I'm taking too much in. I'm sitting at the table, and the greas'n sausage just keeps coming, I keep eating, too much, much too much. I'm not putting anything out, not contributing, feeding, but not reciprocating. Nothing happens, a standstill. I have ceased learning. Ceased the mind-growth. So we break it. We smash it and come up with something new.
The world spins on an ever-decaying cycle, and because of that, our human brains grow less and less agile, fertile, fluid. We settle. We establish our framework within to take knowledge, and then everything passes through this system; these doors only access a limited portion of the Human Database, and we only allow small amounts in. And then even when it's in, we process it in our own way, our simplified, lazy way. And it worsens over time. Every year we lose more and more of the ability to learn new methods, to discover opposing viewpoints, rationalize, re-think, re-focus. It's there, that ability, but it dies. That's why people become more stable, I suppose. That fire becomes a boring candle, that spark - a meaningless current. Those languages that we hear, we yearn not to learn them, only to put them down. That idea, that painting, more and more pieces fail to punch through our Brain Wall, the loop-ed dome protecting us from head-cram and Too Much Information.
We do this because we're lazy, and goddamnit, that's the way it has always been. Eventually, we figure out what we want to accomplish in Life, and we go about our plans and dreams and realities to make it to that point. The entire system is a lie, a big mystery, an unsolvable crime, and supposedly we were all present at the scene, with no alibi. What the christ can be accomplished if your goal is material in nature? The only good ideas are those that push, that innovate, that conquer and crush the malaise. We're not meant for the life we live. We're not meant to wear shoes everywhere, or eat food at specific times of the day. We're not meant to read stories we can never write, or watch television programs about situations we can never encounter. Ah, fuck, hell, that's just me up on the ol' box again. Pay it no mind. The slime will always take you down, you can try to fight against it, but it wins. Gravity gives it breath, makes it squirm. Decay is so fucking natural, even Nature decays.
So we battle against it, some sort of lost army amongst the sea of low expectations and wasteful rats. Debate can never rise - we're speaking different languages. The vast majority of us contents itself to those cute little human - excuse me, American - idiosyncrasies, those tiny little insignificant moments, interactions, knick-knacks, personality traits, likes and dislikes that all amount to absolutely zero. They toss these back and forth, bandying them about on the front pages of news network websites, because hey, THEY are now the audience. And us, the forgotten few, the ones who repel the laziness, we stand witness to it. They outbreed, they move in greater numbers. They behave like gas, trapped, violent, gaining energy.
And their sickening swirl creates gravity. And this gravity draws us all in. Until there is nothing, and it collapses on itself.
Jesus fucking Christ. Where did I learn that? 4th grade science class?
Or the Bible?
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Friday, August 18, 2006
We've Finally Reached The Summit
Sometimes shit pops off. Sometimes we get into things we should be in. Sometimes some things cannot be avoided, no matter what advice I’ve been given by my lawyer. And sometimes we aim for the stars and shoot the shit out of everything just because we God-damned well can!This was one of those times. We never meant to let it get out of control but, with the way it started, I can’t believe we didn’t see it coming. First, we need to back up a little bit here.
Saturday 9 A.M.
I get a call from my lawyer and he’s quite upset. Something about getting thrown out of Mayslack’s for starting a fight with a glass of whiskey and a midget hooker – I didn’t ask any questions, as I was already eight fingers into a whiskey skank of my own. “Johnny, Johnny, calm down, what do you need?” His old lady is in the bar and needs to be exited before she “gets into some serious God-damned shit.” “What the Sam Fuck Hell do you need me for!?” He tells me he’s in the back of a car – cab, cop, or otherwise – and he’s making his way back to The Palace, but he’s being followed, and she can’t be caught. “By who?” He doesn’t know, but he makes it very clear to me that they mean fucking business and he needs some help. Fine, I say, I’ll head over there in a bit. After I get done fingering this eight-ball of Jameson. “Make it fucking quick,” he tells me, “and get The Chief on your way.” Oh fuck, now this really must be some serious shit. I chased down some uppers with the rest of my glass, and flashed out the door. I hope The Chief has some hash.
Saturday 9:30 A.M.
“Which one of you prostitutes stole my fucking car!?”
Jesus Christ.The problem with going on dates with six and seven fingers of whiskey is that you have a tendency to lose track of where you put shit. My car being one of those things. Then again, when you’ve gone out and repainted it and left it crashed into the tree in your front fucking yard, it’s bound to take awhile to pull that memory out of your drowning brain.
Fuck, finally. Off to see The Chief
Saturday 11:30 A.M.
After stopping to grab a carton of smokes, I’m on the road again. Hey, it’s gonna be a long fucking ride. I called The Chief on the way and he was as dumbfounded as I was, “The fuck you use that shit-head lawyer for anyways?” I reminded him that, while a good question, he’s gotten me out of more jams that I care to remember and frankly, I owe the man. On the way back over to Mayslack’s, God damn I could use some wings, sitting at a stoplight, Biggy lights up the airwaves. The Chief and I are swayin’ it gangster-style when he reminds me that he’s not on the radio, “unless this is an Elton John remix of Big Poppa and Rocket Man.” Fuck, he’s right, it’s my God damn phone. It’s Johnny again, he’s clear of the fucking swine and has gotten himself in some deeper shit. “I need to meet you. Somewhere safe.” I ask him about his old lady. “Fuck that bag, we’ve got bigger fish to fry. Where the fuck are you?” We’re in Northeast, headed to where he said we should go, where the fuck else would we be? “Get the fuck to St. Paul, on the fucking double. Go where God makes piss.” What the fuck? What’s he talking about. “You God-damned idiot, Gods piss. God’s. Fucking. Piss!”
It clicks, we’re gone.
Saturday Afternoon-ish?
Consciously, I didn’t really know where we were going, but my mind figured out where we needed to be by the sound of desperation in the man’s voice. So I let my subconscious do the driving. I just chain smoked until the car was too smoked out to see. Then I opened the window, and we were there.
“Pull around back, it’s not safe here.”
The Chief, when he’s on a mission, gives orders, and doesn’t give a shit who takes them, just as long as someone does. So I listened.
“Where fuck is that asshole!?”
It’s an eerie feeling when you get to where you’re supposed to meet someone and they’re not there, but you’re almost too drunk to notice where or why you’re there. It’s confusing, I know, but trust me, it’s rough.
We lose our patience and break for the door, but it’s locked! Son of a Bitch left us out do dry!!
‘CLICK’
“Oh thank God Johnny, you’re here.”
The three of us go in. Triple bolt that son of a bitch to keep the fucking ghosts out!
We sidle up to the bar, but it’s not quite right. There’s the bar, that’s okay. There’s plenty of variety of beer on tap, and the lighting seems right. So what the fuck is wrong?
“Hey Chief, I think something is seriously fucking wrong.”
“Jesus Dave, slow down. Here, drink this, it’ll calm you the fuck down!”
After taking down a few glasses of The Chief’s magic drink, I’m able to get my thoughts straight. “Hey Johnny, why did we mee..” As I turned, I realized for the first time that Johnny was not the man that had opened the door for us, rescuing us from The Ghosts. It turns out that this saint among men is neither my confidant or my lawyer. But he saved us nonetheless. Before I can get an explanation of who this mystery man is, he wisks The Chief and I into the back.
“Holy Sh – Where the fuck are we!?”
“This, my friends, is where God’s piss comes from.”
The Chief was lost in a state of awe and wonder – and drunkenness. Me? I was just confused.
“But fine sir, how the fuck does God piss into these things?”
He looks at me, shakes his head in that poor-little-unknowing-child kind of way and walks out of the room. I’m dumbfounded, I can’t wrap my simple-fuck of a mind around this whole thing. I slap The Chief, “We need to be back at the bar, NOW!”
We’re head back towards the bar, when a small door busts open right behind us. Jesus man, I really do need another drink. It’s our helpful little friend. “Get in here!”
He slams the door behind us and tells us to be quiet, “The fucking ghosts got in and we’ve got to flush those bastards out!” Now, as he’s yelling this, he’s nervously looking over a control panel that has so many knobs, switches, lights, and words, that I wasn’t really sure if I was seeing double or not. Or triple.
That’s when The Chief takes over. “Get the fuck out of my way!”
He’s sprinting up and down along the wall, reading and rereading instructions, manuals, and for Christ sake, the Bible. I’ve never seen a man, not on handfuls of pills, so possessed. Then he stops, and begins to cackle. Oh fuck, he’s lost it.
“I’ve got you beat you stupid fuck! Get ready to say hi to the bad guy!”
And then he does it,
And all shit breaks loose.
There’s a rumbling deep from within the ground, and we run! Door after door, we fly away from the giant beasts we’d awoken – The Ghosts forgotten, for now. The noise is getting louder and louder, and I’m running blindly for my life at this point. We’ve got the Devil’s attention now motherfuckers! One second I’m running, the next I’m flat on my back, head ringing, room spinning like it does the mornings I wake up after spending a night swimming in whiskey. What the fuck just happened!? I stand up and see my mysterious new friend standing next to me, staring in amazement. I look to see what he’s lost in.
“Holy fucking Christ!”
I leave my new friend to behold his wonder and continue on my escape from The Beast. I’m getting the fuck out of here. Hey, where’s The Chief? I pelt down a long hallway, surrounded by doors, I can only hope and pray that I choose the right one. The first three are dark. Only evil sits alone in the dark. The last door on the right is lit up, so I’ve found my exit – I hope. The contents of the room bring me to a halt.
Before I have time to register what I’m seeing, I hear a noise. It sounds like something that ‘s smacking it’s lips, or eating it’s prey. Oh Christ, I’ve found The Beast! As I slowly make my way around the corner, the noise becomes louder and more intense. Jesus, it sound like The Beast drinks it’s prey. I come around the last corner and peer into the dimly lit corner.
“Holy fuck! What the fuck are you doing!?” It’s The Chief!
“It tastes so good, when it hits your lips!”
Oh fuck it all...
There’s a rumbling deep from within the ground, and we run! Door after door, we fly away from the giant beasts we’d awoken – The Ghosts forgotten, for now. The noise is getting louder and louder, and I’m running blindly for my life at this point. We’ve got the Devil’s attention now motherfuckers! One second I’m running, the next I’m flat on my back, head ringing, room spinning like it does the mornings I wake up after spending a night swimming in whiskey. What the fuck just happened!? I stand up and see my mysterious new friend standing next to me, staring in amazement. I look to see what he’s lost in.
“Holy fucking Christ!”
I leave my new friend to behold his wonder and continue on my escape from The Beast. I’m getting the fuck out of here. Hey, where’s The Chief? I pelt down a long hallway, surrounded by doors, I can only hope and pray that I choose the right one. The first three are dark. Only evil sits alone in the dark. The last door on the right is lit up, so I’ve found my exit – I hope. The contents of the room bring me to a halt.
Before I have time to register what I’m seeing, I hear a noise. It sounds like something that ‘s smacking it’s lips, or eating it’s prey. Oh Christ, I’ve found The Beast! As I slowly make my way around the corner, the noise becomes louder and more intense. Jesus, it sound like The Beast drinks it’s prey. I come around the last corner and peer into the dimly lit corner.
“Holy fuck! What the fuck are you doing!?” It’s The Chief!
“It tastes so good, when it hits your lips!”
Oh fuck it all...
I grab The Chief by the collar and race towards the door – the one that say ‘Exit,’ smash it open, and we’re blinded by white light.
The next thing I know we’re in the Gorilla Lounge, the Twins on the television, and we’re soaking wet. But we’re safe. It was a long climb, but we survived The Summit Assault and made it back safely.
I think...
The next thing I know we’re in the Gorilla Lounge, the Twins on the television, and we’re soaking wet. But we’re safe. It was a long climb, but we survived The Summit Assault and made it back safely.
I think...
