Overkill

Pre-Game

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

First Quarter

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

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

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

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

Second Quarter

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

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

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

Third Quarter

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

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

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

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

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

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

Houston wins by 1 point.

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

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

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

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

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

Fourth Quarter

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

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

Post Game

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

"Don't ask."

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

Laying the launching pad for the neutron bomb

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

Brendan Mullen passed away over the weekend.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Driving down to build up

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

What are the odds?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dog Days in Dealville

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

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

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

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

Sound Off (before) California

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Come on Down!

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

Govern the Schwarzenegger Way

Most everyone knows of the golden life out west. They also know life is a lot better with a lot of cash. Having a lot of cash and living the golden life is the solution to life's mathematical problem. It may be superficial to say, and some may argue, but having been on both sides of the coin...well, I don't need to tell you the right side. Hell, there's the right way, and then there's all the way. You know what to do.

And just as pacific gold is an ideal it is also a very real lifestyle. But it doesn't come easy, it doesn't jive for everyone, and it takes hard work. But living this lifestyle is becoming harder and harder. You might not sense it right away, but hooo boy you'll be noticing it when you send in your state taxes. And you can thank Gov. Schwarzenegger for one clusterfuck after another. Yes, the man elected Governor with NO EXPERIENCE IN ANY WAY seems to be neck deep in a shit storm he attempts to avoid by leaving the state as often as possible. Just how did we get here? Follow the golden road! How can others govern Arnold's way? Read how:

1. Run for the position using catch-phrases from your movies. Vaguely mention what you'd do, but enforce the fact of how "cool" it would be to have yourself as governor. Don't act surprised when it works. Campaign that you won't take money from special interest groups. No one will check to find out that, over five years in, you will have taken more special interest money than any California governor in the state's history.
2. With the state budget a mess, begin the idea of spending 15 BILLION DOLLARS in bonds. Most people won't understand that a bond is spending money you don't have...and then paying for it later. You do this for only one sensible reason: you're sure that you'll be in the black in the future, so it will all even out. Never mind there is no possible way out if you're not making money by then.
3. Press hard for the approval for the bond measures. Get help from Democrats, who know smart spending is needed. You're a republican spending money, and they love you. So does the public.
4. What? Not everyone loves these spending measures? That will likely make it hard for a state budget. When those struggles begin, continue using catch-phrases from parodies of yourself. Hide your confusion when the trick which worked on voters doesn't seem to hold the attention of those in Sacramento.
5. When your opinion poll numbers are well below 50% favorable, immediately decide to hold a special election for state reform measures. This gives you another chance to be on TV and remind people that a famous movie star is California's governor. Try to compose yourself when voters reject every one of your reform measures.
6. Just in case people were turning around in your favor, go against your previous statements and veto a gay marriage bill. Fairly, you state that this would go against Prop 22, which California voters agreed that same-sex marriages should not be allowed. Five years later, support a "no" vote on Prop 8, which would have banned same sex marriages. React sadly when once again, the vote fails for same sex marriages.
7. As your bond measure problems come up again (with Democrats wanting them only for different things than Republicans) complain of party fighting as the reason for gridlock. Support the Democrats wants anyway, just to piss off your own party.
8. You're up for re-election! Time to do the easy things, like sign into law tougher greenhouse gas & emission standards. Look - you're still Governor!
9. Uh oh - those pesky bonds (the ones people voted for, and voted for AGAIN in 2008) will start to become due in a couple years. And we don't have the money to make it. We could keep getting bonds and have little to no tax income or treasure left. What to do? Solution 1: Blame state employees, and have them work only four days a week. This will make up the money difference and you won't have to raise taxes. Never mind the fact that fewer people working government jobs will delay assistance to citizens and create more red tape.
10. To show the legislature who's boss, you threaten to lay off 10,000 government workers (at a time when most people can't hack it) to continue to make up the balance in money. With gridlock once again, everyone spends the night at the capitol. Make no comment when Republicans suggest raising taxes instead of firing people, despite a national tax cut. Those stimulus checks won't sit in your bank account for long!
11. Use the old insult tactic when there are some who think $14.4 billion of tax increases are in your way.
12. REMEMBER: When all else fails, smile! You've got charisma! You've got Hollywood looks, even in your advanced age. Even if your popularity is hovering near 50%, who the hell could beat you in an election? You're a famous actor!

Let's Have a "Party!"

Yes folks, it's that time of year! Super Sunday is a day away. Of course, you did the smart thing, by going to the supermarket the day before. The Friday before the Super Bowl is consistently the most exciting shopping day of the year. These days, overfed families go to warehouse stores to get their Super Bowl "Crazy Party Trays" along with Peanut Butter than can kill you and a 3 pack of undershirts. This makes shopping at your regular market even better; it's you running the gauntlet. And here's how it went:

Knowing that Potsy won't be coming by tomorrow is seriously denting the amount of food I'll buy, but this won't make it any less fun. As I can see there are multiple people stationed throughout the store. It is sample day, and in "these economic times" you'd think people would want to just ransack this free food and leave. We ARE in America, after all. But I'm here to get supplies. I don't have a "party" because I don't advertise to demand fun beyond the game. If the game is entertaining, that's a good thing. If someone is half in the bag and makes us laugh, even better.

I have just placed a healthy amount of beer in the cart. Now, we have a stand for Hillshire Farm Kielbasa. Hmmm...yes, tastes good. What could accompany this as a main course? French Fries? I don't think so, but thank you for the sample. Blech. Pan fried meat and fries? We're not at Krazy Keith's.

