, even if he doesn't get the job, he's still living his life and having fun, and that's great. But he's being selfish. It would be great to win a world series with a team full of clowns and long-haired hippy types, but it's not going to happen. So just cut the fucking mop and stop whining, Damon. Derek Jeter is better than your whole team because he's more of a professional than anyone you have. Now, this isn't a ringing endorsement of the Yankees, it's more of "What are you doing?!?!?" to the Red Sox. Nobody on the Yankees gives a shit about a curse or the past or being superior. They just care about winning. Isn't that the purity of sports? I understand there is a lot to be said about the way you play the game and if you have fun, but at the end of the season, there's only one team left. That's why you play. Or, at least, that's a big reason why you play. To paraphrase Notorious B.I.G.: The Yankees tell it how it is, the Red Sox tell it how it might be."


Ok, that's just wrong. Wrong wrong wrong, and I feel like a moron for ever thinking it. Yeah, in retrospect, nobody predicted The Comeback. But still, it was stupid stuff to say, and had no logical bearing. I learned from that incident to never form an opinion about something until there has been resolution, one way or another. Here is a short list of things I have to admit that I was wrong about.
1. The Chicago White Sox
2. The Minnesota Twins in 2005
3. Larry Brown
4. Dirk Nowitzki
5. Pau Gasol
6. Grant Hill
7. Eli Manning
8. Brad Johnson
9. Tony Dungy
10. David Ortiz (oh god, it still hurts...)
11. Chauncey Billups
12. Dan Monson

And, I know there will be more. These tend to be in the "Thought that person/team was going to suck royally, and later had to accept that they were decent" category, but I've been wrong the other ways too. I was sending emails like a nuthouse mumbler when I found out Jordan was returning to play with the Wizards and I kept pimping him, even though it was obvious that he sucked. It wasn't until after he retired again, for the first time for the last time, that I realized how stupid that was, and how I should've just looked at his stats and examined his game, instead of cheering for him like some child. I guess the point is that I wish I could learn to not judge players/teams until a rational opinion about them can at least be formed. For example, the reason I thought the White Sox sucked this year is because "The White Sox always suck". The reason they were going to choke in the playoffs? "They always choke in the playoffs". But there is no evidence for this. There is no logic behind it. It's time to view things more objectively, and stop attacking players that I don't like.

What spurred all this? Mostly Brad Johnson. I watched the game last night and fondly remembered when my cousin and I would mercilessly tease and berate Johnson to one another, when he was a backup quarterback for the Vikes. I can remember dropping back, throwing a pass, and having my cousin tell me it "looked like a Brad Johnson pass". That hurt the most. He was nothing, he was a nobody, he never played, so we thought - naturally - that he would never be a starter, and certainly never be any good. 14 years later, he's a super bowl champ and a solid quarterback. Meanwhile, I type this in between phone calls with batshit loonballs. So, Brad Johnson, you won. Drop it.

Give that man a sun dial

It was a rare occasion in one respect, but a dubious one at that. The Soothsayer agreed to join me for fried spaghetti during mid-day, and it was my responsibility to bring the moonshine. It was surprisingly easy to smuggle in, and there it sat next to the bottle of Heinz 57.

Soothsayer finally arrived and took an additional moment to find my table. Not only was he lacking focus, his skin tone suggested he was low on drink.

"I thought we agreed on the honor system. You know they don't believe me when I walk in with the cymbal case. The host should be looking at you."

I could see right through him; he was trying to delay from discussing the real reason for this meeting: society gambling. I wanted to get an agreement from him before any money was exchanged.

"Wait," the Soothsayer protested "who wanted to meet this way? You or me?"

I had to lay down the truth to a man who was in denial for a reason beyond me. "You dunce, we need to agree on this. No one's been able to find you, and when they do, you remind all of an Emu in heat. Your only admittance was that you stole my empty Bayer bottle and stepped on it. You're as unresponsive as Steve Simpson. And now you want me to define the rules AGAIN?"

Sheepishly he unhanded the bottle of Early Times and mumbled something while taking a rip at a slice of bread. "First," I said, "you and I will gamble evenly and constantly on everything we see in society. And this will be for large amounts of money, firewood, alcohol, or all three."

The Soothsayer then set down his fork, and looked to his left. "You are not king of the salad bar anymore. And this is a game in which I shall humiliate you." Sadly, his visor slid backwards from his head as he said this, creating a hearty laugh from all who viewed it. I saw my chance, and exclaimed. "Out the window! The Acura. $150 he turns into the parking lot." Without looking the Soothsayer held up a ticket from a Jean, Nevada casino.

"South siders, World Series. I fucking told you, and you have the brain capacity of a brillo pad."

The Acura then turned, and cut into the parking lot. I received not a glance, smile, or scowl from the Soothsayer, but a small envelope.

"This will more than make up for it. Oh, and try that Apple Crisp."

You think I'm going to follow his suggestions for food, if even in season? Hell no, society gambling is on, and there is no overtime, no halftime, and no end of deal-making-possibilities. Back to heat city...

The Vikes are on the Move!

Now, if you ask a guy like me, there's nothing wrong with having...ah, a certain kind of party on a boat. I will neither confirm or deny if I've ever been involved in one. But when things go too far, and you're in the public eye, it can be big trouble. And when you're a team that's perfected fucking up, it's in your nature to drill yourself further into the ground until you hit layers of clay. Holy Mack! This Viking group sure is on a roll with this stuff. But despite the title of this entry, focusing on Denny Green's Jazz Fight Song for the team, we'll aim at the '80s.