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Sometimes Thinking Makes My Brain Hurt
It’s amazing how quickly life can change. One minute you’re sitting at the bar pouring Tall Gingers down your throat, the next minute you’re sifting through the back of your garage looking for some paint to huff. Heeeere Krylon, Krylon, Krylon. I’ve been sitting around drinking Mojitos, next thing I know I’ve got a bottle of Wal-Mart mouthwash. It’s like time travel, except the clock hasn’t moved very much. It’s more like I’ve traveled between parallel worlds. Yeah, I’m in my backyard, but instead of sitting in a chair sipping Johnny Jump-ups, I’m digging through my dumpster in a hunt for the rotten gas can I tossed out last week. Ha HA! I’ve got you now!
It’s hard to explain, I’ve had many meetings with my lawyer regarding the subject and I still don’t have it all down, but I’ll try to explain.
We’re all layered people. On one level, I’m a nice guy who pays his taxes, brushes his teeth, even showers regularly. Fuck you guys who don’t believe me! But on the level next to that one, I’m the scumbag who’s licking gas off the pump and shitting in your front yard. On yet another level, I’m a truck driver snorting White, just to stay awake so I don’t run over your daughter on the highway, or I’m the guy who rapes your dog. There’s also one of those “personalities” that really stands out – like I’m mostly the guy who drinks and smokes too much, drives drunk, and doesn’t always wash his hands after pissing. It’s mostly liquor anyways. Of course every one of us has those times when you get stuck thinking on something much darker than you normally do – like drinking gas and raping your neighbors’ cat. You can deny it all you want, but that will only make that thought grow in your mind, as you mentally mutate it into something much uglier and brutal. I could throw numerous examples out there, but then again, I don’t want to go to jail.
Those thoughts, those actions that you take in your mind, those are your way of venturing into that other worldly-self. That’s the evil in your soul coming to the surface, to show you its face. Johnny, is that you? Like I said, you’re in trouble if you ignore those thoughts because they’ll mutate, but could be in even more trouble if you reach out to those ideas, especially if you don’t know how to control them. There are the ones that reach so far for those ideas that they can’t get back to their own world, their own mind. Instead of drinking their morning coffee and reading the paper, they’re gulping sulfur and molesting collies. Stop talking about my uncle, assholes. Or worse. The good ones simply end up in an asylum because their propensity for good keeps battling the evil and eventually they become bystanders in the war for their own mind. The other end of that spectrum, well, we call those ones serial killers. Those are the ones that embrace their evil undersides and end up enveloping themselves in those thoughts. They don’t care to get help because, in their minds, they don’t need it. They’ve been awoken by the demons and move to their beats, dance their dance, no longer in service to this world.
There is another group as well. Those are the folks that know how to harness the evil thoughts and use them, for better or worse. They can transition between worlds and use them to their benefit and still keep grasp on their own mind. They know the rules, the lines they can cross, and can, more often than not, make it back. Some can control when they delve into those other words, go todash if you will, but most cannot. They’ll find themselves switching between them, almost subconsciously. I am one of the latter. I can harness the power when it comes but cannot control when I come or go. At least consciously. My mind forces me either way and, if I get into trouble, it forces me back. It’s like being on a rollercoaster wearing a blindfold. You feel it happen, but you can’t see when. Or when you wake up from a dream and don’t realize it was, in fact, a dream. Your mind turns it into a story, relating as much as it can to your right here and right now. Those who cannot go todash are unable to believe that those little trips were anything but dreams. They are disturbed by those trips so much that their minds cannot wrap themselves around the idea that it was actually happening and forces the belief that they were imagined. Even when it’s so real, they’ll call it a “waking dream.”
One must be very comfortable with their mental state to believe and embrace these trips because the mind has trouble hanging on. Imagination and acceptance are the keys to success, but one must be very careful as to how much of each one has. Too much imagination can lead to going over the edge and not enough can leave you out, no matter how badly you try to accept it.
Oh Christ, I’m supposed to be in an AA meeting right now!
It’s hard to explain, I’ve had many meetings with my lawyer regarding the subject and I still don’t have it all down, but I’ll try to explain.
We’re all layered people. On one level, I’m a nice guy who pays his taxes, brushes his teeth, even showers regularly. Fuck you guys who don’t believe me! But on the level next to that one, I’m the scumbag who’s licking gas off the pump and shitting in your front yard. On yet another level, I’m a truck driver snorting White, just to stay awake so I don’t run over your daughter on the highway, or I’m the guy who rapes your dog. There’s also one of those “personalities” that really stands out – like I’m mostly the guy who drinks and smokes too much, drives drunk, and doesn’t always wash his hands after pissing. It’s mostly liquor anyways. Of course every one of us has those times when you get stuck thinking on something much darker than you normally do – like drinking gas and raping your neighbors’ cat. You can deny it all you want, but that will only make that thought grow in your mind, as you mentally mutate it into something much uglier and brutal. I could throw numerous examples out there, but then again, I don’t want to go to jail.
Those thoughts, those actions that you take in your mind, those are your way of venturing into that other worldly-self. That’s the evil in your soul coming to the surface, to show you its face. Johnny, is that you? Like I said, you’re in trouble if you ignore those thoughts because they’ll mutate, but could be in even more trouble if you reach out to those ideas, especially if you don’t know how to control them. There are the ones that reach so far for those ideas that they can’t get back to their own world, their own mind. Instead of drinking their morning coffee and reading the paper, they’re gulping sulfur and molesting collies. Stop talking about my uncle, assholes. Or worse. The good ones simply end up in an asylum because their propensity for good keeps battling the evil and eventually they become bystanders in the war for their own mind. The other end of that spectrum, well, we call those ones serial killers. Those are the ones that embrace their evil undersides and end up enveloping themselves in those thoughts. They don’t care to get help because, in their minds, they don’t need it. They’ve been awoken by the demons and move to their beats, dance their dance, no longer in service to this world.
There is another group as well. Those are the folks that know how to harness the evil thoughts and use them, for better or worse. They can transition between worlds and use them to their benefit and still keep grasp on their own mind. They know the rules, the lines they can cross, and can, more often than not, make it back. Some can control when they delve into those other words, go todash if you will, but most cannot. They’ll find themselves switching between them, almost subconsciously. I am one of the latter. I can harness the power when it comes but cannot control when I come or go. At least consciously. My mind forces me either way and, if I get into trouble, it forces me back. It’s like being on a rollercoaster wearing a blindfold. You feel it happen, but you can’t see when. Or when you wake up from a dream and don’t realize it was, in fact, a dream. Your mind turns it into a story, relating as much as it can to your right here and right now. Those who cannot go todash are unable to believe that those little trips were anything but dreams. They are disturbed by those trips so much that their minds cannot wrap themselves around the idea that it was actually happening and forces the belief that they were imagined. Even when it’s so real, they’ll call it a “waking dream.”
One must be very comfortable with their mental state to believe and embrace these trips because the mind has trouble hanging on. Imagination and acceptance are the keys to success, but one must be very careful as to how much of each one has. Too much imagination can lead to going over the edge and not enough can leave you out, no matter how badly you try to accept it.
Oh Christ, I’m supposed to be in an AA meeting right now!
Monday, August 07, 2006
If This Seems Racist, It Probably Has Something To Do With How You Were Raised
These are the roots of rhythm and the roots of rhythm remain.
This ecclectic combination of the corners of the human race befuddle and confuse, but I guess that's their goal. Well, maybe not. Their goal likely is something like deals or contacts, not some dropout sporting a 2.4. My attorney once advised me the only way to couter-attack this nonsense was to shave and wear shoes, there-by vaulting us to status known as "passing". "In a world filled with solid F's", he would say "we only have to be a C minus". Wise words from a prophet bereaved of pants long ago.
It's 7 goddamned thirty in the morning, central time, so you know that we've had about enough of the talk. Strong coffee and sweets will kickstart this day, and possibly some violence. Some ragged thoughts to bounce around the old noggin, some twisted memories peeking through the time curtain. We will walk towards the convention center, oh yes, we will. The hippie place, the meeting frenzy of sharks and wanderers. The deal Machine, kicking into full grip, its pistons lubing up and expending on the sweat of volunteers and the Cleaning Crew. The huddled masses, they belong here. They catch NWA flights (staight outta locash!) from all corners, twist and churn their way through the Hyatt lobby and end up here, in my fucking way.
It's hard to handicap the convention center. There are, in a matter of speaking, all types. At this hour, there are too many to count. Their numbers mean little; it's their faces I focus on. The red blazers and make-up.... and a gigantic sign that reads "Lifetouch - Celebrating 75 Years!" drawn in ragged strokes the color of blood. It gives me pause. What the fuck is Lifetouch anyway? I get to the safety of work, and I look it up. Photography. Well, right. Of course. A version of Glamour Shots, but with no glamour, and stocked full of white women who walk too fast and talk too loud. What the christ? The booths are full, and guys who used to roadie for the Pointer Sisters are setting up the grand display. It's goddamned mayhem, and the stock market hasn't even opened yet. Let's fast forward.
I walk through the abandoned caverns, with only a few scumbags floating by me. It's 5:15, and it's quiet and still all around, except not. There is a reverberation, a sickening murmur from the heart of this mausoleum. Just what the fuck is going on? There isn't a soul to be seen, but it sounds like a thousand police officers beating a drunkard outside Stand Up Frank's. Whistles and noise, bouncing and bumping, I can't keep up with it. It grows louder as I approach the main auditorium. Rounding the corner, it hits me like the smoke from the Lounge on a rainy night: a violent display of noise and vibration not unlike a tornado. Twisting and turning in the widening gyre and so forth, I see and hear what I have been missing. Over a thousand 12 year old girls, decked in knee pads and jerseys that profess their sponsers' virtues. Parents, 14 deep behind benches, cheering not-too-loudly, and checking cell phones. The demon has descended upon Murderapolis, and this time, he's dressed as a volleyball tournament.
It's too much to handle when you've got a bag full of half-price sushi. Let's move on.
"Creative Memories"? Now, who in fuck thought this up? There are all manner of booths and giveaways, large women and larger men cavorting around the stalls looking for the elusive oat bag, all clutching plastic bags adorned with Medtronic's logo and stuffed with free bandaids and some sort of lotion. What the fuck is this all about? I see things that don't make any sense. A booth constructed to look like a New York newsstand. A clothing store, with racks and everything. A booth for health insurance. And then, in the middle of this drug-infused trauma, a gigantic goddamned red phone, looming like a sunset through the clouds of square people. Wait a minute. I take another look at those around me. Uh oh. That one's wearing a helmet of sorts. There's a booth giving away "photo business cards". Many, MANY people are confused. This isn't the kind of show you pay money to get into. Nope, they get here by bus. I have to get out of here, even if it means running through the "Office Supplies" tent to the nearest exit.
Finally, christ bless it, on a Friday, I find some matter of interest. As the escalator drops me into the maelstrom, I see women and men of all shapes, colors and ages walking around, and some of them are wearing hospital scrubs. They are dressed well, and don't appear to have been herded recently. As I round the corner, I see a sign... something that goes by too fast and I only have a chance to catch the part about "nurses" and "association" and "welcome". Well, that's just great. At least these people wear belts. It isn't until I hit the main floor that I see my first exhibit, a full size color picture of a bleeding bed sore. And there's more. Yes, this convention is for nurses who deal with wounds. Yes, wounds. "Hey, dog, where you at now?" "I'm up at HCMC, I'm working in the wound department." I see a sign informing me that just around this corner is the place for "fungal wounds".
I'll be going out the other exit.
Such a strange monster, these gatherings, and such a violent display of humanity, shoehorned into an expansive place and sprinkled with Minnesota charm like you can't get anywhere else. And you bastards from Ohio love this, don't you? The work that's done here benefits only a few. Me? Hell, jesus christ, I use it for the air conditioning.
Everybody knows they keep it under 70 in there. They have to.
There's too many people.
This ecclectic combination of the corners of the human race befuddle and confuse, but I guess that's their goal. Well, maybe not. Their goal likely is something like deals or contacts, not some dropout sporting a 2.4. My attorney once advised me the only way to couter-attack this nonsense was to shave and wear shoes, there-by vaulting us to status known as "passing". "In a world filled with solid F's", he would say "we only have to be a C minus". Wise words from a prophet bereaved of pants long ago.