Oh - generic potato chips are on sale. Hmmm...something tells me the drunkards will not appreciate these. Hell, I remember when we tried those vegetable chips - so drowned in salt, who cares that you're eating a slice of rutabaga?

Turning toward the refrigerated cases I smell Bar-B-Q. Ah, it's Pork. Thank you, sir. What brand is this? Ah, the big orange tub. I'll refrain asking you questions because I know you didn't make this. Interesting - this came from Indiana? Hell, I'm probably eating bologna strips in there. Sir, I didn't mean any negativity to you. Yes, you have a good day as well.

I do think we'll need some cheese. Aged sharp cheddar is sitting here unwanted and alone. And the...yeah, the processed stuff is nearly sold out. Anyone can do nachos so I'll get this - they already cut it up. Nice people there at Kraft. WOW - EIGHT DOLLARS? Hmm. My other option is this Olde English in a jar. I'm pretty sure that's not cheese in there. Will we ever forget the visual of Dillon putting that on a Ry-Krisp on Brown Day, with Michele looking on in horror? No, we will not.

OK, this looks like we're set. I stand in the knowledge that any and all will bring something to add to the booty. Half a dozen grapefruits and a bottle of James Beam will be the morning tribute for the Doctor, as it is one of his favorite days. I should be going, it's much too sunny and warm out. What? Thank you. Apple pie. Yes, I won't forget deserts...I'll get a second bottle of James and...well, yes it did taste good. I didn't know it was frozen. I can see the box you don't have to - ok, yes. "Crust you can trust." I remember. A pound of filling? That will destroy my body. But thank you, man. And I don't think it's the responsibility of the employees to comment on liquor purchases, thank you.

My gambling is tending down this week so I'll only advise the over under for drinks on me is eight. Plan accordingly. Hooray for football!

As the sun sets

We were on the Golden State Freeway by this point. Old Town had been left behind and LA was the goal. She was tired, falling asleep to the hum of ol Bess as we rumbled down the 5. And the sun had already set, leaving the ocean crowned in a deep orange hue.

We were leaving a lot behind...more than a vacation destination, or a swanky hotel with comfortable chairs, or tasty food. It was the mindset that ended the year: struggling optimisim, with shit in the way. No need for historical comparisons - this is new territory. Risks can be taken, but there's no rules on calculation. Am I thinking too much? I must be, because she's all sleep, and this sunset is guiding me home.

We were talking about the new year; the things that will happen and things we want to happen. It is clear we've reached the age where we call the shots. If we live for ourselves and not so that others are pleased, then we will be happy no matter what we are doing. And who wouldn't be happier as the ocean slowly takes the sun from us to Hawaii?

This is the last year of the decade? TCB, man. TCB.

Stop Everything, This Is The Greatest Video Ever

We Can't Afford To Look This Cheap

Green's getting moved around these days, big stacks flowing and not much in the way of taxes, so I guess it's coming up triple cherry and we should all be happy. I know optimism is running high here in the Land Of Hot Dish, despite a dark cloud descending on my brethren the world-round. But that's not really what's this about. The machine will keep driving, fueled by credits and debits, but we're talking about cash deals here, big dollars and the big consequences. For the little guy.

I'm trying to be eyes-open about the whole thing, to see some sort of complete view, but I keep coming back to the feeling of being dragged down by the ignorance and apathy all around. Current situations dictate a sameness, rooting to one spot and riding out the coming white wave. And on its face, as long as there are some breaks, I can handle that. But the reward has to be there, I have to make it real. We mortgaged our winter, but at least we didn't mortgage our house. The cash creates relief, in that department at least. Hell the only point of staying is to eventually leave, and that makes perfect sense in this place. All the while though, I am accutely aware you have HEARD THIS TALK BEFORE. It's how we do it around here.

All I can do is what I used to do when I got in trouble in grade school, and that is assure the teacher with all of my conviction (and a lot of my acting) that I will make the appropriate changes, that we will do this and that we're doing what's best for the moment. I'd be hogg tied and painted blue if I didn't have moments of extreme anxiety though... certainly when looking around and seeing friends dress their children for Halloween (does nobody watch Myers Part 4 anymore? Cops Do It By The Book? Anybody?). It's not nerves, it's not regret, it's a swirling vortex of inaction, and if you look it dead in the eye, it can fucking wreck you like Medusa.

So what do we do? We revel in the cash, and we stash it. We create an environment conducive to future travels, we remind ourselves of our true destiny, and we wait. We can do that. It's not so bad, having a companion is absolutely essential. Conversations with those around us dead-end into matters of absolutely no importance, but that's fine. Yes, we will talk about recipes and television. Whatever. As long as Napier does not drift far from my mind. Tiny reminders, menu items at M&S pulled from the same Panama beaches we surfed on, dispatches from the outer rims that call to us, yes, but also tell us that they will STILL BE THERE.

What was that Eliot said? In a minute there is time for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse? Well, that's where we are. Stuck in that minute, but the seconds tick off, decisions to be made, just not right now.

Until that big bird lifts off and we find ourselves nose-first towards a shining shore of unknown adventure, we'll buy off the rack and order like we've been here before. Because we can be TWO things at the same time.

We can be here, and there.

So, that's that?

So Dawson turns to Pink and asks him that at the edge of the football stadium. And in asking him that, it covers the night they just had. The school year they just had. And, most importantly, how the future (at least in the short term) will be.

