Coffeespoons

"You can't have those down here"

The air had already gone foul, and I could feel my chest tightening up.

"Christ!", I yelled at my attorney, "Is there cigar ash in the air conditioning??"  He stumbled to the window and peeled the curtains aside.  There she was, in all her dark majesty.  The Meadows.

"Looks like someone dumped a ash bucket over here", he muttered towards the floor.  Enough of this.  It was time to get downstairs.

Hacked swatches of film - that's how the memories play out to me now.  It rushes up not unlike acid flashbacks (and I can see why).  Like mental insanity, it has its triggers.  Talk of a line moving.  A flash of neon outside a bar on University.  The warm rush of a vodka-based drink.  A cig perched 'tween lips while conversation turns to Poker Hands.  And blammo!  We're back at The Luck.

"Play my hand for me.  I've got to go up to the room."
"Right now?"
"Yeah, like right this second."
"You want to color those up?"
"NOPE." (sprints away from table)

There were moments back then, wherein only by the grace of god did we not have a horrible incident and become a punchline in someone else's story.  How many times did I stumble on the worn carpet of the LV Club's sportsbook, only to catch myself a mere nanosecond from running into a waitress?  Try explaining that one... "Yeah, the thing is I had 6 white russians and then was trying to get up to bet race 7 at Del Mar, and all of a sudden, I'm wearing Maker's Mark..."  And, leave.

"I just wanna lose.  Just let me lose faster."

There are times, of course, when you want the moment to expand out into the horizon for all time.  I remember sitting at a table at the Nugget as the sun rose, just as all the freaks were being shuffled off into the blooming light to make room for the geriatrics drinking orange juice.  And I sat there at a 3 dollar table, shuffled my checks, and just observed this massive upturn of humanity.  It was like the shifting of a tide.  Trash out, clean water in.  I wondered what it would be like to linger there, on the bottom of that particular sea, but I was soon awoken by mermaid voices, and I sloughed off into that blinding light.

But other times - oh - other times I just want the game to end.  It's not even a game.  When you strip all the magic away from video games, it's simply a huge screen with a big button.  You press the button - labeled "GAMBLE" and the screen either flashes "WIN" OR "LOSE".  Essentially, that's what it all comes down to. Regardless of whether the "game" features penguins, or I Dream of Jeannie, or in this particular circumstance, a soccer game, you're always going to the same place.  LOSERVILLE.

So I mashed the button, trying harder to lose faster.  But I kept winning.  When it came time for the "bonus", I must've hit the correct button, because I slung a bicycle kick right by the overmatched goalie.  Hey, great.  Now I've got to stand in line to cash out.  THE MAGIC IS GONE.

"Hey man, you got any cigarettes?  I'm trying to quit."

And that pretty much just sums it up.  Hey man, you got a smoke?  Oh me?  I'm actually trying to quit.... you know, by smoking more.

I would rush to judgement here and state that that has to be the absolute lowest humanity can go - bumming cigarettes from strangers at the Plaza... but if Las Vegas teaches you one single life lesson (and oh boy, does it ever) it's that no matter WHERE you are, or HOW busted out you think you have become, there are 10 more guys just down the street who are WAY worse than you'll ever be.  Hey, at least that guy was still ALLOWED to come into the Plaza.  I'm sure a similar scene was playing out at that very moment down the street at the Gold Spike.  Except it wasn't a cigarette he was asking for... but it was on fire at one end.

"You mean to tell me we can't sit in these seats right here and drink these?"

And so I pulled on that jar of motor-oil-colored fluid, and my attorney did the same.  We were under strict orders to not return to the gaming floor until we saw the bottom of those buckets.  The long night just got longer.  And so we watched the moon come up, that spectrelight glimmering over the impossibly complex neon highways.  And I think we watched the Texas Rangers.  Hell, it didn't matter.  I smoked more cigarettes than I brought with me on the plane, and my attorney arranged the evenings bets in chronological order.  There's something about the air, that's for certain, how it makes you capable of anything.  The body can accept a gallon of beer with nary a whisper of protest, as long as the heart pumps faster from the adrenaline.  And we rode the third rail that night.  Post-jar, we smashed into the elevator with a loud scream, and tipped over an ashtray on the way to the lobby.  We made it down just in time to see Utah State go off... oh hell, there better be 2nd half betting.  Out into the night we roared, two jungle cats swerving through the ferns.  The air so hot, the mind so lifted.  Criss-crossing Fremont until dawn, running up good credit and bad stories at every stop.

Until morning came, and we drowned.

"Yeah it is. It's really warm."

No foolin' Stacy, it really was warm over the weekend.  Either I will never adjust my mind to the fact that "summer" in southern California now goes from July 4th to early October...or I was overly stunned by the skies.  Shit, even if you saw it on the way, nothing could prepare you for the hair dryer that hit Dealville the past week or so...

It would take a lively soul to combat this predicament, and Smiley was more than game to find alternatives.  We mistakenly thought an after-dark concert at the Hollywood Bowl would do the trick, but that was not the case.  I alerted the other Pacific Gold writer that it was, yes, 90 degrees in the dark.  This has hit your writer before, but the circumstances were only in Las Vegas.  I don't remember all of the particulars, but I was at a brisk jog, and then I climbed a fence and ran to the Hilton.  As you can surmise, that was many moons ago...all that's changed. 

So we had food and drink, all in the cooler, and we struggled to find our seats.  This was a very sedate crowd, a fact I first chalked up to people eating (I spent the first half grooving along while eating in the dark, an activity I don't suggest unless you like reading in to everything I write).  2nd half brought more of the same, and I was about to review this as one of the more mundane concerts I've ever attended...but then the fireworks appeared.

They were impressive...they were colorful...and the sparks rained down on the box seats.

I didn't see this aspect at first because I'm awed by bright colors in a steamy night sky, but Smiley pointed it out.  Let there be no doubt: with my own eyes, I saw stately folks (including a large, senior citizen woman) run madly as she batted down her hair.  As with the rest of the show, the crowd was subdued.  No one could have heard my proclamations anyway..."Holy Balls!  Those people are having their hair set on fire from...never mind.  Oh, is that is Pinot Noir?  Sure, I have a plastic cup here...hold on..." 

Saturday morning brought more of the same with, naturally, no wind whatsoever.  I ask you: how is a dealmaker supposed to monitor college football in such an environment?  I'm trying to blend the AC with cold washcloths...constant fluids, pads and pens.  My surroundings have become a literal marathon.  I will do it and fight it.