It's 7 goddamned thirty in the morning, central time, so you know that we've had about enough of the talk. Strong coffee and sweets will kickstart this day, and possibly some violence. Some ragged thoughts to bounce around the old noggin, some twisted memories peeking through the time curtain. We will walk towards the convention center, oh yes, we will. The hippie place, the meeting frenzy of sharks and wanderers. The deal Machine, kicking into full grip, its pistons lubing up and expending on the sweat of volunteers and the Cleaning Crew. The huddled masses, they belong here. They catch NWA flights (staight outta locash!) from all corners, twist and churn their way through the Hyatt lobby and end up here, in my fucking way.
It's hard to handicap the convention center. There are, in a matter of speaking, all types. At this hour, there are too many to count. Their numbers mean little; it's their faces I focus on. The red blazers and make-up.... and a gigantic sign that reads "Lifetouch - Celebrating 75 Years!" drawn in ragged strokes the color of blood. It gives me pause. What the fuck is Lifetouch anyway? I get to the safety of work, and I look it up. Photography. Well, right. Of course. A version of Glamour Shots, but with no glamour, and stocked full of white women who walk too fast and talk too loud. What the christ? The booths are full, and guys who used to roadie for the Pointer Sisters are setting up the grand display. It's goddamned mayhem, and the stock market hasn't even opened yet. Let's fast forward.
I walk through the abandoned caverns, with only a few scumbags floating by me. It's 5:15, and it's quiet and still all around, except not. There is a reverberation, a sickening murmur from the heart of this mausoleum. Just what the fuck is going on? There isn't a soul to be seen, but it sounds like a thousand police officers beating a drunkard outside Stand Up Frank's. Whistles and noise, bouncing and bumping, I can't keep up with it. It grows louder as I approach the main auditorium. Rounding the corner, it hits me like the smoke from the Lounge on a rainy night: a violent display of noise and vibration not unlike a tornado. Twisting and turning in the widening gyre and so forth, I see and hear what I have been missing. Over a thousand 12 year old girls, decked in knee pads and jerseys that profess their sponsers' virtues. Parents, 14 deep behind benches, cheering not-too-loudly, and checking cell phones. The demon has descended upon Murderapolis, and this time, he's dressed as a volleyball tournament.
It's too much to handle when you've got a bag full of half-price sushi. Let's move on.
"Creative Memories"? Now, who in fuck thought this up? There are all manner of booths and giveaways, large women and larger men cavorting around the stalls looking for the elusive oat bag, all clutching plastic bags adorned with Medtronic's logo and stuffed with free bandaids and some sort of lotion. What the fuck is this all about? I see things that don't make any sense. A booth constructed to look like a New York newsstand. A clothing store, with racks and everything. A booth for health insurance. And then, in the middle of this drug-infused trauma, a gigantic goddamned red phone, looming like a sunset through the clouds of square people. Wait a minute. I take another look at those around me. Uh oh. That one's wearing a helmet of sorts. There's a booth giving away "photo business cards". Many, MANY people are confused. This isn't the kind of show you pay money to get into. Nope, they get here by bus. I have to get out of here, even if it means running through the "Office Supplies" tent to the nearest exit.
Finally, christ bless it, on a Friday, I find some matter of interest. As the escalator drops me into the maelstrom, I see women and men of all shapes, colors and ages walking around, and some of them are wearing hospital scrubs. They are dressed well, and don't appear to have been herded recently. As I round the corner, I see a sign... something that goes by too fast and I only have a chance to catch the part about "nurses" and "association" and "welcome". Well, that's just great. At least these people wear belts. It isn't until I hit the main floor that I see my first exhibit, a full size color picture of a bleeding bed sore. And there's more. Yes, this convention is for nurses who deal with wounds. Yes, wounds. "Hey, dog, where you at now?" "I'm up at HCMC, I'm working in the wound department." I see a sign informing me that just around this corner is the place for "fungal wounds".
I'll be going out the other exit.
Such a strange monster, these gatherings, and such a violent display of humanity, shoehorned into an expansive place and sprinkled with Minnesota charm like you can't get anywhere else. And you bastards from Ohio love this, don't you? The work that's done here benefits only a few. Me? Hell, jesus christ, I use it for the air conditioning.
Everybody knows they keep it under 70 in there. They have to.
There's too many people.
Friday, August 04, 2006
Picnic '76
It was August 6th, 1976, and all my friends in Cincinnati knew I was going to be in town for the weekend. We kept going back and forth on what exactly we should do for my visit...some people said we should rent a boat. Others said we should have a swinging party (not a lot of winners in the pool, if you grasp the concept). After all this haranguing I said fuck it, let's get the grill in the wagon and we'll have a picnic. YES. That'll do.The photo is the usual gang and even a kid from Taylor High School who was getting high with his girlfriend inside a dense pine tree. That guy smoking is Gene Rhodes, who knew a lot of these people but is not much of a talker. In fact, I remember this day to be a warm one, but for him it was his usual denim outfit. Crazy old Gene. His girlfriend is in front of him...was she a loose cannon. If we all didn't know Gene was packing heat (a point we'd kid him about constantly, especially since he couldn't bring the gun into work anyway) his girl would have acted like a nympho that just figured out how to pick a lock. To her left is Shelia, a cute number who became friendly with me in the WMGK Magic Bus Chevy Van later on while "Moonlight Feels Right" played. Can't remember the name of the girl that's standing behind her, but the one on the end was that girl's mother, who kept asking why we were drinking beer so early in the day. I could complain about that but then she was a friend of Gene and she worked at Channel 19, so I couldn't get her out of the picnic and still accomplish the goals of the work trip.
The guy next to the teen is Steve Kurk, who owned his own Coast to Coast hardware. I figured, being an owner of such a store, he'd have tons of cool outdoor grilling stuff or whatever. But that dunce didn't bring a thing. He also drank all of the Dr. Pepper. But he was all smiles so you couldn't really get upset with the guy.
So, the long cool woman on the bench? Oh sure, she made the trip. Those teens who shared their stash were really friendly, and were more than happy to take some brew as a trade. Of course, they didn't convince anyone with a phony baloney deep voice while holding a can of Stroh's. But that shit happens. The burgers were fantastic - so were the corn and the fresh melon that the mom on the end cut. We had a good time watching a wandering dog have some trouble with the melon rind; I've got to find those pictures. All in all, a great afternoon to get away from business. Shit, that was 30 years ago?
Friday, July 14, 2006
You're not lookin' in a mirror, trust me
Last night's events didn't take a lot of convincing, but they took a lot of explanation. This was directed to Elvira, my spaced out but incredibly polite waitress at Nicky's Pizza in Silver Lake.
"This is a game show convention of producers, talent, and fans. This band will supposedly be playing famous songs."
She stared at me for a moment, which could have meant anything, really. "Wow, I wanna be in a band that plays at game shows." (Don't correct her, just go with flow.) "If they have openings, come back and let me know." (OK, you got it.)
An old friend arrived first to the Burbank Airport Hilton's Convention Room #4 just before I did. "This place smells like eggs." I figured it was because of a million buffets in the mornings. He agreed. Then I looked around. My friend, THESE are the true game show fans. They don't live out here. They don't work in or around TV. And yet, they've come to Burbank to play tons of games and listen to producers and meet Peter Marshall (Hollywood Squares, among others) and Wink Martindale (Tic Tac Dough, among others). It was giant guts. Constant smiles. Tucked in T-Shirts into Jean Shorts. Videotaping everything. Silence. Minimal social skills.
The first tune, a medley of Price is Right prize songs, made everyone cheer. Suddenly, a wave of guilt washed over me. Yes, I recognized every god damn song. We moved on to Tic Tac Dough, Super Password, and others...and this band played them all. Finally, I had to turned to another old friend, a rare girl in this oasis, and tell the classic Triumph joke:
"How does it feel to be surrounded by a room full of people who have no idea how to please you?"
Eventually, after a self-enforced two drink minimum, I had to hit the road. This was a bit too much. And frankly, no one likes to be shoved into one interest. Sure, I enjoy game shows, but I enjoy punk, I enjoy reading, I enjoy Columbian imports. I enjoy having lunch with Dr. Naguchi. Thankfully, the interests are spread. For those that are there this afternoon, send that giant tray of fried everything to them. They all came out here to just sit and be with each other, eat fatty foods, and make jokes that only a handful would get. This one's for you.
"This is a game show convention of producers, talent, and fans. This band will supposedly be playing famous songs."
She stared at me for a moment, which could have meant anything, really. "Wow, I wanna be in a band that plays at game shows." (Don't correct her, just go with flow.) "If they have openings, come back and let me know." (OK, you got it.)
An old friend arrived first to the Burbank Airport Hilton's Convention Room #4 just before I did. "This place smells like eggs." I figured it was because of a million buffets in the mornings. He agreed. Then I looked around. My friend, THESE are the true game show fans. They don't live out here. They don't work in or around TV. And yet, they've come to Burbank to play tons of games and listen to producers and meet Peter Marshall (Hollywood Squares, among others) and Wink Martindale (Tic Tac Dough, among others). It was giant guts. Constant smiles. Tucked in T-Shirts into Jean Shorts. Videotaping everything. Silence. Minimal social skills.
The first tune, a medley of Price is Right prize songs, made everyone cheer. Suddenly, a wave of guilt washed over me. Yes, I recognized every god damn song. We moved on to Tic Tac Dough, Super Password, and others...and this band played them all. Finally, I had to turned to another old friend, a rare girl in this oasis, and tell the classic Triumph joke:
"How does it feel to be surrounded by a room full of people who have no idea how to please you?"
Eventually, after a self-enforced two drink minimum, I had to hit the road. This was a bit too much. And frankly, no one likes to be shoved into one interest. Sure, I enjoy game shows, but I enjoy punk, I enjoy reading, I enjoy Columbian imports. I enjoy having lunch with Dr. Naguchi. Thankfully, the interests are spread. For those that are there this afternoon, send that giant tray of fried everything to them. They all came out here to just sit and be with each other, eat fatty foods, and make jokes that only a handful would get. This one's for you.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
AK The State, Not The Assault Rifle...
Part I: Daylight, Forever
It’s Wednesday night. It’s 11:47 and the sun is shining like it’s five in the God damn morning. What the fuck!? Did I slip off into an alternate reality? Sort of. I’ve traveled off to the world of the Midnight Sun, the last frontier; Fairbanks, Alaska.
Having spent the past 8 hours in various modes of transportation, I’m pretty fucking out of it. My watch says quarter of midnight, my body says it’s three hours later than that, but my mind is screaming at me to stay awake. Wake up you asshole! It’s still light out! It’s an incredibly disorienting feeling. It feels like 3 a.m. but look like 4:30 in the afternoon – like that feeling you get when you’ve tied on more than a few cocktails before noon and have just stepped out of the bar into the bask of the mid-day sun. Give a stretch, catch myself from falling over, and make my way to dreamland.
It’s now Thursday morning, 7:30 a.m., and they’re redoing the roof on the neighbors’ house, RIGHT OUTSIDE THE BEDROOM WINDOW! Great. Good morning Dave, hope you didn’t sleep at all. Gee, thanks, hey can I get a cup of coffee? No, we just have steamed piss, will that do ya? Fuuuuuck.
Never mind, time to hit the links.
As I made my way over to the golf course – yeah, I played golf in Alaska – I started noticing things that I hadn’t seen through the haze of travel the day before. Almost every building I saw was a tin box with windows. There were four strip malls on the 10 minute drive, none of which had any stores that I recognized save the Radio Shack. Almost every car I saw was either fifteen years old or banged up. This town is fucking poor. Fairbanks is 30,000 people but feels like 5,000 spread out of two hundred miles of white trash shit hole. Or as the Lady Luck put it, “it’s like a third-world country with fast food joints.” Clearly I had crossed the tracks somewhere. Hey, you wanna grab some Arby’s? What, they only have Cheb’s? What the fuck? We’ll get back to this later.
Part II: America’s Pastime
There’s something to be said about watching baseball about as far north as possible. Or when it’s still light out in the 13th inning of a game that started at 7:30 p.m. “What” you say? “What the fuck are you talking about Dave, have you gone and double dipped in the bag of reds again?” No sir, I have not.