In the land of Pacific Gold, what you do for a living is the second question when you meet someone. This is after "nice to meet you" or "oh, you bought the whisky" or "you were sleeping on the couch." When I said where I worked that's usually all it took. They knew of the companies, and that ended that. No one would ask any other questions, except girls at a bar because they figure you're buying from here on out.

For over eight years I was doing the same old shit. It was a job that many TV executives had at some point to get the experience to move on. Only, I noticed as time was moving that I wasn't moving on. I'd switch companies, but it was the same thing. One day earlier this year a bolt of knowledge hit my brain like a soft pillow: you're doing the same thing you were doing eight years ago, except you're paid a hell of a lot more. I stopped and realized that only one factor was going good - my wallet. My brain was the one starving.

Mind you, this was the WRONG place to be for a starving brain. And I can tell you this because I have been in the thick of it for this long - TV networks fear change. They fear it like being told they no longer are relevant (which is getting closer to being each day). They only know one way, and when that one way begins to fade, there's steep wallowing in failure. And even then, in those sour days, change does not come. Part of the reason why I went to this network (one that wanted you to stay at home for one week and watch all their shows but you were free to do whatever you wanted for the rest of the season) was that I was to be a part of the changing of late night programming. It never happened, and it wasn't ever close to happening. It was by no means a failure of anyone in my department. It was people who would have to accept that change and quite possibly become a victim of it.

Am I the victim now that I have left? I was inside, trying to change things for the better and found otherwise. New ideas were met with Disney-approved "performance plans" where you filled out countless surveys on your own work. Instead of testing new formats, I spent an afternoon letting a cartoon character tell me that checking mail on Yahoo is not approved Internet use. Oh, I think I made the right choice, don't you? Almost three years to the day (and documented here on the Gold) I walked out, happier than when I entered. That is sad. But it is also good, because I've, in the words of a wise man "had enough of the bullshit." It's time to live life.

Sports In The Heartland

The thing is, I'm not a masochist. Despite efforts to brand me as such, I enjoy giving pain as much as I enjoy taking it. I don't fit in with the pre-judged idea of a misery-seeking fan. I have priorities, and I have class. Used to be, I could look my teams square in the eye and level them up. A Wyse Old Owl once told me "He's an asshole, but he's a straight shooter, so I can't fault him". Goddamned right. I couldn't fault those teams of the past.

This ain't the past.

I see the future spinning away, lost in a vortex of pain and failed promises, the only hope being that management will Figure It Out, and that's not likely.

Let's just recap, shall we?

KG, Santana, Hunter and Favre. Gone within 14 months of each other. Nothing left to say, open sores, wounds that shouldn't heal.

To run it down, KG was the worst, followed by Santana, then Brett, then Big T. Excuses for each become heavier as you go on, but they never make sense. You can only replace Good Players with Good Players... you can't replace them with "cap relief". You'll win 20 games that way. Or 22, if you're the Timberwolves, and you catch Indiana on a day they don't care.

To begin, there ceases to exist a professional basketball team in this territory. They forfeited that on July 30, 2007. They gave up any claim they ever have to being a franchise, they traded away the only thing they had ever done right, they erased everything they had ever accomplished. They took a Good, and replaced it with a Walking Shit-heap. The destruction of the franchise was complete, and now all that's left is the contraction or the relocation. This one isn't going to last long. I just read in the Local Paper that Corey Brewer had "added some weight" this offseason. Gee, I sure hope he also added some "ability to play basketball without urine streaming down his leg".

The college football equivalent of the Vikings is just that, a failing bumbling franchise bound to play the opening of TCF Stadium to a stadium 3 quarters full of Hawkeye fans. Their coach is comically bad - I've heard him described as "intense" which sounds to me like "screaming at everyone as I call fullback dive once again". I sure wish this team could return to prominence again, but by hiring Brewster, they've given a message to the rest of the Big Ten that they can go ahead and send out the punt team for that week on their schedule for the next few years.

Speaking of pigskin, something ain't right with this Green and Gold, and I ain't talking quarterback. The cornerback has a broken spleen, and we're about due for WR injuries to start mounting. Johnny Jolly is definitely Jolly, and it's only going to take 9 wins to take the Central, but still. When Jon Gruden does you where it don't feel good, it, well, doesn't feel good. At least the coach is respectably overweight.

Gopher basketball is going to come around, mark my fucking words.

I don't acknowledge that a pro hockey team plays here, so we can skip that. Besides all the account managers from Eden Prairie who are more than willing to drop 150 per game to see the fucking Blackhawks, the main problem with the Wild are that they have no continuity between seasons besides Marion Gaborik, who has a perpetually broken dick. They traded their goalie in the middle of the season and he went on to the Cup with Edmonton. So, I guess management has a few things to think about.

Speaking of ice, the Gopher Hockey team is laughingly underachieving. Holy Cross, gotta have some. It hasn't been this bad since Wooger. What, is Bemidji State going to sweep the home and home? Can we get Iowa Tech up here for a game? Minnesota State has passed them in the rankings, and that's not even a real school. When UMD is putting the screws to you every year, well, it's time for Lucia to cut that mop.

That brings us to the Minnesota Motherfucking.