My question to you, the reader: How do you think that worked out?  You're right: I lasted only through the late afternoon...until Smiley (in a curt manner that took me by surprise) told me "we're" leaving...

In hurried moments of heat, the exhausted are prone to rash decisions. (No pun intended)  Said decisions can work out, aiding the situation...or...you can look at the decision and remind yourself "you've done it again.  You sure have, haven't you?  You were hot and you wanted a haircut to beat the heat.  And you feel good in the moment and then realize it's "too short" and "not shaggy and swanky enough" and wait."  Yes, I made that decision again.  I've wondered if I should find a barber to the stars who makes it a consistent length, each week, Tuesday Nights at 9.

A cool breeze openly mocked us on Sunday, arriving for mere moments before vanishing completely.  Normal neighborhood errands that could be accomplished at a zesty pace had to be done in the car (a typical LA thing to do).  I returned home without any get up and get.  The heat was overpowering, and plans were thrown around like a poorly made sandwich.  None of this was happening, and we were fools to continue this conversation as if action would take place.  Instead, Man's greatest wish was fulfilled, while the rest?  They tried to find a parking spot at the beach...they fought through the movie theater while people called other people and said "Oh my god, it's so hot!  Yeah, I know!  We're at the movies!" 

And so, whatever our condition as we ambled in Beverly Hills would have given "what the hell have you been up to?" stares had it not been for that everyone else was in the same frying pan.  Making due in a stove, shrugging off annoyances for a mental coooool breeze.

Hot and Spicy Bloody Mary Mix

Seems to me, there are two ways to do things.

For a good chunk of my 20s (oh lord, is that how we're talking now?) there was a push and a pull between these two ideas.  One:  That a man should learn to do the things he needs to do in everyday life to make his time on the planet easier and more self-sufficient.  Two:  That a man can simply acquire enough friends/money/power to have other people figure that stuff out for him so he can concentrate on more important things.

I literally have sat on the teeter-totter for a decade on this one, and I doubt I'll ever decide.  The point, Jack, is that now, it really doesn't matter.  There's no engineer to throw the switch at the rail-yard anymore.  Just go and do, because everything is Knowledge.

I'll give you an example:  For years I have been teaching myself to maintain and operate all of the computers in my life.  (side note:  I definitely did NOT "teach" this to myself... I studied under a great mind known the world over as Mr. Slideyneez)  I sharpen this skill because, to me, I can't stand the idea of a piece of technology falling into disrepair in my life and having to take it to a mouthbreather at Best Buy.  I can't stand that interaction - as far as it relates to technology - wherein I have to say "Yes, indeed, I do not know what is wrong, and you need to fix it for me".  Is it pride?  Oh no, absolutely not.  I say that because when my car starts to Bubble and Whine, I immediately call my mechanic and start talking like a baby.  "Don't know what's wrong, pwease help!"  So I'm not DIY all the way.  In fact, I would say it shakes out that about 75% of the time, I prefer to just plain not know how things work.  "Hey Drew, gutters are clogged.  We're going to need to go get a---"  DON'T CARE.  I ain't got no quarrel with them ice dams.

So, it's selective, but almost without pattern.  I think as we age, we grow more used to some things.  But with others, if you don't flex those memories, the time passes and you lose them forever.  When I was 12 years old, my school (because it's Wisconsin) had a free course for Gun Safety.  This is the certification that all children under 18 would need in order to go deer hunting.  It was a free class, a few nights a week for a month.  I don't need to tell you Gold readers that nearly 90% of my friends signed up for this class.  I can't exactly remember why I didn't sign up for the class (I'm sure I was busy with Sim City at the time), but everyone I knew was in it, and I wasn't, and that was OK.  I can't say I was ever excited about the possibility of hunting.  It never had that much appeal, I guess.  Anyway, that same class was offered the next year, but by then I was 13, and the only kids that would be in the class would be a year younger than me.  NO DICE.  Plus, the world was starting to open up and I was seeing more options for life beyond just what everyone else seemed to be doing.  And then within a few years, I was driving and Making It Happen, and that just set the entire thing on the back burner.  Flash forward 20 years.... the point is, it's not happening.  I will never be a hunter.  I will never take a gun and go hunting for deer.  Ever.  I would have absolutely no hope of shooting a deer... I'd likely misfire and scare one off long before I even saw him.

So, what's the point?  Well, I never learned to hunt, and those days are gone, but I absolutely LOVE to fish. That was one of those skills that stayed with me.  I nurtured it, flexed it, and now I do it dozens of times each year.  So, you see, I'm not adverse to the outdoors.  I'm not a nerdlington (although I did just push up my glasses before I began typing on this website).  I do SOME things myself, but not all.

And so this weekend, as we bring it all back to where it started, it's not that big of a concern if I use Famous Dave's Bloody Mary Mix while I watch Charles Woodson make people feel The Hurt.  Because I'm going to slice up some tomatoes from the garden that I raised with my own two hands this summer.

I'm not my Grandpa.  But I'm not altogether incapable of acting like a man.

Life and times in the farmland

Work is a funny thing.

It really begets more work.  I have pivoted on this concept for many years, and have yet to find the perfect fulcrum point.  I recently entered my 15th workplace, and the thought occurred to me that in the course of my life, I have gotten a lot more done when I've been insanely busy as opposed to when I've had no job and been primarily a househusband.

I should pause to remind everyone that I do not have children... and so the job of "househusband" involves little more than making pies.

But the movement causes more movement, doesn't it?  Like trapped gas devouring oxygen, it only moves perpetually faster.  And so I find my mind getting clearer as things speed up, some sort of opposite reaction of anti-laziness.  I say this knowing full well that football season is on the horizon, and as such, goodbye weekends.

I'm not sure how it works around the world, and I've never been one to understand how other people become happy doing the things they do (that previous sentence was brought to you by Daniel Plainview), but I know that getting into, and staying knee deep in the action has always been a positive thing.  If it works out that you have to take a 3 day jaunt to Santa Barb, then tack on a wine-run during the early hours of a Monday morning, well, so be it.  If you find yourself slap-dash in Stonington, Connecticut, looking for ice cream an hour before your flight, well?  What of it?  Get in the air, get your affairs in order, and get moving.