In the middle of the northern-most state that is united, in the middle of a city that looks a poor El Paso, Texas, there is one day that Fairbanks, Alaska is famous for. Unfortunately due to some untimely events, I missed it. But I did get a partial experience for my trouble, so I guess I can move on. The Midnight Sun Game is held at Goldpanner Field every year on the Summer solstice – this year being the 100th anniversary. But I don’t have enough facial hair to schedule myself correctly. Too much hair of the dog is more likely. Either way, it was an experience. For those unfamiliar, the Alaska Baseball League is a training ground for college kids looking to make their way to the Big Leagues. When the losers come home from the College World Series, they make their way to various teams, in various leagues, in various states, around the country. Southern California, Hawaii, Florida, and various East Coast states have leagues.
Why the fuck would they come to Alaska then?
The ABL is one of the tougher leagues to play in and the Goldpanners are one of the better teams. Bob Boone, Barry Bonds, Jason Giambi, and Dave Winfield are among the players who have graced these fields in the barren wasteland that is Fairbanks. The turf infield, with yellow base paths, is not glamorous but it’s like nothing you’ve ever seen. The players who aren’t playing are keeping the book and manning the radar gun from the stands and the dugouts would be almost embarrassing for most high-schoolers. And yet, it was a great experience. There were probably sixty people there and most of them had clearly spent a fair amount of time watching these teams – the eighty year-old chewing on the ump the entire game was especially entertaining. “Hey Blue! That was a foul ball, incase you wanted to know!” Is that me? Am I a clone of that asshole? They even have season ticket packages.
Part III: Depressing Impressions
Back to being a poor city - that’s not all that’s wrong with Fairbanks, Alaska. It’s right in the middle of the largest state in the union, and also the most desolate. There’s twenty hours of daylight during the summer which you would think would be uplifting, but you’d be wrong. It’s one of the most depressing places I’ve ever been. It’s sunny and warm, yet it’s dark and dreary at the same time. There’s mountains and trees and blue skies, but there’s a feeling of dread just beneath all of that beauty.
“It’s like when you’re sifting through the last of your bottles under the sink a week before payday just looking for a taste and you stumble upon what you believe is Jameson, but ends up being cleaning solution you stored in the empty bottle.” – Johnny San Gria
When he’s right he’s right. I’d rather likened it to the bottle of cough syrup that you had to refill with water to keep your wife from finding out you’re thirteenth step, but we’re just splitting hairs here. It’s a horrible place to go, to be, and imaginably, to live. I don’t know how they do it. I suppose that if it’s all you’ve ever known it’s not that bad, but it just has a suffocating depressiveness about it.
I’m glad I went because it was definitely an experience. We did spend a day in Denali National Park which, unlike Fairbanks, was beautiful. I’m glad I got to see where the Lady Luck grew up because I now have a better understanding of her mental state when she speaks of that place. It’s a tough, ugly place, full of tough, ugly people, and one place that, if I can help it, I will never venture to again.
Oh, and I lied earlier. I was double dipping in the bag of reds, but it was all I could do not to slit my own throat.
Saturday, July 01, 2006
The Swine Wear Letters On Their Uniforms Now
These bastards focus our energies. They invade our behavior. They take from us and from everyone. The price is high, a moral theoretical price that they can never repay, nor would they want to. The Pigs run the sty, and our power lies just beyond our ability, our senses weakened and our brains at an impasse. So hell, Jesus, I suppose none of that matters. The reaction is the thing, the brutal comeback or the cowardly shrinking. You do as you do, and not much changes that. If you can figure a way in or out of this goddamned mess, then you've got a leg up, you're doing ok, have yourself a grape soda. If not, join in line, because it's going to take one king hell bastard of a change to get this thing right.
The Swine that sit at border patrol lurk like dormant yellowjackets. The sweet nectar of fear is what perks them to attention, and nothing short of pollenation in all its forms will quench the thirst. It is necessary to examine this transaction in animal terms, and divorce it from the Human Experience, because it's not human, nobody's human in this deal. And it IS a deal, in as much as exchanging currency for goods, services or the fantastic possibility of More Money is, this is too. The fucking Filth are trading a piece of our Time and Psychic Energy for a bit of their power, their piggish grab on the infinite supply of misery, the word game that they control, and we lack the tools for.
Rules? Are you fucking kidding? Christ, rules would be completely out of place here. It's a transaction, a deal, and nobody's telling any of us any information. There are no rules, and there is bound to be stretching of any sort of order that is in place. Nobody reports to anything, the swine rub their noses in the Hypocrisy of it all, and nobody can do anything. The hopelessness is, quite frankly, the last sort of emotion we can hang on to, that golden noose that we can still hang ourselves with when it all tumbles down. Jesus, if that's the way it's going to happen, then there must be something else, some Wizard behind the booth, casting spells and pulling away. But no, it's not. Dick Cheney doesn't live here. These rats work without a net. Nothing holds up a ropewalker when he walks on a rope 40 feet thick. There's no sense in it.
The reaction though, that's the thing. And that's what we're left with. The assault complete, the deal done, the reaction haunts, but it gives meaning. It tells us we're still human. We're still capable of feeling, of working this thing out from the Other Side. Just like all else, the money might tell the story. But not, no, maybe not. Maybe the cruel hand of fate that this country has dealt to itself - because even an idiot can see that fate has nothing to do with the United States of America - is disinegrating of itself, it's falling to the ground and under the table. The cards don't match anymore, the suits don't hold. The Fucks take over, but they don't; they just take it all down. What in fuck's name would a Scumbag like that do if he had any REAL power? I would venture to guess that the end result would be quite a bit of Blood, and blame longer than any horizon. We're not there yet, but shit like this only turns the engine over, and slides us into gear. But back to the point, is that it, are we doing this to ourselves? Hell, if anyone deserves this, it's us. It just makes sense, I guess, to have this feeling, to wonder why it all had to go down, but yet, the question answers itself. IT WENT DOWN BECAUSE WE LET IT GO DOWN. We didn't stand in the way, we didn't make any demands, and now the Filth make decisions, and we can do nothing but examine it. But examination doesn't lend human feeling to the Filth.
The Scumbags are back. And their bullish behavior now builds upon itself. The machine grows, and nobody has the keys. Jesus, we built this fucker. But the brains, they have been reprogrammed. Hope is out there, but it can be killed very easy, it's very fragile. No, the way out of this is with brute force. That's the only thing that resonates with the Pigs. Reinforcement doesn't work on a farm animal. You beat its brains in with concepts, and hope to holy hell you don't have to kill it before it learns. Will they ever learn? I've seen a pigeon peck a red circle to keep from getting shocked, so I suppose anything is possible. But it doesn't matter. Because as I head down to sleep tonight, the beast feeds, and I am only one small pellet coming out of the shoot. I can't change the behavior. The shock isn't enough. The world cannot conjure the energy, let alone our pitiful band. The work we must do is too daunting, we will accept our positions, and deal with our small tragedies.
And the Swine will feast, as they always do. I only hope the REST of the US hasn't turned into Vegetarians yet.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Speaking Of Craps...
In case you hadn’t figured it out yet, I’m a professional eating coach. My job is to prepare my students for any kind of food eating activity that they may come across at anytime in their daily lives. This could include meals, snacks, or contests. I’ve turned out a few of the great eaters of our time.
The following is a memo sent to one of my then-prize pupils, who happened to be in the Las Vegas area when he contacted me. He alerted me to a challenge laid before him at the Las Vegas Club in downtown Las Vegas. A 9lb burger consumed in 24 hours is free! And you get a plaque on the wall, showing proof of your great success. A hall of fame of sorts…
For security sake, we’ll refer to him as Ben.
--------------------------------------------------------
Okay, so I've worked out your marathon schedule Ben. It's a pretty solid schedule that should keep you full of wonderful cheese burger - but not too full. You'll have some time to gamble, sleep, rest, jog and whatever else it is you'll need to keep the juices flowing.
I've done some research and I've got good sources that tell me beef loses about 25% of it's actual weight when it's cooked. So assuming the 9 lbs is pre-cooked weight, you're looking at roughly 6.75 lbs of deliciousness. Or, in terms you may better understand, 27 quarter pounders. That's a little over 1 an hour. It's a very attainable goal!! Of course, you can't just stay up for 24 hours - you'll need your beauty sleep and sports as well. So, below you'll find your schedule. I'm sorry Coach can't be there, but I'll be rooting for you the whole way!!
Saturday January 14, 2005
11am - 1pm You're eating. A lot. You're going off with a big bang here. You're goal - 10 QPs right off the bat (only 5 per hour!). It'll be like a delicious snack to start your day!
1pm-3pm You're resting - rooting against Michigan as Illinois hits jumpers in their eyes all day! Oh, and don't for get the NFL - oh yeah, it's on then too!
3pm-4pm It's time for your afternoon snack! Grab 5 more QPs and, as my mentor said, "GET 'ER DONE!"
4pm-9pm This is your first big break. You'll be hard pressed to choose between sleep and watching OUR North Dakota State Bison fight it out with the Jackrabbits of South Dakota. Oooh! And Tark's old mates will be tearin' at the towel as the night goes on.
9pm-10pm Dinner is served! You've got a light 3 QPs to eat! This would be a good time, if you felt like "Goin' off," to grab a couple extras if you wanna lighten the load for the later rounds!
10pm-12am Nap time! Well, either that or you can fight your demons at the Pai Gow table. You might get lucky and catch a little Aussie ponies, but don't count on it.
12am-1am Boy, those naps sure to leave a young strapping lad famished! Time for 3 more QPs! Of course if you had gotten neck deep in QPs in an earlier round, you could use this time to extend your next break!
1am-8am This should probably be used for sleep, but since you can’t tame a wild animal, I'll leave you to your JokerPoker machines.
8am-11am Home stretch!! You've got 6 QPs to kill in 3 hours! You'll either be rested and ready for a lovely breakfast, or red eyed and ready for a bed time snack!!
I think the plan I've laid out is one that will lead you to success. I see great things in your immediate future - namely your picture up on the wall in the Vegas Club and 24 hours worth of free eating!!
Good luck son, make me proud!
--------------------------------------------------------
Unfortunately, this challenge was not what it seemed. Apparently you had to stay in the restaurant the whole time - 24 hours. Ben, unfortunately, was not able to do without gambling for that amount of time, so he did not attempt the feat. Ponies and Pai Gow called more loudly than pounds of delicious red meat. I was forced to let him go. When the student cannot show discipline he is forced out of my school of eating and sent West, as the saying goes. It’s always sad when that happens. Many o' good eaters have been sent into exile.
The following is a memo sent to one of my then-prize pupils, who happened to be in the Las Vegas area when he contacted me. He alerted me to a challenge laid before him at the Las Vegas Club in downtown Las Vegas. A 9lb burger consumed in 24 hours is free! And you get a plaque on the wall, showing proof of your great success. A hall of fame of sorts…
For security sake, we’ll refer to him as Ben.
--------------------------------------------------------
Okay, so I've worked out your marathon schedule Ben. It's a pretty solid schedule that should keep you full of wonderful cheese burger - but not too full. You'll have some time to gamble, sleep, rest, jog and whatever else it is you'll need to keep the juices flowing.
I've done some research and I've got good sources that tell me beef loses about 25% of it's actual weight when it's cooked. So assuming the 9 lbs is pre-cooked weight, you're looking at roughly 6.75 lbs of deliciousness. Or, in terms you may better understand, 27 quarter pounders. That's a little over 1 an hour. It's a very attainable goal!! Of course, you can't just stay up for 24 hours - you'll need your beauty sleep and sports as well. So, below you'll find your schedule. I'm sorry Coach can't be there, but I'll be rooting for you the whole way!!
Saturday January 14, 2005
11am - 1pm You're eating. A lot. You're going off with a big bang here. You're goal - 10 QPs right off the bat (only 5 per hour!). It'll be like a delicious snack to start your day!
1pm-3pm You're resting - rooting against Michigan as Illinois hits jumpers in their eyes all day! Oh, and don't for get the NFL - oh yeah, it's on then too!
3pm-4pm It's time for your afternoon snack! Grab 5 more QPs and, as my mentor said, "GET 'ER DONE!"