This is how a team should be built, a quality franchise jettisoning players at the right time and constantly thinking two or three moves ahead of the rest of the league. While Baltimore and Cincinnati flail about in a desperate attempt to put together a team that can win more than 80 games, the Twins fall ass backwards into a starting rotation with an average age of 25 years old, and a centerfielder who doesn't know that when he's playing indoors there is no wind. Their manager chews more seeds than he chews his players' asses, and he chews more snoose than that. Big Red, and he takes it by the pouch. The Right Fielder slides into the base head first like a little dickhead, so they call up Pipe Hittin Gangster from AAA, and he becomes Rickey Fuck Henderson for 3 months, and just when Cuddles is ready to come back, he fouls a ball off his foot, which causes him to miss another two months, to which Pipe Hittin Gangster says "I'm going to sport this Ice Cube beard and hit triples to the opposite field because obviously I don't care anymore". The Twins, quite simply, won games because they tried harder than the other teams, which is actually a rarity in these parts. It's one of those things that makes me happy to watch... this season. Next year, it ain't going to be so easy. Who wants to make a bet on Span trying that hard next year? Kubel? Fuck that, it's time to get paid.

I wish I had more to say about this, but I'm fading into the volcano, and there's a whole lot of black between me and the core. I wish I had it figured out, but I'm just a stupid fan. I'm tied to these teams, and one run playoff losses cannot break the binds.

Big Birthday for the Gold

While this is two days early, I know by the weekend we'll be surrounded by NCAA football and empty Lowenbrau bottles. But, glory be! On Saturday, Pacific Gold (formerly California Gold) celebrates its 3rd birthday. Reflect on that for a moment. Yup. This blog was born out of a need to do the kind of writing stated in the description at the top, and allow the writing to sit and be enjoyed. No follow up posts filled with lame jokes or acknowledgement that the writer had no idea what the post was about. Nope, this would be a transmission for this way of life and only that. Sure, there were double posts on one day (stunting the earlier writer) but beyond that this blog has been easy livin. And that's the way to let your days slide. That, in conclusion, is Pacific Gold.

While I write this in a monitoring cell, there are multiple forces in my field of vision. And wearing Brown Shades helps, but as I've found out the hard way that those specs can't deflect everything. I can wear these shades and still get onions in a Sloppy Joe. Onward.

Magic numbers are a real fucking tease. I keep thinking of how positive it is yet you only want it to go away. But the only way it can is for more success. I've tried and tried with analogies (about potato chips or new pairs of jeans) for this and nothing does it justice. But baseball is a sport with more math than just about anything else (possibly bowling physics) and that's what holds the interest of many people. For example, if you think a player (say, named Jones) shouldn't pinch hit because in these situations he is 2 for 24 all season and against left-handers he bats .190, that's one thing. Of course you could say the man has been a gigantic failure for over a year now and has trouble opening a new bar of soap, so there's another reason. An equally good one. Both true. So, the Cubs could win and keep winning, and they are in the playoffs. That's the easy way. But then if they lose but Milwaukee loses...or Houston, depending on current standings and blah blah blah. Keep it in gear, Lou, and you'll never have to pick up a tab again for the rest of your marlin-fishing days.

The Big Ten Football programs are going through early season reality checks. Some schools have decided to delay them until October, but they will arrive. You would think that being out here would tint my view, but it didn't take a genius to know before hand that Ohio State would not win against USC at any price. As I left a swanky restaurant on a rare jailbreak last Friday, I saw two van-loads of Ohio's finest entering the place. Decked out in red, they were magnets to talk (and soon, stacks of prime rib). "Hey! Go Big Ten!" My shouts led to confusion until they remembered that was a half-compliment so they smiled and gave a thumbs up. I think I was breaking their concentration - cheese garlic bread was their M.O. so I should understand. I told them we used to call "thick cut bacon" by it's old name "ham," but I was a stepping stone to this crowd's fuel. As I saw that game the following day (in those moments between a large commercial break) the check was as big as life. You and I know OSU wasn't a top 10 school before the game. Let the Hogs contradict themselves the following day. We walk away from the cashiers putting bills in the pocket.

The brigade will be swinging east to the great white north next week. Rare that I visit during a nice time of year, but this is a good thing. At least I'm hoping so. The stay will be brief; enough to feature lewd behavior and a case of Leine's. That's about all there can be. The sales pitch will be high, naturally, to return in December. However, I know better. When you think of that area it's usually the gold days. But Smiles and I can't go to Lincoln Del and then catch a Twins twi-night. Or relax with poorly made cocktails at Stadium Bowl. Or enjoy an Andy's Tap burger in Bloomington. All of those things are gone now, and a return during the suggested months would be a nightmarish carnival. And as the leaves turn to gold, we must return to it. We're moving on. The chops are ready for the tux, son!

The Great Get-Together, or "We Go To Falcon Heights Instead Of Getting A Passport"

The orgy is over, debris swept and trucked to the landfill not more than 5 miles away. The stands like fallen oaks, chopped to the ground and hauled away in Chevy products. The smell reducing from the lofty animal stench to the stink of modern life. Giant contraptions now transformed into stacks of metal, destined for god knows where. The land re-propriated, the sky higher and a deeper shade.

And to think, only a week ago you could've been eating Spam Curds on this very spot.

Nothing manifests itself more succinctly, no group of people come together in a more typical statement of their shared consciousness - the world over - than Minnesotans at The Fair. It is within this jungle of layered ideas, this labyrinth of confused morals, where the communal heart beats, where the outlook for our entire region radiates. If you see nothing else of this state, if you pre-suppose on nearly every manner of lifestyle, you honestly need nothing more than a 45 minute walk through this spectacle held every labor day weekend. Let no one call it a circus or a carnival. It is, quite simply, every single moment of midwestern life personified on a swatch of land large enough to build a football AND a baseball stadium.