I don't know any secrets about the best way to go about things, but maybe the secret is really that it is all subjective.  And maybe it's best to go at the speed of the mountain.  I know my life has become incredibly situational, and that's bringing more and more gold out.  As the future starts to melt into the present, and sharp edges start to soften up, it's becoming easier and easier to chase it down, so to speak.  I mean, hell, we just sloughed off to Africa-land for 2 weeks, and didn't plan so much as a ride home.  I hesitate to say it's getting old hat, but the patterns are easier to follow.

And so, action breeds action.  We move.  Stress is so incredibly temporary.  It sharpens and focuses the brain, dialing in to establish a true connection to life's miracles.  Shit, if the point of it all is to Learn How This Thing Works, then it's best to prepare yourself so that when you hear the answer, you understand the language.  And I feel like we've moved beyond the traffic now, so to speak, out into a realm where we grow more and more able to drive free and clear.  Nothing comes easy, but action always results in education.

Life has really come a long way.

Too Many Things

"There's just too many things."
-Amber Waves, in a moment of clarity

For my initial years in Dealville, the sum of my possessions could be considered minimal.  This is fine, and accepted at that age.  I moved on a continuous basis, enough to annoy relatives, and ensure "set-up" bills for those shysters at each new site.  Like the Abromowitz family in the night, I'd leave cursing some aspect of the place while celebrating the glory of the next.  You can't add a lot of shit in a plan such as that, and I'd occasionally get chided for it...usually by women who weren't women but were still girls.  I haven't talked to them in years, I'm proud to say.

Now, though, I am doing adult things.  Not exotic adult things, but accepting some responsibility.  This is a life moment of which I am prepared and, in one review, possibly overdue.  There's two ways a conclusion such as that could be reached.  One is seeing someone older than you by more than a handful of years living in suspended adolescence.  It makes their social interaction incredibly awkward, even in minor situations.  It's hard not to offer unsolicited advice when you see them stumbling on life's more basic tasks, but that is a waste of your time: they're older than you.

The other conclusion is mentally still feeling young despite an advancing age...and then you meet new hires and interns and realize that, in some cases, I'm over a decade older.  Nope, not young anymore.  (This reminds me of an opportunity long ago where a girl was considered for courtship, one who was 20 or so.  For all the good that could have come with that, I soon realized that everything we'd discuss I'd gone through...7 years ago.  It was all old news...)

These adult things include receiving very thoughtful gifts from family and friends, each item chosen for the rest of our lives.  Had you visited our place, you could easily see there were some basic items that were needed to overcome the collegiate look.  There were also items that were improving life: nicer options to expand culinary attempts.  Don't think I'm ready to watch Food Network or anything, but this will (hopefully) ensure I won't burn a sunny side up egg.  These items, too, were welcome and appreciated.

Then, there are the items that I carefully mentioned to Smiley as examples of barely needed things: items that were placed on the list despite my misgivings on their use.  We now own a glassware item that can be a punch bowl, a cake stand, or covered holder of food.  It looks (and is) extremely heavy.  If you told me this was the Davis Cup and we had mistakingly received this trophy in Madrid, I'd believe you.  But it's ours now, without some discussion.

We don't need this.
No, we do.  This will be good for cakes.  Or for punch.
How much punch do you think we're going to make?!
Well, your Grandpa's rum punch recipe is in the book.  Besides, I'm going to be making a lot of cakes.
Man, this thing is heavy.  
Yeah, you have to be careful.

This is an area of the world where the sleazy measure each other by material goods.  It is a race no one can ever win.  Ask the dolt who bragged about their items years later.  They'll tell you they're "gonna get an upgrade on  _____"  Be that as it may, you might as well swing by and visit as NCAA Football season starts, because we'll have a lot of food!  Er...food on display.  I can make all natural ice cream now.  I can rinse and prepare a salad without using another tool beyond a plastic device that looks like something from the moon.  We can drink champagne from glasses that have our names etched in them with fine detail.  I appreciate all gifts, believe you me.  However, I realize now that I left "new house" off the list.  Guess that's up to me, huh?  Because I'm an adult?  Shit, I told Smiley we were gonna go out to eat, and we went to some place called "Tacomiendo."  She didn't complain at all.  Does that mean I won?  Or is it that another moment of life passed, and I was reminded that there are no rules along the way?  

"How does it feel?" they ask.  The same, I reply.  "That's good."  It is.  Life, new and exciting, rolls on.

It ends with another Super Bowl

This is how these waves work.

(editor's note:  Yeah, we're switching to football, because why the hell not?)

If there is a pattern - and we've already established that there is decidedly NOT (though moving the mouth is fun) - then it probably isn't quite as fun to be on the roller-coaster.  The twists and turns, if predictable, are only slightly less intense.  After all, who cares when the loop-der-loop hits?  When it happens, you're still shocked senseless.

There's no more institutional continuity, and if there is, it means nothing.  Football teams succeed on "tradition" as much as LSU players succeed on books.  The guy that came before you is just the guy that ain't here anymore.  In this climate, separation comes rarely, and has to be micro-managed.  Fans seem to have an inside track to how this is accomplished, but they are almost always wrong, and definitely always are dumb.  "DUDE, JUST GET VINCENT JACKSON AND THIS OFFENSE IS SET!"  And, ham-wich.

I do, however, enjoy a luxury that I fully admit is more cosmetic than substantive.  I happen to pull for an organization that has effectively removed greed as a main operator of success.  That means nothing when/if #12 gets concussion number four, but it helps clarify emotions, at least.  An example is the Purple... they can run a dog-shit team out there (and they do), but Mr. New Jersey still banks cash and reinvests it into mini-malls.  Then, when the team comes off a 3-13 season in which the fattest players look the best, the politicians in the state (who have really liked football since they've been fans... about 5 weeks now) vote to give him billions.  Hey, it all makes sense.  And in 3 years when they go back into the first round to reach for Rodgers' brother, or whoever, the fans' displeasure will be tainted by the economic reality that 1) their money still flows to Zigg, and 2) they are married to this idea forever and ever.

So, with a limited amount of moving parts, you can only ever hope that the tumblers line up and you strike it rich for one glorious season.  That's the fleeting nature of the NFL.  And that's why so many are drawn to it, like moths to a bonfire.  We go back and forth on if "dynasties" are good for sports, or football, or whatever.  But nothing hooks a fan-base into their team like the Big Run.  Christ, they're probably still selling gear at the Packers Pro Sh- yep, still got em.  And so it matters not if this "design" has anything to do with success of the league as a whole, because the league doesn't operate as an entity.  They pass the plate around and everyone gets to take a cookie out.  Shit, that sure beats having to cheer against the Red Sox or Yankees every. fucking. year.