4pm-9pm This is your first big break. You'll be hard pressed to choose between sleep and watching OUR North Dakota State Bison fight it out with the Jackrabbits of South Dakota. Oooh! And Tark's old mates will be tearin' at the towel as the night goes on.
9pm-10pm Dinner is served! You've got a light 3 QPs to eat! This would be a good time, if you felt like "Goin' off," to grab a couple extras if you wanna lighten the load for the later rounds!
10pm-12am Nap time! Well, either that or you can fight your demons at the Pai Gow table. You might get lucky and catch a little Aussie ponies, but don't count on it.
12am-1am Boy, those naps sure to leave a young strapping lad famished! Time for 3 more QPs! Of course if you had gotten neck deep in QPs in an earlier round, you could use this time to extend your next break!
1am-8am This should probably be used for sleep, but since you can’t tame a wild animal, I'll leave you to your JokerPoker machines.
8am-11am Home stretch!! You've got 6 QPs to kill in 3 hours! You'll either be rested and ready for a lovely breakfast, or red eyed and ready for a bed time snack!!
I think the plan I've laid out is one that will lead you to success. I see great things in your immediate future - namely your picture up on the wall in the Vegas Club and 24 hours worth of free eating!!
Good luck son, make me proud!
--------------------------------------------------------
Unfortunately, this challenge was not what it seemed. Apparently you had to stay in the restaurant the whole time - 24 hours. Ben, unfortunately, was not able to do without gambling for that amount of time, so he did not attempt the feat. Ponies and Pai Gow called more loudly than pounds of delicious red meat. I was forced to let him go. When the student cannot show discipline he is forced out of my school of eating and sent West, as the saying goes. It’s always sad when that happens. Many o' good eaters have been sent into exile.
When you're hot...
I have no idea where the hell I got this cowboy hat, but it's been with me the whole trip. The damn thing barely fits, and I have to hold it down as I run. How the hell I ended up at a Craps table is a mystery to me. I still have no idea what to do...he gave me some dice, I kept rolling them, people kept yelling. I never moved my bet.
My initial bet has now grown 20 times its original amount. I've had enough. No one liked that answer. They treated it as an excuse. Instead of people cheering, I got groans. The cashier wasn't far from where I was, until a very large man (more tall than fat...fat doesn't intimidate me) stopped me and said "Out."
So, I do as I am told, but see that there's one last cashier cage before I exit. So, I weave between machines, and cash everything in. Good, I'm in the clear. I don't want to turn around to see if this guy is still behind me. I have no idea how to get back IN here considering I'm actually STAYING here. Whatever, I make it outside. Good lord, it's hot.
OK, this guy is still following me. We're outside. I try to play it calm, but my mind keeps telling me otherwise. Before I adjust my hat, the guy is in front of me again.
"I'm a judge." I had no idea what that had to do with anything, so I asked "In Japan?" This wasn't a good answer. "No, not in fucking Japan, wiseass." I didn't want to seem like I was trying to please him, so I said "How the hell would I know? Don't they have judges in Japan?" By this point, maybe I've confused him. He's looking blank, and not at me.
"I saw you in there. You should know that, for a piece of the action, I gamble with my life." El Alto put his hands on his hips, as if trying to mean business in the old west. "What's it going to take?"
By this point, asking him just what the fuck he meant was NOT going to work. I had to come up with a solution. "Do you like Baked Beans?"
"Whaaa? No, what does that have to--"
"Well...I guess it's off, huh?"
He pleaded. He said he wanted more information. I turned away. Now, it could have been a mistake not to see his reaction. Was he hurt? Had he turned around? Did he reach for brass knuckles - or a gun? Was he coming after me? I didn't know. I just remember counting to 100. And then running. And this god damn hat keeps coming off.
My initial bet has now grown 20 times its original amount. I've had enough. No one liked that answer. They treated it as an excuse. Instead of people cheering, I got groans. The cashier wasn't far from where I was, until a very large man (more tall than fat...fat doesn't intimidate me) stopped me and said "Out."
So, I do as I am told, but see that there's one last cashier cage before I exit. So, I weave between machines, and cash everything in. Good, I'm in the clear. I don't want to turn around to see if this guy is still behind me. I have no idea how to get back IN here considering I'm actually STAYING here. Whatever, I make it outside. Good lord, it's hot.
OK, this guy is still following me. We're outside. I try to play it calm, but my mind keeps telling me otherwise. Before I adjust my hat, the guy is in front of me again.
"I'm a judge." I had no idea what that had to do with anything, so I asked "In Japan?" This wasn't a good answer. "No, not in fucking Japan, wiseass." I didn't want to seem like I was trying to please him, so I said "How the hell would I know? Don't they have judges in Japan?" By this point, maybe I've confused him. He's looking blank, and not at me.
"I saw you in there. You should know that, for a piece of the action, I gamble with my life." El Alto put his hands on his hips, as if trying to mean business in the old west. "What's it going to take?"
By this point, asking him just what the fuck he meant was NOT going to work. I had to come up with a solution. "Do you like Baked Beans?"
"Whaaa? No, what does that have to--"
"Well...I guess it's off, huh?"
He pleaded. He said he wanted more information. I turned away. Now, it could have been a mistake not to see his reaction. Was he hurt? Had he turned around? Did he reach for brass knuckles - or a gun? Was he coming after me? I didn't know. I just remember counting to 100. And then running. And this god damn hat keeps coming off.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Dispatches From Detroit
Editor's Note: Recently, we sent Dee Louis on a fact-finding mission deep into the heart of the U of M campus. While on the trek, strange vibrations halted his journey, and forced him to seek shelter. After months of searching, he ended up at a graduation ceremony being held at the Gerald Ford school of public policy. His manuscript somehow survived...
The ambitious and their goals... they often cloud my head, and make me wish for breath. Those that aim to calculate and deconstruct the issues at hand, those that rise above their fellow man to become the filth at the top, those that run in circles, fly on radars, and coagulate into taskforces, eh. It usually leaves me tender, like the last of full pack of Winstons.
They come from all over, these overachievers. Their lives like arrows, their minds like carving stones. And they learn, they adjust, and they grow. And sure, hell, it's hard to be upset at that sort of thing. There's no roofer's mentality that drives me towards the screaming of obscenites or any southern anti-intellectual pride that scorns universities within me. Hell, christ, we don't have a choice. Either we all start reading books, or we'll be pets to the Chinese in less than a decade. Start with Faulkner, that's what the Owl tells me.
There is something special about these young prodigies, something endearing about their ethic and understanding, but it doesn't last. I still wouldn't share a Leine's with them (Sunset Wheat, now in stores!), and lord knows the success won't rub off. It may, in its best form, fill in a small gap, add another patch to this ever-growing tapestry. In its worst form, I'm left still trying to figure out how Tom Selleck can consistently do it so well, yet I'm just left with a bare upper lip.
But they don't do it for me, and they don't do it for you. They see it bigger, better, more complex. The street level is missing, the global psychology fits their equation. These problems, these shortcomings of societies, their solutions don't lie in telling people like me and the scum I run with how to live our lives. I mean, hell, that's a good start, but it's not fixing any energy crisis. We bet our good money on the Oilers and Yankee overs, not the free trade economy. Jesus, you could call what we do free trade, except some wanker in Peekwuoak, Ontario is raking 10 points no matter if Clemens makes the start or not. So fuck it, I guess.
Lord almighty, look at where I'm going with this. The selfishness reigns supreme, and I can't do a damn thing to stop it. So MY world view is now fucked. I'm seeing everything with my nose in frame, the outlines of my eyesockets forming the border. What happened to the objective? The removal of self from the Greater Pasture? Jesus, it's not gone. Tell me it's not gone.
Possibly, that's why these people are here. They're here to overcome the misgivings and tribulations of a brokedown just-need-12-bucks-to-get-in-the-trunk-of-my-car sensitive castoff like me and everyone else. They aren't troubled with the Human Pain. They use math to explain why we do what we do, and maybe that has validity. I can't see it any other way. They have to be. There has to be some force out there that sees what we all do and appoints a small percentage of us to be able to control it, and fix our errors. If not, we'll just all hang flags and bet longshots. We need help with our society like we need our social security. You can't leave it up to the people... we're not smart enough. These glorious sons of bitches have gone to school for more years than I've had a savings account, and they deserve to manage my future.
So I guess, in the end, it's a Good Thing. They take what they need from the masses - data, mostly - and they spit theories and solutions that leave us scratching our heads and muttering into the darkness in front of television screens. Because we can't fix a goddamned thing without someone up there directing, and if that director lived like we live, then no chance, no way. They'd be doing double time at the Shoe, humping that table hoping to Score Big, and make it out of there with more Money than they came with. Doesn't that about sum up America?
So fight on, soldiers. I couldn't see myself out back with you scheming on a way to take the Polish White Eagle sign off the brick building down the street, but at least you have a GOOD reason for passing on the Grainbelts.
Because my reason is because I'm too fucking broke.
The ambitious and their goals... they often cloud my head, and make me wish for breath. Those that aim to calculate and deconstruct the issues at hand, those that rise above their fellow man to become the filth at the top, those that run in circles, fly on radars, and coagulate into taskforces, eh. It usually leaves me tender, like the last of full pack of Winstons.
They come from all over, these overachievers. Their lives like arrows, their minds like carving stones. And they learn, they adjust, and they grow. And sure, hell, it's hard to be upset at that sort of thing. There's no roofer's mentality that drives me towards the screaming of obscenites or any southern anti-intellectual pride that scorns universities within me. Hell, christ, we don't have a choice. Either we all start reading books, or we'll be pets to the Chinese in less than a decade. Start with Faulkner, that's what the Owl tells me.
There is something special about these young prodigies, something endearing about their ethic and understanding, but it doesn't last. I still wouldn't share a Leine's with them (Sunset Wheat, now in stores!), and lord knows the success won't rub off. It may, in its best form, fill in a small gap, add another patch to this ever-growing tapestry. In its worst form, I'm left still trying to figure out how Tom Selleck can consistently do it so well, yet I'm just left with a bare upper lip.
But they don't do it for me, and they don't do it for you. They see it bigger, better, more complex. The street level is missing, the global psychology fits their equation. These problems, these shortcomings of societies, their solutions don't lie in telling people like me and the scum I run with how to live our lives. I mean, hell, that's a good start, but it's not fixing any energy crisis. We bet our good money on the Oilers and Yankee overs, not the free trade economy. Jesus, you could call what we do free trade, except some wanker in Peekwuoak, Ontario is raking 10 points no matter if Clemens makes the start or not. So fuck it, I guess.
Lord almighty, look at where I'm going with this. The selfishness reigns supreme, and I can't do a damn thing to stop it. So MY world view is now fucked. I'm seeing everything with my nose in frame, the outlines of my eyesockets forming the border. What happened to the objective? The removal of self from the Greater Pasture? Jesus, it's not gone. Tell me it's not gone.
Possibly, that's why these people are here. They're here to overcome the misgivings and tribulations of a brokedown just-need-12-bucks-to-get-in-the-trunk-of-my-car sensitive castoff like me and everyone else. They aren't troubled with the Human Pain. They use math to explain why we do what we do, and maybe that has validity. I can't see it any other way. They have to be. There has to be some force out there that sees what we all do and appoints a small percentage of us to be able to control it, and fix our errors. If not, we'll just all hang flags and bet longshots. We need help with our society like we need our social security. You can't leave it up to the people... we're not smart enough. These glorious sons of bitches have gone to school for more years than I've had a savings account, and they deserve to manage my future.
So I guess, in the end, it's a Good Thing. They take what they need from the masses - data, mostly - and they spit theories and solutions that leave us scratching our heads and muttering into the darkness in front of television screens. Because we can't fix a goddamned thing without someone up there directing, and if that director lived like we live, then no chance, no way. They'd be doing double time at the Shoe, humping that table hoping to Score Big, and make it out of there with more Money than they came with. Doesn't that about sum up America?
So fight on, soldiers. I couldn't see myself out back with you scheming on a way to take the Polish White Eagle sign off the brick building down the street, but at least you have a GOOD reason for passing on the Grainbelts.