Contradictions and livestock, that's pretty much the main theme here. The contradiction of life lived versus life wanted, and the utter swell of disgusting humanity pushing and herding themselves through various activities deemed fun by those with Money, who almost certainly live on a coast. The ideal self propped up in the form of health fairs and food education classes, standing starkly against the naked reality - the inability to steer away from the Cheese Curds. There is a mirror of information here, an attitude not of self but of reflection of self. Those in attendance are making their one venture into "the city", braving all of the usual dangers that come with being outside for more than an hour at a time, coming in contact with people who don't wear belts, keeping sure the wife is hydrated, the kids are placated, with the watchful eye always looking for the Dark Lurkers. Fanny packs optional, but not really. The reality of it is that The Fair is held on an old farm-field in Falcon Heights, a few miles down the road from the U of M feedlot aka St. Paul Campus. Nearby you can dine at Dino's or KFC, and the unknown maelstrom of Snelling Avenue cuts just to the west.

Contradictions and livestock.

We can look into that barn, but why specify it? It's everywhere, that life of complacency and subjectivity, that meager existence of family and stunted dreams. Like Rivers says, givin up and growin old and hopin there's a god. Cattle through the turnstiles, hogs with credit cards, fowl turned loose and clucking in line to the grandstand. The stink and the depravity lingering, the heat irrepressible. Lightning wouldn't zap away this rot. Floods must come by the thousands.

Still though, there is a shared moment in all of this, the sort of jolt that connects both time and space, and transcends preconceived notions. Ours comes during a wine tasting, coincidentally. The taste of The Grape hits just that right note, and the conversation turns to travels, to escape, to experience. One glance around the room confirms that we are here with a bunch of 30-something women named Stacy or Megan and their woefully stupid husbands, and we identify ourselves as outsiders, Dylan-esque, born without a home, with no direction there-to. Drifters, aimless, knowing not where they want to go but knowing definitely where they DON'T want to go, and that's right here. It's not all bad, any awakening ends up in the positive column. So if you're conscious of it, if you stand outside the bubble, then hell, yes, have another Leine's. It's not ironic and it's not unintentional. It's good goddamned beer. Swim with the pigs, but never walk in that pen without a map.

If you count yourself as an optimist - and why wouldn't you be? - you have to mine each situation for positivity. And in the midst of the swarming masses of Dumbness, to simply remind oneself of their own destiny is as refreshing as a fresh-squeezed lemonade.

High in sugar. But there's a fruit on the cup, so it's ok.

You'd Think That By Talking That Much, Their Jowls Would Be Significantly Smaller

They're reaching into the dark now, plumbing the depths of the reptilian brain, probing for triggers in all of us. The game has regressed so far from what it once was that it is no longer a game, but rather an all-out cash grab. Consumers are woefully and purposefully ignorant, the media machine bends and twists them to whichever direction gets them to spend more money. Leeches, for demographics.

If you make a statement like "all data is good data", then you must be prepared to deal with the idea of dilution, and the limits of the human attention span. For if it's true that presenting every single piece of information, as innocuous as it may seem, is inherently a good thing, then how could it ever turn out bad? With human interaction? Surely. Any system that takes into account people that put cheese in their crust will be inevitably skewed, and probably toward the dumb side. So if info is good, then why is it bad?

It's bad because it's not a vacuum... it's presented in the same way a gameshow is. It's given to you over the same medium that you use to see images of places you'll never go, and beautiful people you would never meet. It's consumed like a talk show, like the People's Court, like Big Mike's Money Making Bonanza. We eat this information like the lunch buffet at Keith's Kettle. And that's just it. It's a blur, this info. It comes in with other pieces of meaningless trivia, and it's up to the old head to sort it all out, to prioritize.

The old head ain't so good anymore.

If you were to take in 5 pieces of "news" each day, you would have very little difficulty assigning them the appropriate importance. "Hmm, oil is trading for 145 dollars a barrel, which is more than 10 times what it was only 5 years ago. BUT WHAT'S THIS, THEY'RE CLOSING THE CULVERS?!?!?!" It shouldn't be that big of a problem. But now it's coming non-stop, the machine constantly bombarding you, like a drug dealer, cornering you, exploiting the weaknesses, closing the deal. So you don't watch CNN. Don't worry. Blogs will shove the inane down your throat. Think you can get away from MSN? Just try to open your email. Digg is rife with campaign propaganda, ESPN caters to the lowest of the low. In what they disguise as the race to get more info out, they have exposed themselves to the world as huge conglomerates with financial interests in nearly every nefarious act you could conduct in the field of journalism.

That's not the real shame though. Oh no.

The true shame is that we're just barely smart enough to see it happening, and definitely not motivated enough to do anything about it.

A teacher of mine once explained that no matter how stupid an infomercial seemed, no matter how useless the product was, that he could guarantee people were buying that product. He said the evidence was the fact that it was on television. If absolutely nobody was buying it, it would be pulled from the airwaves. And in fact, the most annoying ones, the Ron Popiel gadgets, were the BEST sellers, because they were ALWAYS on.