Ok, so what's the point of all this?

I'm on another wave here.  We crested, and now it's a slow roll up the beach.  The way I can give this language is to remind you that yes, I have been through this before.  Here's the breakdown:

1.  You Hit It Big, And Everyone Is A God

Dear me, did I love Eric Walden in 2010.  And Howard Green?  HALL OF FAMER.  I took a shot to Crabtree that night, and I didn't feel bad about it.  It was flowing like cherries, and everyone got a sip of that bubbly.  When it all comes together, there is such a sense of happiness that it blots out any other considerations you could ever have.  It's a singular moment, one that you wait for years to achieve, and then it happens, and it's a white wash of light.

2.  Little Pieces (Who Stepped Up Big) Go Somewhere Else Where They Will Be Paid Like Big Pieces, Even Though They Are Not Very Good

Hey Arizona, how's Darren Colledge working out?  Hey Cleveland, you're welcome to Brandon Jackson.  Nice to see Brett Swain still pulling them in in San Fran.  The point is that inevitably, you can't keep all the pieces, because they all get instantly more expensive.  So you lose the "glue" guys.  And that's fine, because they aren't really the crux of the team... but they contribute.  And replacing them with equal pieces isn't a foregone conclusion.

3.  Heads Swell

Last year, I wrote this sentence to my attorney:

My point is that if *I* am reading this stuff, and getting a little amped up, what do you think Charles Woodson is doing? Do you think that Charles Woodson, the only player to ever win the Heisman, DPOY and a Super Bowl, just sits at home, sees TRAVIS BECKUM open his mouth, and does nothing?

Oh, how confident I was.  Oh, the banner would fly again.

OOOOOOOPS.

4.  You Keep Me Hanging On

This is where we are now.  Is Rodgers good enough to keep this team in the Fat and Giggly for the next 5 years?  Sure.  I watched this happen from 1999-2003.  Quarterback is good enough to win 10 games a year.  Rest of the team doesn't care.  Go to playoffs, lose, come back the next year confident.  But when you don't have that team coming together under the right conditions, and you don't have everything click at the right time, and when you sign - oh god - Cedric Benson, you are doing what dogs do when they jump in the lake.

5.  Nice To See You, Felt.  It's Been Too Long.

It doesn't end with the felt.  It didn't end in 2005.  It just gives you higher draft picks.  The bottom rushes up to meet every team, at least once a decade.  It helps restore balance, if anything.  Because, soon after...

6.  Beautiful Surface

The turnaround comes only when the team accepts it will go no further under the current direction.  Once that commitment is made, a child could turn the team around.  Draft strong, stay young, get a coach to kick everyone in the ass.  How can you not win it all?

7.  The End Is The Beginning Is The End

The circle closes, and you buy another jersey.  Cycle complete.... enjoy it.

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And so, we embark down another hard-banking turn.  We know where this coaster will take us, but we still thrill in the ride.  It happens so quickly, but you always forget that first dive when the ride finishes.

But that's ok... when you are heading up the hill next time, you'll remember.

Ain't it enough to live by the ways of the world?

(editor's note: It's becoming clear, through years of research, that Dee Louis operates best without supervision.  We had recently tailed him to Wyoming, to which he responded with a year-long blackout on posting.  However last month we decided to end all communication with him, and he replied 2 weeks later from Tanzania.  His comments appear here, unedited)

We're still walking out here, and the night hasn't begun to fall.  That's the thing about The Spin... it's always waking up somewhere.  Life can be reduced or expanded, but it's always going to come down to what's right there, in front of your face.  If you can't live it, you can't know it.  The Motto.  Off we go....

I suppose at one point the world was a lot simpler, and I suppose that right before that, it was infinitely complex.  When Lucy or whoever stepped out from the primordial ooze, the whole thing got much more in a line.  That thing - the first steps, the dawn, whatever you call it - it happened a million years ago yesterday, and it happened right here.  In a flash, existence woke up and we were finally able to start pursuing the secrets.  Here we are a million years later, and we are still asking.  But Lucy, ah.  Lucy knew.

Lucy was born in the rift.  The rift that tore at the continents and tried to shuck half of Africa back into the sea.  That was the first of many incidents of Earthen Revenge.  Ah, the poetry of that... to be born in the valley of death.  But really, isn't it all the same?  Trees growing out of decaying matter, and all that?  If it's all on a spin, then does it ever really stop?  It spins as much today as it did back then.  This isn't Newton's Billiards.

Oh hell, reign it in already.  It's not like you got shot in the war and are seeing the bright light.  Tell a STORY...

David Mitchell once said that if you ever wanted to just plain get off your ass, then India was the place.  There, he explained, it is quite simply impossible to feel bad for yourself, to lay in bed all day, to be lazy.  You step onto that street, and it's right here, right now.  That's Nairobi.  You don't consider anything.  You don't contemplate.  No thought digs more than a layer deep.  Here, take a test:  step out onto that curb and tell me what your cousin's name is....

Too late.

There's quick-moving cities (Tokyo still holding the trophy on that one) and then there's quick-moving cities with Bonus Chaos.  That's Nairobi.  Everyone move, only nobody do it logically.  Just GO.  Pick a direction (or not) and simply mash the gas pedal.  Eventually, like moths in a jar, we'll either figure it out, or die.  Again, not much difference.

If the goal is to eventually see every side of the dice, then we're making good progress.  Call this the "danger" side.  I don't know what it's like in Northern Mexico right now, but I'm guessing it's close.  I can taste The Fear.  You don't get a lot more dangerous than Africa (both in biological and human threats), and that's something that you can't really forget.  I remember a time in Hawaii... we had a huge tsunami warning.  They drove by on the Kam highway blasting out evacuation orders.  They said that by 10am (it was 6 at the time) that the tsunami would arrive and we should evacuate to higher ground.  Our house was already at the top of a hill... it would've taken a 200 foot wave to take us down.  We sat there that morning and Reasoned with the thing.  Finally, we came to a conclusion... we were NOT going to be "those people" on the news.  You know the ones.  The mother who brings a 3 month old baby to The Dark Knight Rises.  The guy who stays in his house in Tuscaloosa as Aunty Em gets lifted away to the heavens.  And you see the news and think "What a tragedy... but what the hell were they DOING there?"  So that's why we play it safe.  We're not going to be those people.  And, as surely as we fled the tsunami, we take the book's advice to "never go out after dark, ever".  Alright then.  Dinners will be behind fences.  Enough said.