Because my reason is because I'm too fucking broke.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
A Strange Night
The scene: It’s a warm, Minnesota, summer night. There’s a storm brewing but it hasn’t begun yet. Of the 10 or so tables on the patio, most are filled with locals sharing stories, food, and laughs with cocktails in hand. In other words, it’s a nearly perfect night.
Then things get weird.
The patio has quieted down a little bit, when the front door of the bar comes banging open. The bouncer has a gentleman that has had a few too many cocktails – so many in fact, that he’s having one hell of a time walking. A cab pulls up. The bouncers drags the drunk towards the cab, nearly losing him as his legs give out. The drunk is dumped into the back of the cab, door closed, this looks like the end of his night. The bouncer talks to the cabbie for a minute, then makes his way back inside. A few minutes later the bouncer is right back outside. He talks with the cabbie some more, opens the back door, and helps the drunk back out of the cab. Good move by the cabbie. The bouncer, not really sure what to do with the guy at this point, grabs a chair and plops the drunk in it.
Now, to give you a better idea of what the scene looks like at this point, it still has yet to start raining, but the skies are becoming more threatening by the minute. The patio itself is covered, but the entrance is not, and this is where our drunk little friend is currently going in and out of consciousness. Then the rain comes.
And it comes hard.
It starts innocently, much like most storms do, but about 10 minutes later it’s a full fledged downpour. It is one of those wonderful Minnesota summer storms that blows in this time of year. The patrons are all under the protection of the roof over the patio, but our drunk little friend is getting soaked. By this point, he’s completely passed out, and has been unresponsive for about 20 minutes. A few of the people at the table are concerned because our little drunk buddy is out getting soaked. The bouncer – or any staff member for that matter – have made no attempt at all the move the gentleman out of the rain, one actually saying “the rain will do him good.” True or not, it’s not a nice thing to do. Detox has apparently been called, but it’s been nearly an hour since they were contacted. I don’t know how it is in other cities, but in Minneapolis, Detox usually has a very quick response time, so it’s strange that they have yet to make an appearance. Finally though, someone shows up.
But it’s not the ambulance.
The rain has slowed slightly – a lull in the storm. Up walks a Minneapolis Police Officer, but something feels different about this guy. He’s carrying a sort of ominous feeling with him as he approaches the entrance, and our little buddy. He speaks with the bouncer for a minute, then turns his attention towards his reason for being there. The officer slaps the drunk across the face once, presumably in an attempt to wake him up. Then he does it again. And again, but this time, he winds up a little more – WHACK! The cops slaps the guy pretty damn hard. At this point, he’s got the attention of almost everyone on the patio.
The guys who had been concerned about the drunk man sitting in the rain, decide they’ve had enough and approach the officer. In a completely friendly, and unthreatening, tone, one of the guys says he’s got a chair set up under the awning so they can move our buddy out of the rain. That did it.
The cop explodes at him.
He launches into a tirade about how my concerned friend is a snot mouthed puke and that if he doesn’t walk away right now, “he’s going to punch him in the fucking face.” The cope drops a few more F-bombs and threatens him again, finally telling him he’ll throw him in cuffs right now. I was stunned. I had never seen a police officer act in such an aggressive manor, especially since he was unprovoked. My friend comes back to the table, shaking with adrenaline. Okay, good, the ambulance is here. The cop heads over to attended to our drunk little buddy – slaps him again. He then pulls his flashlight out – it appeared to be a miniature Mag Lite, grabs the mans right hand and raps him across the knuckles. Hard. Twice. The paramedic, who is holding the mans left hand, checking for responsiveness, give the cop a look like ‘I don’t think you’re supposed to do that.’
The paramedics finally get the guy on the roller and into the back of the ambulance. The cop finishes up with the bouncer, then makes his way back to his squad car. Instead of just going back to his car, he stops, turns to my concerned friend and berates him some more, telling him “if he wants to help, why don’t you become a civil service worker.” His response is to mention the typical police motto, ‘To Serve and Protect.” Officer friendly points to his car and says “It doesn’t fucking say serve and protect anymore.” I’ve had enough at this point and holler sarcastically, “wow, what a great attitude,” and he responds equally sarcastically, “thanks.”
Then it’s over.
I have never in my life ever seen any public servant act in such an amazingly disrespectful way. Not only did the guy abuse our drunken little buddy, but he threatened a citizen who was only trying to be helpful. Then, after acting like a complete asshole, the cop has the bas sense to come over and continue antagonizing people. We did get his badge number, car number, and the ambulance number. We’ll – all seven of us – be calling in complaints on Officer Friendly, along with a few of the staff members. I know that coming from where I do, I don’t have to deal with some of the things that people who live in rougher parts of the world do, but it completely blew my mind.
It was like something out of the Twilight Zone.
Then things get weird.
The patio has quieted down a little bit, when the front door of the bar comes banging open. The bouncer has a gentleman that has had a few too many cocktails – so many in fact, that he’s having one hell of a time walking. A cab pulls up. The bouncers drags the drunk towards the cab, nearly losing him as his legs give out. The drunk is dumped into the back of the cab, door closed, this looks like the end of his night. The bouncer talks to the cabbie for a minute, then makes his way back inside. A few minutes later the bouncer is right back outside. He talks with the cabbie some more, opens the back door, and helps the drunk back out of the cab. Good move by the cabbie. The bouncer, not really sure what to do with the guy at this point, grabs a chair and plops the drunk in it.
Now, to give you a better idea of what the scene looks like at this point, it still has yet to start raining, but the skies are becoming more threatening by the minute. The patio itself is covered, but the entrance is not, and this is where our drunk little friend is currently going in and out of consciousness. Then the rain comes.
And it comes hard.
It starts innocently, much like most storms do, but about 10 minutes later it’s a full fledged downpour. It is one of those wonderful Minnesota summer storms that blows in this time of year. The patrons are all under the protection of the roof over the patio, but our drunk little friend is getting soaked. By this point, he’s completely passed out, and has been unresponsive for about 20 minutes. A few of the people at the table are concerned because our little drunk buddy is out getting soaked. The bouncer – or any staff member for that matter – have made no attempt at all the move the gentleman out of the rain, one actually saying “the rain will do him good.” True or not, it’s not a nice thing to do. Detox has apparently been called, but it’s been nearly an hour since they were contacted. I don’t know how it is in other cities, but in Minneapolis, Detox usually has a very quick response time, so it’s strange that they have yet to make an appearance. Finally though, someone shows up.
But it’s not the ambulance.
The rain has slowed slightly – a lull in the storm. Up walks a Minneapolis Police Officer, but something feels different about this guy. He’s carrying a sort of ominous feeling with him as he approaches the entrance, and our little buddy. He speaks with the bouncer for a minute, then turns his attention towards his reason for being there. The officer slaps the drunk across the face once, presumably in an attempt to wake him up. Then he does it again. And again, but this time, he winds up a little more – WHACK! The cops slaps the guy pretty damn hard. At this point, he’s got the attention of almost everyone on the patio.
The guys who had been concerned about the drunk man sitting in the rain, decide they’ve had enough and approach the officer. In a completely friendly, and unthreatening, tone, one of the guys says he’s got a chair set up under the awning so they can move our buddy out of the rain. That did it.
The cop explodes at him.
He launches into a tirade about how my concerned friend is a snot mouthed puke and that if he doesn’t walk away right now, “he’s going to punch him in the fucking face.” The cope drops a few more F-bombs and threatens him again, finally telling him he’ll throw him in cuffs right now. I was stunned. I had never seen a police officer act in such an aggressive manor, especially since he was unprovoked. My friend comes back to the table, shaking with adrenaline. Okay, good, the ambulance is here. The cop heads over to attended to our drunk little buddy – slaps him again. He then pulls his flashlight out – it appeared to be a miniature Mag Lite, grabs the mans right hand and raps him across the knuckles. Hard. Twice. The paramedic, who is holding the mans left hand, checking for responsiveness, give the cop a look like ‘I don’t think you’re supposed to do that.’
The paramedics finally get the guy on the roller and into the back of the ambulance. The cop finishes up with the bouncer, then makes his way back to his squad car. Instead of just going back to his car, he stops, turns to my concerned friend and berates him some more, telling him “if he wants to help, why don’t you become a civil service worker.” His response is to mention the typical police motto, ‘To Serve and Protect.” Officer friendly points to his car and says “It doesn’t fucking say serve and protect anymore.” I’ve had enough at this point and holler sarcastically, “wow, what a great attitude,” and he responds equally sarcastically, “thanks.”
Then it’s over.
I have never in my life ever seen any public servant act in such an amazingly disrespectful way. Not only did the guy abuse our drunken little buddy, but he threatened a citizen who was only trying to be helpful. Then, after acting like a complete asshole, the cop has the bas sense to come over and continue antagonizing people. We did get his badge number, car number, and the ambulance number. We’ll – all seven of us – be calling in complaints on Officer Friendly, along with a few of the staff members. I know that coming from where I do, I don’t have to deal with some of the things that people who live in rougher parts of the world do, but it completely blew my mind.
It was like something out of the Twilight Zone.
Friday, May 05, 2006
Flight School
This has been my first pilot season on the demand side (instead of the supply side), and as with most years there's more fat than steak. But what hurts more than anything is the great show that DOESN'T make it. We're a while away from finding out what makes it. But I want to tell you about two shows that didn't make it and the world is a sadder place because of it.
Heat Vision & Jack, Fox, 1999
Jack Black plays a former astronaut who, during an exploration, gets too close too the sun. This is actually a positive as the sun gave him super human intelligence. This occurs whenever the sun is down, however. Aided by Jack, a friend of his who died in a motorcycle crash and was reincarnated as a talking motorcycle (voiced by Owen Wilson), the duo ride the back desert highways fighting for justice, namely Ron Silver (as himself). Ben Stiller produced it.
I want you to read that one again. OK. It's FUNNIER than that. It's simply amazing. Unless the joke went over everyone's heads there (and they decided to instead air such winning comedies as Holding the Baby, Costello, or Getting Personal) this would have made everyone stars. Of course, that happened in time anyway...but just to see that cast when they were younger (JB still had the gut, naturally) is a thing of beauty.
Lookwell, NBC, 1991
Adam West is an actor who starred on a 70s cop show...problem is not only are roles dry, he continues to "help" the LAPD with crimes. Written by Conan O'Brien and Robert Smigel.
I think anyone would agree with me that West is quite possibly one of the best dry comedy legends, right there with Fred Willard. To see him screening episodes of the 70s show (titled "Banagan") for his acting class, and his delivery of lines such as "Used to...play detective...mind...can't help but make...deductions."
NBC...well, why pick this when The Adventures of Mark & Brian (LA radio DJ's real life escapades) or Flesh 'n Blood (A stuffy lawyer takes in her 'country' family members) sit right on the shelf?
These are rare occasions, and I don't want to give the impression that there's tons of gems in the hills. But every now and then, you can see the gold. Just gotta...grab.
Heat Vision & Jack, Fox, 1999
Jack Black plays a former astronaut who, during an exploration, gets too close too the sun. This is actually a positive as the sun gave him super human intelligence. This occurs whenever the sun is down, however. Aided by Jack, a friend of his who died in a motorcycle crash and was reincarnated as a talking motorcycle (voiced by Owen Wilson), the duo ride the back desert highways fighting for justice, namely Ron Silver (as himself). Ben Stiller produced it.
I want you to read that one again. OK. It's FUNNIER than that. It's simply amazing. Unless the joke went over everyone's heads there (and they decided to instead air such winning comedies as Holding the Baby, Costello, or Getting Personal) this would have made everyone stars. Of course, that happened in time anyway...but just to see that cast when they were younger (JB still had the gut, naturally) is a thing of beauty.
Lookwell, NBC, 1991
Adam West is an actor who starred on a 70s cop show...problem is not only are roles dry, he continues to "help" the LAPD with crimes. Written by Conan O'Brien and Robert Smigel.
I think anyone would agree with me that West is quite possibly one of the best dry comedy legends, right there with Fred Willard. To see him screening episodes of the 70s show (titled "Banagan") for his acting class, and his delivery of lines such as "Used to...play detective...mind...can't help but make...deductions."