It's like that now. It's not necessarily ESPN's fault that they run a 30 minute piece over what Brett had for breakfast at the Steak n' Shake (hint: not what YOU would have). It's the consumers who are eating this shit up (not literally). It's the dolts who are going around blogging about it. It's the morons who are talking at the office about it, saying how "silly" it all is, and then dissecting it anyway. I've heard this exact conversation: "This whole Favre thing is getting ridiculous. I just want it all to go away. (pause) So who do you think he'll end up with?" I wonder why even complain about it? If you're going out like a zoo-fed lion, you might as well do like they do and accept it. They sleep 20 hours a day and get their steaks hand delivered. They don't pretend to be interested in doing anything else.

There is no shortage of examples of how dumb this country has become (see: Our President), and it's no surprise to see people revel in their ignorance and play the hand that the media deals to them. Just look at television programming, for fuck's sake. I sometimes think the only positive of ranting about this is to shed some light, however small, on the fact that it's HAPPENING. Hell, I don't even care about anyone else, just me. I just need to know that *I* am still smart enough to see it happening. I have to cut my brain on these thoughts, to organize my mind tracks into a workable playlist.

In the realm of brain laziness, I have to work out.

Of course, none of it matters anyway, because the long slow slide will bring us down to the muck eventually. Along the way, we're getting fewer and fewer things that make us happy, and even basic elements of life are now far too complicated for many people. When it costs 90 dollars a month for a decent cable package, something ain't right. But don't worry, because if you watch enough, and consume enough of that news, you'll be able to share something better than money. You'll have social currency.

Unfortunately, that's only worth as much as the people you share it with. And chances are, they're not very smart.

Good talk, son

You know, I haven't had much of a chance to talk to you man to man, Russ.

Well, I've only been a man a few days, dad.


(chuckles) You're growing up so damn fast. I spent the last 15 years developing newer food additives, I guess I've missed an awful lot. First, I didn't want to take this vacation, but now, I'm glad I did. It's given me chance to spend a lot more time with you and...uh...Audrey.

It's been real fun for me, too, dad. Really. Except for Aunt Edna.

Oh, she doesn't mean to be a pain in the rump. Just the way she is. Let's not let it spoil our fun, huh?

I wont. You know, maybe she'd be a nicer person if she had a family of her own. Instead of always having to glom on to someone else's.

You're a pretty bright little guy. Excuse me...MAN. (sigh) You know what I want to do? When I was your age my dad shared a beer with me and I thought it was the best thing in the world. Yeah, when I was a boy, just about every summer we took a vacation. And, you know, in 18 years we never had fun. BUT, now I have my own family, and well, we're on our own vacation, and you know something, Russ?

What, Dad?

We're gonna have fun. Gonna have fun. Hey! Don't let your mother smell that beer on your breath. She'll take it out on me. WELL, I'd better get a move on if I want to get us out of here by dark.

Good talk, son.

Good talk, Dad.

The Sordid Summer

In the days when The DZA lived out here in Goldville (actually, a few years before that) we once thought back to what seems to be the last time we respectively had fun back in the great white north. And that was a summer that's now 10 years old. A decade is a long time, and a look back will show great disparity to how life is now. But it also shows how far we've come.

For me (as with most) The Golden State was still that goal - the one thing that was in the way of everything else. But you can't come out here unprepared. If you do, you usually end up becoming a lady of the evening or selling socks at an intersection within 3 months. So, part by part you put it together until the Lincoln Continental is ready to roll. That's what this summer did for me. But it's totally incorrect to look at it that clinically, because that's not what it was about in sum.

I came home thinking my summer job would be learning how to work audio at the Twins games. Did I have any real interest in this? Not really. But a couple contacts brought it up casually and it paid. All I can say about it was this - it wasn't at the stadium. It was some faceless production studio in the "warehouse district" where this group did the pre-game show. As a very polite man showed me over and over and over again how to set up the board before you even do anything, I quickly realized I'd never see dollar one from this job. (I wasn't going to be paid until I started working on my own anyway). It was boring as shit. When Mike Max shows up and is also bored, that's all I needed to know.

But hell, it wasn't even the end of May. I went to a party and met two ladies who went to school with me & I'd never met. They lived in St. Paul, which is key for part two. This contact also got me a job interning at KTCA on a public affairs show. NOW we're getting somewhere. You don't know how much work atmosphere can differ until you go to public television. And hey, this place was in an area of the cities where I'd never really been. Not only did that open up interesting dives and people, it was more blitzed nights. Triple Margaritas at 1AM is one way to go through life. And if you don't have much of a care for the world, I suggest it. Those post-show Friday summer nights with them were usually a chase for such excitement.

And even then I needed cash. I eventually ended up as a host in a swanky Bloomington restaurant that no longer exists. Built to service the travelers in to visit Met Stadium, this place decided to stop decorating in 1978. Good for me and them. So the menu hadn't updated in 20 years. Who cares? But my other job that occasionally paid was a trip to no man's land. It was a weekly drive on Mondays to Maple Grove. Monday was wrestling night then, and it was at a man's house where promos were shot for a new minor-league wrestling company. One man, armed with phone numbers of everyone who's anyone, made the deals. Another guy (think Kurt from Boogie Nights) turned his RV into a production truck, with his basement wired. Plug it in, and we go. Some could have laughed at how lowdown this was, but it was also a testament to "against all odds." One of their big summer blowouts was at a county fair somewhere in south east Minnesota. "Would you be able to go?" Where's the keys?