But that's ok, because there are a few worlds out here, and the Bonus Chaos only stretches as far as the city limits.  Eventually, we slink back to the ooze.  The Great Rift Valley lays open before us, a miles-wide swath cut down the globe like a gash in a golf ball, absolutely teeming with life so utterly incomprehensible.  The biodiversity here matches anything I've seen before, and we find ourselves stunned at the proximity we can get to this kind of bubbling nature.  This is where it began, this is where it continues, and this is where it will never end.  I ask the guide "What natural defense to the wildebeest have against the lions?"  He replies "There are many of them".  Simple mathematics, that's the advantage.  Evolution just took a day off on that one.  I suppose it's counter-evolution, in a way.  Something's not allowing the lions to grow in numbers, and that's keeping the denominator (or is it the remainder?) constant.  A man with 16 bullets can probably only take down a max of 16 people.  So then it's simple... just don't give him another gun.

There are no answers out there, only astounding emptiness, but that's an answer in itself, I suppose.  We long ago stopped searching and started wandering.  The greatest thing being to find yourself in a place.  I suppose "find" implies there was first some "searching".  But not necessarily.  Because just like you can find yourself bellied up to the bar drinking Shiner at the B&B BBQ, so too can you find yourself sitting in a Swahili restaurant after sundown during Ramadan, wishing that you could never blink again.

Our lives are a story.  It started when Lucy woke up.  It will continue through the evening.  We'll be there, and then we'll be here.

Maui Madness

I found out what benefit you receive as Pacific Gold's sole writer.  (Well, sole as far as I knew)  I had turned down a June assignment based in Spokane.  Why I had to go there to ask students what it was like for the last day of school, I don't know.  Despite this writing delay, I went to the offices for another assignment.  I couldn't have been on the orange foam couch for 5 seconds when I was shown two envelopes.  "You're the one writing these days, Trip...so you get to make the choice.  That guy Dan...Drew...yeah, Drew, he gets the other."  So, I took an envelope, laughed at an old ad for home interest rates ("12.3%?!  Now you know why I lived on a boat in 1984!") and waited until getting home to open...

"You'll be going to Maui to see how 'off season' life goes for locals, and look for ocean life.  Tickets and itinerary enclosed.  Story due by end of the month."  Shit, I lucked out on this one...I think?  Best not to guess where they sent Drew...if he went, or will write for that matter.

I was taking some comfort until I met with Drew at a celebration I held up the coast.  There, surrounded by booze and food, Drew took the microphone and began to regale the audience with comedic anecdotes about me and Smiley, and continued in this entertaining fashion until the conclusion.  Everyone applauded, Drew received multiple compliments (heartiest from me, as you can imagine) and then Smiley and I both spoke aloud Drew's writing abilities.  But...here I am going to Maui.  Whether it's fair or not, off I flew...

When people say Hawaii time, they don't mean time of day, they mean "pace of life."  This takes some adjusting to, whether on vacation or assignment from Dealville.  In Dealville, you're hustling to be one step ahead.  But in Maui, though no one will say it to your face, you feel it real quick: Stop worrying about everything.  No one else is in a hurry.  No one else needs anything more than another rum drink.  So, just...

(Sighs and reflects)

Finding locals, away from tourist areas (off the beaten path and otherwise) is not easy.  The locals know this, and they know their meal ticket is tourism.  It sure as hell isn't its OWN inertia, or ease of making a living.  In fact, those who do find it supremely difficult.  But that's not the face you see.  The face (unless they're retired, which is a "loving this life" face) is still smiling and welcome.  No shakedown...no pity story.  The reason: the weather and each other.  They're all on the same wavelength.

Getting on a boat and going elsewhere helped find ocean life, but it also brought a rough case of seasickness.  We made our way over to Lana'i, though not on our own charter it would seem.  The cool waters calmed my nerves, and underwater, we rightly saw oddities...

The Trumpet Fish (among others) continue to send reminders of a whole world out of sight...and continuing wonder.  Even saw an underwater spider...or so it seemed.  (I hope the editor doesn't mind because...yeah, I didn't want to investigate)  Sea turtles continue to be a searchable item...though it ended in taking the road often traveled.  This is something to avoid highly, because if you think the mouth-breathing set has trouble enough walking...imagine them in water, with new snorkel gear, having never done it before in their life.

There I stayed, in one spot, without making a scene.  The fish were doing their thing, and then - there it is.

(Note: Not said turtle, but this one is saying hello)

The turtle was doing its thing, well aware it was in a high traffic area.  It began to swim toward me, so I had to do some quick thinking.  I did nothing.  If this sea turtle wants to say hello, have me carry it somewhere, or attempt to gnaw on my arm, it'll do it.  I'm in his house.  (her house? I have no idea)  Word must have shouted along dry land.  At that moment, the flailing brigade began to surround me, kicking me wildly with their fins, and pointing with flabby, surprised limbs.  The water was shook up, and the lack of space was making it hard for me to concentrate.  All the while, here comes the turtle.  Ol' Lumber's slo-mo action was enough to eventually scare off everyone...but me.  The turtle came up to my side, lifted its fin, and patted me on the back.  It swam on.  Like the picture you see above, it was a rare moment when nature, in its element, is happy to see you.  

As a result, you would think underwater would be the place to be at all times.  It's easy to get away from the masses and meet new creatures.  I hasten to remind the reader (and realized it too late for myself) that the Pacific is an angry sea.  It is large, the ground shakes under it, and man has placed a belt of garbage that floats in it and washes ashore.  Hell, we even wrote two years ago about these waves.  Sadly, I had to turn down a snorkel day to remain on land while Smiley continued the underwater adventure.  Doing so gave me the chance to get the local vibe.

I was laying under palm trees, listening to the wind and waves help my recovery, when I heard two female voices.  They seemed to have a decent amount of vocal fry from smoking, and, just in conversation, I could tell they held the inside story.  One woman's dog wandered over and stayed next to me (because I can apparently communicate with animals) and that brought the lowdown.