NBC...well, why pick this when The Adventures of Mark & Brian (LA radio DJ's real life escapades) or Flesh 'n Blood (A stuffy lawyer takes in her 'country' family members) sit right on the shelf?
These are rare occasions, and I don't want to give the impression that there's tons of gems in the hills. But every now and then, you can see the gold. Just gotta...grab.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Train in vain
It's rare for me to find public transportation, let alone use it, but that all changed during his trip to Boston. Witness this exchange:
A wino picks up a half used bottle of juice on the floor.
"Aw man, you gonna drink that?"
Uuuugh, I'm thirsty.
"My god, you're disgusting. That thing got all germs."
But the person drinkin' it didn't.
"You don't know what's in there."
Uuugh, but they wouldn't do something bad to their drink.
"That's so gross. Oh my god."
This conversation went on, but I unfortunately had to change trains. To think, for 4 years, I usually had a portable music player with me at all times. The conversations I missed! The society, the people, the color of Boston.
It's a shame really. Too many conversations simply didn't last that long as I was on the go. Oh sure, there were gems here and there, and I never had to start a conversation:
Spoken to at Wendy's
Creepy guy: "I usually like to sit at the counter and look out at the girls on the street. But they took away the stools."
Spoken to on the plane
Old Lady: "Oh, you work in TV? Let me ask you, what's the name of the guy...the one, oh...who does the news in the morning on CNN?"
Spoken to in a convenience store
Wino: $1.50. You gimme...I get a dollar and...haha, shit.
In a cafe
Waitress: The tea is really good...a blend of green tea, some Chamomile, and we add some spices to make it really cozy!
On the plane home
Stewardess: For you sir, the pasta? It's a pasta...with CHEESE. A CHEESE pasta. Another drink, sir, or do you want to wait for the CHEESE pasta.
On it goes. And tonight, I meet a visiting sister, who's fear of the English language should yield more fun.
A wino picks up a half used bottle of juice on the floor.
"Aw man, you gonna drink that?"
Uuuugh, I'm thirsty.
"My god, you're disgusting. That thing got all germs."
But the person drinkin' it didn't.
"You don't know what's in there."
Uuugh, but they wouldn't do something bad to their drink.
"That's so gross. Oh my god."
This conversation went on, but I unfortunately had to change trains. To think, for 4 years, I usually had a portable music player with me at all times. The conversations I missed! The society, the people, the color of Boston.
It's a shame really. Too many conversations simply didn't last that long as I was on the go. Oh sure, there were gems here and there, and I never had to start a conversation:
Spoken to at Wendy's
Creepy guy: "I usually like to sit at the counter and look out at the girls on the street. But they took away the stools."
Spoken to on the plane
Old Lady: "Oh, you work in TV? Let me ask you, what's the name of the guy...the one, oh...who does the news in the morning on CNN?"
Spoken to in a convenience store
Wino: $1.50. You gimme...I get a dollar and...haha, shit.
In a cafe
Waitress: The tea is really good...a blend of green tea, some Chamomile, and we add some spices to make it really cozy!
On the plane home
Stewardess: For you sir, the pasta? It's a pasta...with CHEESE. A CHEESE pasta. Another drink, sir, or do you want to wait for the CHEESE pasta.
On it goes. And tonight, I meet a visiting sister, who's fear of the English language should yield more fun.
Friday, March 03, 2006
Here we go, again
What's happening in Hollywood isn't that much different than downtown Las Vegas. Swank leaving for the stupid. What do I mean? Well, look at the intersection developments that have showed up this decade. Hollywood & Highland is useless except for the Oscars. Sunset & Vine is nothing but the same old storefronts, but with tougher parking. And now, Hollywood & Vine:
From the LA Times
"Los Angeles officials cleared the way for a luxury hotel developer to seize buildings housing about 30 small businesses through eminent domain so a $400-million project with a W Hotel, condominium and apartment units, and glitzy shops and restaurants can be built on the southeast corner."
I am not sure I understand a new luxury hotel where, beyond the Pantages theater, there's not that much to do. What are these fucking ritzy people doing in Hollywood, anyway? This article accents the local business that gets the shaft, but it really is true. I lived in Hollywood for 4 years, and I saw new developments serve absolutely NO ONE. No drug stores, grocery, hardware, you know, things we NEED within walking distance. Could a new property, oh, I don't know, SERVE THE COMMUNITY?! Of course not. Just keep spending the public's money for the private gain. Meanwhile, the American Eagle becomes a Gap which becomes a Tommy Hillfiger, and they stand confused wondering why the fucking 99 Cent store gets more business. HMMM - LOOK AROUND.
If your name was Johnny Swank (which it is) and you were all about deals (which you are) would you stay on Hollywood Blvd. so you could dine at Burger King? Or would you stay at the Chateau Marmont on the Strip? Hunter and Belushi walk those halls. So does Morrison.
I bet there's folks in MN who say the same thing about stadiums. Why spend my hard earned money when I can't fit in the seats? I could spend that much for a dinner at Ponderosa, and we could hit Dairy Queen on the way home. Difference is the Metrodome sucks. Met Stadium was the shit. I don't make the rules.
Alas, instead of trying to make the best of it, I shall dodge the dumb and continue gold mining. After all, that's what making deals is all about.
From the LA Times
"Los Angeles officials cleared the way for a luxury hotel developer to seize buildings housing about 30 small businesses through eminent domain so a $400-million project with a W Hotel, condominium and apartment units, and glitzy shops and restaurants can be built on the southeast corner."
I am not sure I understand a new luxury hotel where, beyond the Pantages theater, there's not that much to do. What are these fucking ritzy people doing in Hollywood, anyway? This article accents the local business that gets the shaft, but it really is true. I lived in Hollywood for 4 years, and I saw new developments serve absolutely NO ONE. No drug stores, grocery, hardware, you know, things we NEED within walking distance. Could a new property, oh, I don't know, SERVE THE COMMUNITY?! Of course not. Just keep spending the public's money for the private gain. Meanwhile, the American Eagle becomes a Gap which becomes a Tommy Hillfiger, and they stand confused wondering why the fucking 99 Cent store gets more business. HMMM - LOOK AROUND.
If your name was Johnny Swank (which it is) and you were all about deals (which you are) would you stay on Hollywood Blvd. so you could dine at Burger King? Or would you stay at the Chateau Marmont on the Strip? Hunter and Belushi walk those halls. So does Morrison.
I bet there's folks in MN who say the same thing about stadiums. Why spend my hard earned money when I can't fit in the seats? I could spend that much for a dinner at Ponderosa, and we could hit Dairy Queen on the way home. Difference is the Metrodome sucks. Met Stadium was the shit. I don't make the rules.
Alas, instead of trying to make the best of it, I shall dodge the dumb and continue gold mining. After all, that's what making deals is all about.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Jameson Clean, Please...
It’s this time of year that I begin to revert back to my normal schizophrenic self. It’s March. Fabulous, fabulous March. It’s in this month that I was born, Saint Patrick is celebrated all over the world, winter unwraps her chilly hands from around our necks, and spring training gets underway. Things really start to look up in March. Golf courses begin opening, the birds return to what once was a blistery, cold land, and Minnesota begins to more closely resemble the wonderful weather goldmine that is California. Of course I have yet to mention the greatest part of this beloved month. March Fucking Madness. Yeah, that’s right, the NCAA Tourney. There’s nothing on this planet that makes me happier than those two short weeks in March. They start with my birthday and end with the crowning of a national champion. Fuck the Superbowl. Fuck the NHL. Fuck the NBA – for now at least. This is the time when my attention to sports is at its peak. I’m tuned into and reading every little thing there is to read about each and every team as they get ready for their conference tournaments to begin. Selection Sunday can’t come soon enough. I’m checking and rechecking records and stats and RPI and everything there is to check to see who’s going to make it and who’s going to get left out. “Hey, are the Griz gonna repeat as Big Sky champs, or is Idaho gonna make a tourney run and wipe out their chances!?” Who fucking knows! That’s the beauty of it. At this point, yeah, there’s not really any reason for me to be trying to get my brackets together because they won’t be in place until March 12, but I don’t care, I NEED THIS SHIT! I’ve been down for a month because, in case you didn’t know, Minnesota sucks balls in February. But now the sun hangs in the sky a little longer – anybody see Nate Robinson in the dunk contest? Yeah, like that, except he played at the University of Washington and that’s the only reason I care what he does. Sure, we’ve got a few cold days here and there, but overall the jackets can be shed, and the shorts can be taken out of storage – yes Goldminers, some Minnesotans wear shorts when it’s 35 degrees out.
But really, who gives a fuck about the weather, Selection Sunday is two weeks away!!!
All I’m concerned with is what time what games are on so I can watch dreams get made and shattered, all while sitting at Runyon’s pouring Newcastle and Jameson down my neck hole. Nothing else matters. The conference tournaments are a warm up to the real shit, like getting some crack while you wait for payday so you can go out and get some China White. Hey, I fucking need something to get me through. It’s a great opportunity to see who’s playing well, who maybe has some magic, or which team’s head is too big, lending to a possible early upset that could win you the bucket of money at the end of the March rainbow. What? You don’t know what I’m talking about?
Okay, I’ll put it in terms you may understand. So you’re talking to Sol, a new drug dealer in town. What you really want is to get some top shelf Sneeze, but you’re not sure if Sol is the real deal, so you get a bag a Stankers to do some quality control before diving head first into $2000 a week contract. Got it? Good, lets move on.
That’s the funny thing about life. Totally meaningless shit to you, makes my whole life improve in a blink of an eye. Does that mean you’re better than I am? No, it just means you don’t know shit about shit and you’re idea of life success is my idea of complete and utter failure. But that’s fine, that’s why I don’t have your life.
March has always been an important month for me. At first, it was my birthday. I get presents and really, who doesn’t love getting presents? Fuckin’ A, I know I do. But as I got a little older, St Pat was my main excitement of the month. Back then, very little made me happier than get so drunk I couldn’t stand up for a week afterwards – and no, I’m not talking about gay sex with a leprechaun. I’m talking about ingesting so much green beer that your liver goes to Las Vegas for a week, just to get some time off. And that’s still one of my favorite past times, although I’m not in as good of shape as I was then, so really, the liver just turns hard and stops taking advice from Dr. Jameson and I’m left with the bill. Oh well. But, sometime in my late teens, early twenties, that all changed – sort of. In high school I had a hard time concentrating on the games because they were on during the day and well, I was in school – or rather in the vicinity of the school. But in college I discovered the lovely art of sitting around all day not going to school. Yeah, funny how that frees up a lot of time for other things, namely smoke and drink, but also for 12 hour stints in front of a television watching Americas top collegiate athletes play ball. Yeah, and I still do it. Of course I work the other stuff in too, mostly drinking more because I have three reasons to do it – or rather, three more reasons.
I was always told that as I got older my priorities would change. That’s true, but I don’t think this is what my Dad meant when he told me that.
But really, who gives a fuck about the weather, Selection Sunday is two weeks away!!!
All I’m concerned with is what time what games are on so I can watch dreams get made and shattered, all while sitting at Runyon’s pouring Newcastle and Jameson down my neck hole. Nothing else matters. The conference tournaments are a warm up to the real shit, like getting some crack while you wait for payday so you can go out and get some China White. Hey, I fucking need something to get me through. It’s a great opportunity to see who’s playing well, who maybe has some magic, or which team’s head is too big, lending to a possible early upset that could win you the bucket of money at the end of the March rainbow. What? You don’t know what I’m talking about?
Okay, I’ll put it in terms you may understand. So you’re talking to Sol, a new drug dealer in town. What you really want is to get some top shelf Sneeze, but you’re not sure if Sol is the real deal, so you get a bag a Stankers to do some quality control before diving head first into $2000 a week contract. Got it? Good, lets move on.
That’s the funny thing about life. Totally meaningless shit to you, makes my whole life improve in a blink of an eye. Does that mean you’re better than I am? No, it just means you don’t know shit about shit and you’re idea of life success is my idea of complete and utter failure. But that’s fine, that’s why I don’t have your life.