On a Thursday morning I drove the late, lamented Olds Custom Cruiser to wherever the hell this was, about 2 hours south. Right on the river. By 11AM I was helping him set up cameras while others set up the ring. At noon I munched on sandwiches made by gorgeous farm girls who seemed ready to get me into a hayloft and even more ready into trouble with their father's rifle. But I had the whole day to clown around in the ring, talk to animals, and look at the rundown of who won & when. To my surprise, I was going to direct half the matches. News to me...and with zero rehearsal no less. But right as I talked to the camera men (1 of his friends and his two kids) I unknowingly made the mistake of telling jokes just to lighten the mood. (How was I supposed to know he'd hear this feed?) Anyway, as the matches were about to start we noticed there were no turnbuckles. Armed with only duct tape from a farmer and my speed into the ring surrounded by crowd of about 500 (a highlight of the summer) they were secured so that these men could be tossed into the corner. The crowd couldn't figure out the difference.

There were other moments, too. I remember sitting on a roof on July 4th yelling pro-USA statements to confused onlookers on the street. (I can and can't remember how I could be put into such a state to do that.) Throwing bags of chips to beach-goers while Nim Nam Gnam drove the KQRS van with 70's Heart songs blaring. Having the real "Spaulding Smails" call me long distance to ask for my new phone number (the one he just called; life imitating art there). Selling Darneys amidst the mania and madness. Filming Rise, which was as much an excuse to go to my old neighborhood as it was to celebrate Herb Alpert.

We all know when things are hitting. It's even more fun when it's the unexpected. And it was an early-afternoon drive in St. Paul, as the only car on Shepherd Road, listening to J.P. Walk and thinking of the classic film Angels Live in My Town did I realize that it was all happening. The beginning of gold. And it is a long road, and no, it's not easy. But when you see gold in the distance, it's all you need to keep on truckin'.

The Wheel's On Fire

Run for the Rose Colored Glasses

This past Saturday was picture perfect - sunny and warm, a slight breeze...everything that sends signals to your brain to get outside immediately. But it was Derby Day and the lady had just called from Las Vegas - where are we putting the money? Despite doing research for a living I hadn't even casually viewed the field. There was talk of trifectas and other collections, but we agreed to treat this like roulette and see what happens.

So, I figured I'd view some of the coverage and see what I could learn. Maybe they would mention something that would be such an advantage it could alter our wagers. After an opening written by the intern: "The pageantry...the hats...the mint juleps...the crazy infield..." Tom Hammond was joined by...Billy Bush? What the fuck is going on?! They could have just flashed "FILLING TIME" on the screen and I'd have gotten the drift just as easy. So what else was on for the sports fans? CBS had golf coverage from North Carolina...couldn't figure out what tournament it was, and Jim Nantz was lulling everyone to sleep. Whatever was on ABC was in the middle of a gigantic commercial break. Fox was airing the Baltimore/Anaheim game and Dick Stockton wouldn't let go of what a "beautiful day" it was here in southern California. No shit. Let's get this fucking race going, huh?

I was about to get surly when I saw something labeled "Blue Demon vs. Las Invasoras" - out of Burbank's own KRCA. And, click. It was late 1960s lucha libre wrestling. So, it was nothing like what we know of; more like if AWA put on a "Mexican wrestling" match. Considering my alternatives, I stuck with the film. Not far after the match, an "Invasora" said something to an old guy and a key light with a red gel covered his face. Apparently this rendered him silent. But, before I could figure out where to find this light and send it to Fox Sports, it was race time!

Not surprisingly, my lack of research didn't pay off. the lady called and lamented this as well, but was optimistic for the future gambling. I had already gone outside to seize the outdoors when the phone immediately rang.

"OH MY GOD I JUST WON $1000!"

Research pays off, but sometimes it doesn't. With so much action, the sports book had a raffle for all those who had bet over $20 that day. The first two drawings were for $500, with a grand the big prize. And let's be honest: winning a raffle outside the sports book is a bigger thrill than spending a week on the college baseball match-ups and then getting what you expect. Toss a ticket into a bucket...take this check. That's America, friends. As expected, the lady was difficult for details right afterward...akin to the on the field interview after a kicker made a game winning field goal. Of course, I was asking for real details, unlike Michele "What's going through your mind?" Tayfoa. But in the end she said, knowingly, "so, I'm telling everyone I won a grand on the Kentucky Derby." Your damn right you did. And I can only imagine the die-hards, the lifers in that sports book who saw her win, stared at their ticket that says "Pyro WIN 7-1" and saying to no one in particular, "I ain't had a winner in weeks."

Shanty Town

We're back stateside now, the world closing in to a fine point, vultures and dogs all encroaching in the dark. The laziness returns, the inactivity. Like a black hole, sapping us of our motion. And so we plant ourselves, sit and watch the sun move across the sky, the day goes down to another, and we watch as life happens everywhere but here.

But that's not going to fly on The Gold. We're here to open it up and talk about the stink... the rotten of the world exposed for all to see. Let the humanity race forward and over the cliff. Let's start in San Jose.

The Capital is the kind of place that perks you up like either a punch in the face or a nose full of thinner. You're going to move your ass here. Sidewalks are rare, cars stopping to let you cross the street even rarer. An acquaintance mentioned that a necessity to bring when visiting any Latino country is a horn in your pocket, just so you'll be able to honk back at the drivers. Because they're going to let it blare if you stumble into the street. It's a game. Some sort of bean-fueled Frogger where nobody seems to care about the outcome. Sir, have you thought your actions through to a conclusion? Because the best I can see out of this situation is a young child impaled through your windscreen, legs still kicking through the shards. So maybe that's why we're all on buses here. That, or the fact that they're 40 cents.