One of the pair was a lifelong native:  "I don't look it, huh?  Lived here my whole life.  But I did live in southern California for a few years.  You know Costa Mesa?"  Ah...my predictions were correct.  

"Yeah...they want people living here to do the work, but I wish people from the mainland came over here because it gets done faster.  You know that area by the airport?  All that stuff by the Costco?  TWO YEARS."  I nodded in agreement, not really knowing what she was talking about, but understood that this E-Z mindset meets local-needed construction, and no one really wins.  Meanwhile, making a living isn't easy.  The dog owner cleans condos, having to balance the time off as a good/bad thing.  "Been doing this for 23 years.  Used to be really busy.  Did 3 turnovers a day."  She also shared the nugget that "Canadians are the worst tippers."  Must have been the bad exchange rate for all those years.  

I went back to lie down as she went back to her friend, but since her dog was now by my side, I kept my ears tuned to their convo.  Could I glean some wisdom from local's life by eavesdropping? 

"My neighbor comes over with a 20-pound bag of pepperoni from Pizza Hut!  She says 'Hey - want some pepperoni?'  I said 'I don't like pepperoni that much.'"  "Where did she get that?"  "From Pizza Hut.  I swear, she's always coming over with stuff like that."

There you go, folks.  That's the real life in Maui: random giant bags of pepperoni, shipped directly to the island.  After the "Holy Gold!" take in of the weather, and the quick acceptance of the lifestyle pace, it's sink or swim.  Sinking isn't the worst thing in Maui...the turtles will be there to lend a hand.

Dodger Stadium: Park at your Own Risk

As I sit in a monitoring cell today, the Dodgers have the best record in the major leagues.  I have no idea how this happened, particularly now with a steady stream of injuries.  (An infielder thankfully was taken to the hospital at the right time, avoiding an amputation - I kid you not)  They finished yet another sweep of a first-place team, this time the Cards.  I'm ready to write another blog about Tommy Lasorda and victory eating, when I read this morning's story:

"Dodger fan beaten as pregnant girlfriend watched in shock."

Son of a bitch...let me guess where this took place...yes, the Dodger Stadium parking lot.

Despite the team's surprising start, last season's opening day crime is still fresh in fan's minds.  Last season, fans had plenty of reasons to avoid games, a parking lot beat-down at the top of the list.  Yet now, they'd like to think all of those negative aspects, including parking lot insanity, faded away. 

The LAPD can call it "road rage" (road rage IN A PARKING LOT?!)  or try to pass the buck with quotes like this because...

“In a Dodger season there are 81 games, they will draw 3 million people and on any given day they can have a sellout with 56,000 people. I don’t believe that any law enforcement agency or any professional sports team could guarantee there would never be any type of incident with those types of numbers,”

AH - I get it.  So really, odds are, someone...what, every month or so...will just get roughed up in the least and nearly killed at most because there's too many people?  Folks, this time it was fan on fan because that Chevy might have hit that Honda, or was it the other way around?  All at 5-10 mph?   Of course, this time, there was enough LAPD on the scene to catch the criminals.  They were there, likely, because last year someone was nearly killed.  Whatever it takes, right?

The perception, however often crimes such as this occur, will be come the reality (correctly or otherwise) to the fan.  Not unlike the New York City subways of the 1980s, if fans think the lots are beat down zones, regardless of increased police presence, they'll stay away.

Speaking of trains, last week a friend and I spoke of the joyous news that a new Metro train line now makes it all the way to Culver City.  This was good for us on the west end of town - park there, train to downtown, shuttle to the stadium.  We talked of good things: saving on parking money, an extra beer...and then the added point "plus, we won't get beat up in the parking lot."  "Yeah," he chuckled.  I meant it as (mostly) a joke. 

I hasten to say it, but this is the new ownership's group first moment to do something positive.  And do it quickly.  Because eventually (and quietly) if the parking lot turns into an L.A. Raiders game, no matter how good the Dodgers are or become, you won't want to see the results...

You might think I'm crazy

The first item on the conveyor belt was a box of Trix.  I wasn't trying to proclaim anything in doing so...it was simply on top of the cart.

"Is this for your kid, or is this for you?"

I wasn't expecting to be judged on my grocery purchases.  The last time that happened was a decade ago, when I was buying a 12 pack of beer and cheez balls.  The cashier said "Beer, cheez balls...what, no cigarettes?"  I responded, politely, that I don't work at a supermarket.  Was that cold?  Harsh? 

It gets worse at the drug store.  A multitude of personal items can be in your purchase, but you'd never point and laugh at some old guy for buying Depends because, possibly, that could be you one day.  My lowest drug store purchase was on a very ill night.  I was buying a plunger and Imodium AD.  I tried not get the young, cute cashier...but you know what happens...

"How's it going?"  (She then looks down at the items)
I've had better days...

Where was I?  Right.  So, I said no, the Trix are for me.  They might be for kids, but I am not a rabbit, so I may also eat them.  It is also on sale for $1.80, and I have to make that deal.

"Yeah, but it has a lot of sugar."

Excuse me, Mom.  I have no cavities.  I get excellent check-ups.  I brush after lunch - do you?  I didn't think so. I asked if there was an age limit on this cereal, as I clearly was not aware of said rules.

"When you're not a kid..."

Again, in a polite fashion, I said "Well, when I was a kid, my Ma never bought us these cereals.  She wanted us to have good teeth, right or wrong.  I am now old enough to buy my own groceries, and in some cases items I was not allowed to have as a child...the Trix, the whiskey, too much mac n' cheese.  (This week it was priced at normal levels, not overpriced)

Have I, or will I, reach an age where I am not to eat or do certain things?  Do grown-ups not enjoy cheeseburgers and milkshakes at Foster's Freeze?  I do.  Now that I'm out of my 20's, should I stop with the Friday Night Pizza Party?  I'd like to keep that going.  Too old for a granola bar for breakfast?  It might be cheap and easy (two descriptors that used to lead to GOOD THINGS in my youth)...so what?  Whole wheat flax seed fiber sticks, guaranteed to "break the bowl?"  No thanks.  Past the days where it's acceptable to blast The Germs while sitting outside?  I don't think so. 

It's who I am.  And when you live in a place like this, you blend in.  Which, after all, is why I'm here.  Keep it going...till the sun go down.