March has always been an important month for me. At first, it was my birthday. I get presents and really, who doesn’t love getting presents? Fuckin’ A, I know I do. But as I got a little older, St Pat was my main excitement of the month. Back then, very little made me happier than get so drunk I couldn’t stand up for a week afterwards – and no, I’m not talking about gay sex with a leprechaun. I’m talking about ingesting so much green beer that your liver goes to Las Vegas for a week, just to get some time off. And that’s still one of my favorite past times, although I’m not in as good of shape as I was then, so really, the liver just turns hard and stops taking advice from Dr. Jameson and I’m left with the bill. Oh well. But, sometime in my late teens, early twenties, that all changed – sort of. In high school I had a hard time concentrating on the games because they were on during the day and well, I was in school – or rather in the vicinity of the school. But in college I discovered the lovely art of sitting around all day not going to school. Yeah, funny how that frees up a lot of time for other things, namely smoke and drink, but also for 12 hour stints in front of a television watching Americas top collegiate athletes play ball. Yeah, and I still do it. Of course I work the other stuff in too, mostly drinking more because I have three reasons to do it – or rather, three more reasons.
I was always told that as I got older my priorities would change. That’s true, but I don’t think this is what my Dad meant when he told me that.
A matter of time...
Overheard in more than one place
Boy, it's really raining out there.
I know. I bet the traffic's bad everywhere.
Did you see the size of that puddle on Coldwater? It covered the entire car!
It's only been raining since, what, 2? 2:30?
I wonder if there's going to be mudslides.
Well, just to be safe, when I drive through the canyons, I'm going 15 miles per hour.
Good idea. You don't want to fall off the road. I'm going extra slow today, too. You never know.
The rain here sure makes people do strange things.
Like the Santa Ana winds.
Dude, we saw a girl who wasn't wearing a jacket - she was all wet and looked hot.
Was her car wasted?
Naw, she was just walking.
Man, wish I saw that.
I wonder if this place is gonna get flooded.
But it's only been raining since this afternoon.
I know, dude...man, I just wanna go home.
I heard they'll let us out early because people drive so bad in the rain.
Sweet! I know, man, people drive fuckin crazy out here.
All right, I'm out.
See ya, good look driving.
Thanks, watch out. I'm gonna blast past the traffic.
Ha ha.
Boy, it's really raining out there.
I know. I bet the traffic's bad everywhere.
Did you see the size of that puddle on Coldwater? It covered the entire car!
It's only been raining since, what, 2? 2:30?
I wonder if there's going to be mudslides.
Well, just to be safe, when I drive through the canyons, I'm going 15 miles per hour.
Good idea. You don't want to fall off the road. I'm going extra slow today, too. You never know.
The rain here sure makes people do strange things.
Like the Santa Ana winds.
Dude, we saw a girl who wasn't wearing a jacket - she was all wet and looked hot.
Was her car wasted?
Naw, she was just walking.
Man, wish I saw that.
I wonder if this place is gonna get flooded.
But it's only been raining since this afternoon.
I know, dude...man, I just wanna go home.
I heard they'll let us out early because people drive so bad in the rain.
Sweet! I know, man, people drive fuckin crazy out here.
All right, I'm out.
See ya, good look driving.
Thanks, watch out. I'm gonna blast past the traffic.
Ha ha.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
You And I, We Fit Together Like A Glove On Hand, That's Right
We all know how much I love public transportation, as it seems to weave in and out of my existence. My daily life is run by the number 4 bus. It controls when I go to work and when I get home. It decides whether I’m late or early or, God forbid, on time. It makes my decisions for me. When I drive, does it miss me? No, not at all. It has hundreds of others just like me to fill it’s seats and smudge it’s windows - wow, I guess Rick James was leaning on this window, or maybe Pat Riley. But that’s okay, I don’t touch the windows. I know better. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love my car. I treat it like shit and it still loves me, most of the time anyways. The bus though. It’s the bus that I can always rely on. The bus is where I go when I need to reassure myself that I indeed am not a total failure. It’s the bus that starts and ends my Monday through Friday.
Sometimes I read and sometimes I listen to some music - "When I make my move to her room it's the right time." Other times, I try to keep my attention on the lunatic sitting across from me, or the drunk guys behind me. Any way I do it, I’m always entertained. It’s like watching good reality TV, yes I know, oxy moron. The bus always provides. Sure, some of the seats are broken and you’re forced to steady yourself for fear of falling into the lap of the buyer for Target sitting next to you – by the way, she’s really fuckin’ hot. And when you’re not lucky enough to sit next to her, you’re stuck next to the mildly retarded guy who’s shaped like a grapefruit, wearing a backpack, and mumbling to you about who know what. But it’s all good. For every time you have to sit next to that guy, you get to either sit alone, spread out over two of those generously sized bench seats, or next to her. You just have to remind yourself that it’ll all work out. Man, yeah, she’s really hot.
No matter how much I love the bus, the bus doesn’t always love me back. Sometimes, when I’m happily rolling along, it decides it’s no longer interested in taking me all the way. It stops for a minute, beeps angrily at me, then dies. There I am, stuck on the side of the road with no hope of getting back on my bus. It’s sad, frustrating, and very stressful. Now, being a number of blocks from my house, I’m left to walk the rest of the way, deserted by my bus. I say my bus because I really to mean my bus. Is funny how busses work. They can sometimes take on the persona of a neighborhood.
“Yo man, what set you claimin!?”
“Ganton Motherfucker!”
It’s the same way with busses, albeit, to a lesser degree. There’s even website chat rooms dedicated to certain bus routes. At first I thought it was quite strange. That was until I had spent more than two years riding the same bus. Sure, my stop changed, but not the bus, not my trusty number 4. Yeah, people come and go, but not the bus and not me. Fuck the 6 yo, they’re a bunch a bitches! When you meet someone away from the bus who rides your bus, there’s an immediate connection. If they ride the same bus, they probably live in a neighborhood near you, but maybe not. Maybe the live in Edina, or Bloomington, but they ride your bus. It’s instant respect, even if they aren’t from your neighborhood.
Ah, the bus. We’re linked together, regardless of what neighborhood I live in. We ride down the street, hand in hand, enjoying each others companionship. We get into fights, just like in every other relationship, but we always make up and right the ship – or bus if you will.
Ride or die you ask?
I’ll ride, thank you.
Sometimes I read and sometimes I listen to some music - "When I make my move to her room it's the right time." Other times, I try to keep my attention on the lunatic sitting across from me, or the drunk guys behind me. Any way I do it, I’m always entertained. It’s like watching good reality TV, yes I know, oxy moron. The bus always provides. Sure, some of the seats are broken and you’re forced to steady yourself for fear of falling into the lap of the buyer for Target sitting next to you – by the way, she’s really fuckin’ hot. And when you’re not lucky enough to sit next to her, you’re stuck next to the mildly retarded guy who’s shaped like a grapefruit, wearing a backpack, and mumbling to you about who know what. But it’s all good. For every time you have to sit next to that guy, you get to either sit alone, spread out over two of those generously sized bench seats, or next to her. You just have to remind yourself that it’ll all work out. Man, yeah, she’s really hot.
No matter how much I love the bus, the bus doesn’t always love me back. Sometimes, when I’m happily rolling along, it decides it’s no longer interested in taking me all the way. It stops for a minute, beeps angrily at me, then dies. There I am, stuck on the side of the road with no hope of getting back on my bus. It’s sad, frustrating, and very stressful. Now, being a number of blocks from my house, I’m left to walk the rest of the way, deserted by my bus. I say my bus because I really to mean my bus. Is funny how busses work. They can sometimes take on the persona of a neighborhood.
“Yo man, what set you claimin!?”
“Ganton Motherfucker!”
It’s the same way with busses, albeit, to a lesser degree. There’s even website chat rooms dedicated to certain bus routes. At first I thought it was quite strange. That was until I had spent more than two years riding the same bus. Sure, my stop changed, but not the bus, not my trusty number 4. Yeah, people come and go, but not the bus and not me. Fuck the 6 yo, they’re a bunch a bitches! When you meet someone away from the bus who rides your bus, there’s an immediate connection. If they ride the same bus, they probably live in a neighborhood near you, but maybe not. Maybe the live in Edina, or Bloomington, but they ride your bus. It’s instant respect, even if they aren’t from your neighborhood.
Ah, the bus. We’re linked together, regardless of what neighborhood I live in. We ride down the street, hand in hand, enjoying each others companionship. We get into fights, just like in every other relationship, but we always make up and right the ship – or bus if you will.
Ride or die you ask?
I’ll ride, thank you.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
The Rhythm of Southern California
They are everywhere, but not here. As I amble down hallways, Schlitz mug in hand, it doesn't even register. There's windows, and we work, we communicate, and that is life. However, working in visual media, the coast-to-coast TV in my office shows me people in the same field but in a completely different attitude.
A certain "day after day" vibe exists, but there's two ways of looking at it. Some, they have to make a train. They get off the elevator and are stuck there for a few hours. The visuals are bleak. They find solace in the bathroom and a small mirror - the drive is for time to pass. There's no feeling for the moment, it's to get PAST the moment. You hustle to get to your neighborhood that has "the best Hunan in the east side." And that's just the lucky ones. Lest we forget those who are stuck in Coney, sipping on Malt Duck, angry. The screwdriver is sharpened not as a weapon, but getting at least $23 worth of quarters from that piece of shit Laundromat.
The others, those that surround me and including myself, move in a similar speed. Instead of "making" transportation, there one tries to "beat" it. Where they have only a goal, the others have three ways. "No" cars around you is the kind of thing that a person tells others about. They smile, pleased of good fortune. And you smile, too, knowing it doesn't happen often. But the surroundings are markedly different. Here, they buy a bottle of Tropical Blend in February because you want a jump on that "savage" tan...you remember last February, and you want to take advantage. They drive to Brentwood for the same neighborhood lunch, but you're not going for the food so much as a possible O.J. sighting. You can look around, traveling back, and realize how little surrounds you to create anxiety or envy. How can such a large area, so complex and so popular, offer so may opportunities to avoid the dunces? Move from those dippin sauce lovers who spend a half an hour telling you about nothing. This is where the small mirror is abound so that you can get the MOST out of every moment.
That's the two ways to live. There's two ways for life: The Right Way and All The Way. You don't have to be here to know it. Make it happen. Me? Every day isn't a winner. But it could always be worse. All it takes is making deals, and it isn't a worry. So that's the update from Dealville. We march on like madness.
A certain "day after day" vibe exists, but there's two ways of looking at it. Some, they have to make a train. They get off the elevator and are stuck there for a few hours. The visuals are bleak. They find solace in the bathroom and a small mirror - the drive is for time to pass. There's no feeling for the moment, it's to get PAST the moment. You hustle to get to your neighborhood that has "the best Hunan in the east side." And that's just the lucky ones. Lest we forget those who are stuck in Coney, sipping on Malt Duck, angry. The screwdriver is sharpened not as a weapon, but getting at least $23 worth of quarters from that piece of shit Laundromat.
The others, those that surround me and including myself, move in a similar speed. Instead of "making" transportation, there one tries to "beat" it. Where they have only a goal, the others have three ways. "No" cars around you is the kind of thing that a person tells others about. They smile, pleased of good fortune. And you smile, too, knowing it doesn't happen often. But the surroundings are markedly different. Here, they buy a bottle of Tropical Blend in February because you want a jump on that "savage" tan...you remember last February, and you want to take advantage. They drive to Brentwood for the same neighborhood lunch, but you're not going for the food so much as a possible O.J. sighting. You can look around, traveling back, and realize how little surrounds you to create anxiety or envy. How can such a large area, so complex and so popular, offer so may opportunities to avoid the dunces? Move from those dippin sauce lovers who spend a half an hour telling you about nothing. This is where the small mirror is abound so that you can get the MOST out of every moment.
That's the two ways to live. There's two ways for life: The Right Way and All The Way. You don't have to be here to know it. Make it happen. Me? Every day isn't a winner. But it could always be worse. All it takes is making deals, and it isn't a worry. So that's the update from Dealville. We march on like madness.
Monday, February 06, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, January 30, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
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.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, January 13, 2006
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.
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.
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