Filth is everywhere, but that's simply a backdrop. The garbage in the gutters is jarring at first, but then you're used to it. The smell of the place lingers - the bus fumes rattle around your chest for days afterwards. A headache is the least of your worries. The 5 years checked off your life by choosing to take that breath through your mouth and not your nose... that's the concern. The rats scurry and play in the ravine of garbage, the smell festering up in the unmoving water. Everywhere there is energy. The buildings themselves seem to move, as we're all going somewhere. It's a Tuesday afternoon in the middle of the city and it's like Carnival. Does nobody work here? Or is there 10 times the population density in the urban areas? The answer comes as we speed away from town, past crumbling casinos and ill-preserved churches. The financial center is a tight ball, condensed and guarded by men with guns. You have to flash ID to use the ATM. You can't help it, there's nowhere to stop. Keep moving, don't look back, and for god's sake, hold hands. You need to feel something other than desperation.

The mountains are a different matter - all wind and atmosphere - peaking above clouds and above responsibility. You could take flight at this height, literally and figuratively, and if your bus catches the wrong rock around the bend, you might see a free fall. From the top of the ridge you can see Nicaragua, the Pacific, San Jose, and a volcano. You can see the land stretch and slope to its termination, the gentle drop of a thousand kilometers, candy for your 2-D Vision. The wall of green and blue, smoke on some distant hillside, and the wind like a soundtrack. Climb fast, and hold tight to the memories, because like any peak, they wear away. The blowing air rattles the windows and unsettles the mind. Things loosen up in the high air, thinning molecules taking longer to grip, the first stages of the bends. Looking down never felt so lonely.

And then for the beaches, that demonic blue pulling you to its crystal berth, drawing you in with the promise of bathwater and a salty recharge. The sun beams heavy, it falls like a slow curtain, enveloping all. Everything slows down, brain included, the waves even crash in long sounding roars. Catch a good view and you can see forever, or at least as far as you would need to. Get down in it, and you can examine the complexity of it all. How can this earth exist on so many planes? If it's that grand, it can't possibly be that ornate. As a friend might say, this is all too kitschy. The island, the reef, the sun, the surf, the breeze at 80 degrees? That's kitsch. Too much. Stop adding things. It's supposed to be simple.

Darkness washes the beach, a sand-cleanse deep and true. The best walks are the dangerous ones, with the surf crashing in some indeterminate distance and shadows creeping along the jungle. Either monkeys or thieves, and the difference lies strictly in definition. One bites, the other howls. Worry seems so wasteful here, to spend valuable mental energy on thinking about anything bad is the closest we come to sin. We pray to the sun, and we worship in all that it brings.

This world will be gone soon, all worlds go down to the black night, and new worlds are born in the sweet residue. The ever-changing politics and economics dance along with the climate shift. The coral feels as much of a crunch as the GDP, possibly more. The system will continue to feed until it dries up, and then New Ideas will come forward.

Until then, we can laugh. And we can swim. And in amongst it all, we can speak to each other and the world.

My speech is a physical one. My worship is a returning. My life doesn't slow down.

North of the Unusual

(Editor's Note: Trip Darvez, California Gold's seemingly sole correspondent, recently spent time in Las Vegas. Ill-prepared and distracted for reasons unknown, he failed to write a story but instead sent notes. These notes were written on a variety of items: a cocktail napkin, reverse side of a bingo chart, and a paper plate (among other things). While we are unable to fit these ramblings into a coherent outline, they are shared nevertheless.)

Stuck here in the departures level when I just arrived...can't say I understand this airport and I never will. Now standing next to me is a large man wearing an eye patch. Casually smoking in his Hawaiian shirt, black pants, and brown loafers, this man is struggling to survey the surroundings. I always wondered where these people are on TV - the real people with eye injuries. "Snake" (because I can't think of another name for him) was eerily silent until 4 girls walked by...each were carrying large trophies. And then he spoke: "Looks like you have a lot to be proud about!" He cleared his throat, and my ride just showed up

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On the casino floor a guy is really upset. I think he's lost everything early...it's only Saturday afternoon and he's yelling into a phone. "It's a credit union. CREDIT UNION! (pause) No, I don't know what the difference is!"

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Just saw someone is asleep in a chair in the bingo room. At least, I HOPE they are asleep. Would anyone notice? Maybe that's an unwritten rule about this?

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We really need to make it clear - a casino will tell you anything you want to hear to get you in. Different story when you arrive. No, the restaurant doesn't have outside seating. Nope, the jazz show was cancelled. No, we're out of the fish special. Yes, our salsa is "homemade."

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Nothing greets a new day like a sportsbook on a weekday morning. These are the lifers...no visiting folks. I kept trying to think of action and completely forgot that baseball began their regular season in MARCH. File that idea under snowout. If we took 15 games out of the schedule, would you even notice? But the die hards are drawn to the ponies. As I cash Potsy's tickets, each begins their bet with "Yeah, lemme have..."

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There's times, hard times, and then there's the Asuza AM/PM. Could you ever imagine a Jack in the Box a safe haven? Point me west, please.

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1416 OVER +10
1420 OVER +10
+$8

(Editor's Note: We are not sure of the significance of the last note, but have included it all the same.)