More to Come

The search for gold is a continuous one; always on the look-out.  Video gold is one of those things, and thanks to some very friendly collectors, I've received multiple old episodes of the Tonight Show.  Since I've accumulated these discs, I've filed them where they should be filed: under SWANK.

In each instance, the only negative (if it is such a thing) is the topical humor of the monologue.  Johnny makes a quip, everyone laughs, and I run to Wikipedia to find out he is referring to President Ford's budget director.  The rest?  It's a truckload of people simply making it happen.  Even better?  These were recorded by some friendly man in a station control room long ago.  This means, after the national ads, nothing but Doc and the boys groovin' it out.  And thus, the "more to come" bumper slides.

They're a lost art, especially for today's late night talk shows.  Moreover, they're usually difficult for an audience to see.  This certainly was not the case back then.  But Johnny's bumper cards certainly evolved over time.

I may be over-thinking this, but the above bumper card comes from when the show was still shot out in New York.  1971 New York, well...it was swank, but then (as now) doesn't hold a joint to LA.  This rigid "art" was typical of the episodes of the time.

Ah. here we are.  They're more proud to say they're in Dealville than anything else.  What, we're moving to Burbank?  Make that shag carpet, Kenny.  Yeah, and a lot of live ferns.

Once settled, you'd see motifs of the California lifestyle, one the show began to embrace completely.

There were variants on this theme, but it continued throughout the first year or so in California.  After this identity was established, the cards were...OK, I want to put this point across without any accusations at all.  I've used the word "swank."  Is "funk" an appropriate word?  "Imbibed during creation" an appropriate phrase?

Whichever you choose, an artist would be given room to make a whole series of cards, filling an entire episode, on a rotating basis.  Let 'er rip.

"Fred, I had this dream last night..."
"Go for it, pal."

One of the multiple reasons the show moved full-time to CA was greater access to film starts, a lifeline a talk show desperately needs (as do studios).  It's fun to see their spirit caught up in this wave.

So, we're doing an episode on New Year's Eve, and it's the late '70s.  Our guest will be Robert Blake.  Johnny returns from commercial with "10 seconds to the New Year" and says a brief word...followed by "3...2...1..."

Guy on the left: "HAWWWWWW"

Just as the pioneers headed west, so did this show.  It wasn't easy...we had tough conditions, unexpected troubles, and a constant fear for our lives.  But enough about NBC in the late 70s.

Yeah...perhaps there was research showing more people trip while watching Tonight than any other show?

Well, it's getting late...time to go to bed.  Hey, what's on after the show?

Chuck Mangione?  Turn on the coffee pot!  We're going ALL NIGHT!

It's been building up to this

Traffic in LA is a constant.  Regardless of the time of day, a succession of stories could be told of shit traffic.  Now we have the added ingredient of $4.50/gallon gas.  Once that hit (and it hit fast, because that is how oil companies work) there was talk...but that was it.  Summer of 2008, the last time prices hit this level, citizens of LA would hold signs blaming the president, and occasionally attacking the help.  This time?  Seems to be a weary sigh...maybe it's because those protesting now all own a Prius, I don't know.  (Fuck, I DO know, and if you can read between the lines, you'll know too) 

Mentally, I had passed a threshold.  $4.25 is too much already, but more than I'd be willing to pay.  Last time, I lived a mile from work, so it didn't really matter.  But this time?  I was willing to put my life in someone's hands: the Big Blue Bus.

While public transportation continues to be an afterthought in LA, I wanted it to become my routine.  I was fortunate enough to realize there was a route that was my exact drive to work.  How lucky is that?  So what if the buses only show up every 20 minutes?

The first week was one of adjustment.  I had to accept things that other riders have likely known for years.  The bus will often be late.  It also might be early, and if it is, you're fucked.  It will stop for no one unless you make a scene.  The driver will be polite and full of excuses when asked a question.  But when I made it home last Friday, I was a happy man.  I had gone almost a week without driving and was still able to get shit done.  I also wanted to be smug...and maybe I crossed that line.  During the weekend, Dr. Gold and I realized we could take the same bus to a golf course, play, get drunk, then take the same bus home.  We celebrated the future.

I should have known better.  I was just lucky, that's all.  And all it took was one fucking day.

Maybe it was when I realized that I would have already arrived at work and yet I was still waiting for a very late bus.  Or was it the guy on the bus who put his bag on another chair to prevent an old lady from sitting down.  No, I think it was another late bus home, in cold (for here) weather...and after 40 minutes 2 of the same line drive next to each other.

Trip: Is that another #5 bus behind you?  (Of course it is...I just want to hear what he'll say)
Driver: Yeah...bad traffic on Olympic.
Trip, calling bluff: We're on Colorado.
Driver: (sigh)

No, Mr. Driver, you don't have all the answers.  But you do have one that you won't tell.  And now I am pretty fucking SALTY.  Again, I could have been home drinking rum and eating Jalapeno chips.  What's the solution here? 

Well, the public transit solution that the mayor pushes so often has one fatal flaw: a majority of the transportation has to co-exist with the same traffic people are trying to avoid.  There's no subway line near you?  Sorry, the city council in the '90s didn't want their neighborhood bothered with all that construction.  Right before the public voted them out, they voted for more buses.  Problem "solved" I suppose.

Pay through the ass, or lose up to 1 hour and 30 minutes of your day.  Um...no?

Burritos, Beer, Basketball...and Nixon?!

It hasn't exactly been news that the UCLA Men's basketball team was kicked out of Pauley Pavilion for this season.  (Each person I asked to join me at some point this season for a trip said "Wait, they're not in Westwood?")  This happens when you follow consecutive trips to the Final Four with mediocre basketball.  The squad isn't helped any with the school's advertising "Catch the Bruin Road Show" - equating this to Cinerama on tour or (more likely) the Harlem Globetrotters.

The Bruins have spent this season playing either "exhibition" or "home" games in Ontario, Anaheim, and the Sports Arena.  The other option, likely, would have been the Forum, but a deal wasn't reached.  So, upon hearing that Minnesota Laughs had secured 4 tickets and a parking pass for the Colorado game, I was likely too excited to see the arena.  The game?  Eh...

But LA being LA, leaving Burbank (long story) to get downtown with over an hour in advance was not enough time.  The thundering Golden State Freeway was shitsville, and attempted cutting through Glendale through downtown (while Minnesota Laughs attempted to drive as if she were blind) got us there roughly 5 minutes into the first half.  But, we were alive.  Not much time to take in our surroundings. 