Tommy Kramer sure liked to throw the ball. And once the Queens lost any real running back, he threw more. Now, if you've ever seen him throw you know that spirals aren't really his thing. Just get it to the receiver (or near him) as soon as possible, because you're about to get a helmet in the back. How a ball can vertically be thrown 20 yards defies time and space; don't ask me. But then again, I'm wowed by fish tanks so what do I know?

The word on the street back in '81-'82 was that Tommy was spending too much time on the 494 strip (back when you could). It sounds pretty swanky to me, and I don't see the problem. Neither did Tommy, until he went to rehab here in Orange, yet didn't tell anyone. Only a handful of the team knew, but not his wife or his agent. The apex of this includes a night in southwest Bloomington, and Tommy trying to walk a straight line for the cops...with no pants. Despite the DWIs, the team STILL hung on to him through the end of the decade before dumping him to New Orleans. I guess that's loyalty.

Is it the same loyalty that followed the team through mishandling of cocaine problems in the mid-80s? Was it the DWI's where players seemed only able to drive south, and at high speeds? Was it the player who was a registered sex offender, and the others arrested for sexual assault? When people think of rough, hellraising teams, the Raiders (any year) and the '85 Bears come to mind. Correct me if I'm wrong, Sandy, but these were not problems for said teams - especially for the Raiders: this lifestyle was a solution. You know who is the only member of the '85 Bears to get a DWI that season? DITKA. That's right.

Sure, this will blow over. Off season arrives, phony optimism installed. A few years from now (or months) something new will come up. And the fans, instead of telling this team they aren't going to buy tickets until they get it in fucking gear...well, they pass the box of donuts, fart, and wash those purple Zubaz one more time. Folks, this is a team this town deserves.

The Long White Nightmare

Yeah, look at the tears. Just a runnin' down my face like some twisted Petty song. You may get your bloody noses (and, let's face it, most of them won't have a goddamned thing to do with the humidity), but I have to start wearing goddamned pants.

Pants. Did you hear me?

It creeps in slow, that understanding. It doesn't grip you at all, more just like an everlasting hum in the base of your brain. The cold numbs the rest. We pretend it doesn't exist. It does. We pretend to enjoy it. We don't. We make up all manner of colloquialisms to explain and give depth to its nature. It has no nature. A wiser man than myself once said "The dead know only one thing. It is better to be alive". Well, the cold know only one thing....

But we joke about it. We make it our own. "Hands off, Boston! This cold is much worse than yours! Na na na!" Like the first step for the Quitters, we admit we are powerless against it, but yet we internalize some bullshit machismo about our fear of it. At the end of the day, all it really means is lower resale value on cars, and less time for deals.

See, the thing is that looking at the Long White Nightmare as anything other than a huge pain in the sack is illogical. It reeks of ignorance. If you want to have a discussion about living in different areas of the world, that's fine. We can discuss the goods and the bads of each and every zipcode all across this hell-damned land. But what is it about this area that refuses to allow people to admit that this is just horseshit? Everyone wants to throw things like "It makes me appreciate the seasons more". I am going to go home tonight and root through my toolshed, and try like Jesus Christ to locate a tool by which to measure my "appreciation". I will bet you one million pesos that I do not find it. "I've got great memories of playing in snow when I was a kid on christmas" You weren't driving a shit-box with no heat then, were you? Parents gave you love and support, not like the cruel modern world, which would just as soon enlist your ass on a one-way rocket to Democracyland or charge you through the face to heat your fucking bungalow than tell you it's all going to be alright. Welcome to Dick Cheney's America.

And it's great to live here, and it's great to live other places, and things make sense and sometimes you go back in to a Hardee's to scream at the 16 year old behind the register because that Dr. Pepper was diet. But let's just be realistic about this thing... there is no escape. We can hide (don't worry, it's natural), we can do our best to combat the feeling of helplessness, but eventually, we all have to walk every one of the 12 steps.

And it's going to be ok. Let's just start by fucking admitting it.

If you need help, remember this simple equation:

Chief + Pants = Not Good

Here come those Santa Ana winds again

Steely Dan sang it. For the past week I have lived it. To say it hasn't hit even the most casual freak is ignoring the fierce breath of Mama Earth. 5-10% humidity be damned. Physical activity was considered futile due to the cotton-mouth daze I was subjected to tolerate. Knowing this (after becoming a victim of it), I needed an evening to take stock of where we stand.

Did I break my nose again? Is that's what has happened? Am I going to look like someone from the "B" line of the St. Louis Blues? Or is it these winds? It's so dry up there, powder turns to paste. Some people get upset when those things happen. When someone coughs and things go elsewhere...you're driving, and you have to put out a fire with a bottle of Heineken. We're going to have to stick to Jimmy Beam. He'll make it work. But it'll be a duo, swimming buddy - there's no fiesta this weekend. Nature is having none of it.

You can call me Howard Beale. We're a week away from a network, and the skeptics to well wishers all have their own feelings on Walt's empire. Look, I had people telling me they were buying a certain Japanese brand because I worked here. I'm never going to see Monsters, Inc. Ever. So, with that understood, let's try to change things. In the words of Zappa, "I can fix it, but I need to get inside."

Ay, the cargo just arrived. The pasta exploded in this box...its authenticity is already in question. I've got this stuff all over; it's ruined the T shit. I'm not even touching the cap or golf balls.

Let's toss that ball around, get some air before we turn to sand.