As you can see, the Sports Arena enjoys fine sight lines...almost Met Center-esque.  The school really tried to make this seem like a "home" for the year, with championship banners throughout.  It was a vocal crowd, which is the LA style.  Screams and taunts against an opponent who had played a grand total of 8 games in the same conference as the Bruins flowed.  Another benefit: the acoustics...which would explain why the old venue still sees big name musical acts.  Even at 3/4ths full, it was LOUD.  My exploring would have to wait...Minnesota Laughs and her friend were knitting and barely paying attention, while a man on the end of the aisle (wearing a 1992 NCAA Final Four cap) struggled to get up each time.  Maybe it was the leather chairs?

Halftime sent EVERYONE out of their seats, and we hit one aspect where the old place showed its age: the bathrooms.  Dr. Gold, someone who joined this excursion, was the first point this out: "Oh man - troughs.  Wow."  There were other options, and those options included not having soap at each sink (why isn't there one long sink with 30 nozzles?) and it took an excited fan to search through the janitor's closet to get more paper towels.  Hey, whatever it takes...

So, we took a lap and in doing so were impressed by the concessions.  Not all were open (to do so would make things convenient) but one stand was making homemade burritos of your choice.  GOLD.  What's that I see?  A BEER?!  That's right, this isn't an on campus venue.  Purchasing said nectar (a Blue Moon...could be worse) was on everyone's mind.  The duration of my wait saw my finishing said burrito.  I was getting pretty fucking salty by the time I hit the front of the line for my order.  I was missing the game and I looked to the side (instinctively) to see a TV.  There wasn't one...but there was a framed photo of Richard Nixon.  The hell?

To my left, there's a framed photo of JFK.  There has to be an explanation for this (there is...which doesn't make it nearly as cool to just stumble on the two).  Finally returning to our seats, UCLA began to make quick work of the Buffs, including one comical dunk when 300+ lb. Josh Smith dunked...and then landed on the ball.  The ball did not flatten, and despite one wagon wheel down, he recovered. 

Time was tight as we scrambled to leave.  As we exited, Dr. Gold asked "OK...you can only save one.  Forum or this place?"  (sigh) I have to make that decision?  Let's save that tale of the tape for the ultimate decision.  Hell...a certain owner of the Rams might end up owning the Dodgers...and they'll need a stadium location.  Would you be acceptable in razzing one of these to get the Rams back?  I think that idea, for better or worse, ups the ante.

Beyond the Blue Horizon

Here I found myself at yet another benchmark of life, and in the same location no less.  The cycle had moved, and again I was in good graces.  It was a sunny spot where I could scoop up white sand, smelling the salt in the air from the tide.  One where the alligator tail was fresh, the drink kept flowing, and the sun kept shining. 

The earth may have shook, but I didn't feel it.  The malaise had left me, and I was lost in the pull of the waves as the sun looked down.  What is beyond that horizon?  I am looking west to home, but I can see my life, once again, just beginning.  Another beautiful day, annoyances cast aside, with happiness surrounding me.  I can't say it was self-satisfaction, at least not as I continued to look at that horizon.  And it kept looking back at me.

All I felt it was telling me was that I was living life.  And then I looked up, and in an instant, saw the image above.  Sure enough, there it was...in the horizon.  I realized I was not alone.

Re-evaluating the Turkeys

(No, this is not a food column)

When your writer was just a young lad, Dealville in mind, I read any TV-related book I could find.  More than one would do their best (in varying levels of journalistic ability) to document horrible shows...strictly programming, as at the time the behind-the-scenes stuff wasn't as marketable.  "Find out the truth of what happened at CBS!"  In the 80s and 90s, who cared?  "A look at the worst shows ever made!"  SOLD!

So, years later, it's interesting to note a response of two trends so many scribes felt the need to let their say be printed:
1. If they thought they'd seen bad sitcoms, maybe that had, but holy shit would the next 20 years deliver some junk
2. Once producers realized to cut out the middle man (being the host of a "news magazine" show or "daytime talk show") and let the freaks be freaks in their natural habitat, it changed programming forever.

For the first part, there are two aspects that grew like a fungus and nearly guaranteed shit. 

• You don't need a situation for a situation comedy. 

This put a lot of shows in trouble because, without a situation, the comedy had better be there.  With no situation, one to create comedy or draw in the viewer, you're needing to bank on a cast, or writing that will base plots on the characters.  And if your characters are nothing more than thin cliches, well, you're fucked.  Oh, and, you've made some shit TV.

Consider an 80s show that was considered a "turkey" afterwards, and in print.  "We Got it Made," which had the following concept: Two roommates (guys who are classically very different in personality) decide to place an ad for a housekeeper.  They end up hiring the first person who showed up: a hot looking blonde.  Their girlfriends are naturally suspicious, but the guys (and the housekeeper) insist everything is on the up and up.  That is, of course, until misunderstandings come up each week. 

Good lord, look how long it took me to explain that.  OK, now here's a new show on Fox, "I Hate My Teenage Daughter" and that situation: Two mothers who've tried to give their daughters everything they never had suddenly realize that their girls are turning into exactly the sort of mean, stuck-up people who made fun of them in high school.

Not a lot of "sit" in that sit-com...so they'd better bring the com, right.  Well, that brings us to the 2nd aspect

• As time evolved, you could get away with saying stuff that was "revolutionary" 15 years ago.

Red Forman on That 70's Show might end a scene with his son by saying "Think, dumbass!"  But now, that kind of line IS the joke.  We weren't 5 minutes into the pilot IHMTD when one character (one we hardly knew, to another that was being introduced) said "The problem is you're a dumbass!"  Whatever exploration may occur as the series goes on, there's the level of writing you'll see.

I recently had a dealmaking dinner with a longtime executive of a TV network, and he expounded on the topic without prompting.  "It's all piss, fart, shit, ass...but I have to read all the scripts.  The crowd in the seats only sees this stuff once.  I have to read these scripts all the time."  There will always be bad TV shows, we agreed, but he noted that today's bad shows are on a whole new level.  "They're boring...that's how bad they are.  You can't even say anything about it...you see it, you've seen it before...same shit...NEXT."  I wasn't sure if he was saying that as an executive, or a viewer. 

With more channels, more ways to watch, more people watching, the net to trap such shit has more and more holes.  It's harder and harder for network TV to maintain what grip they have left, which might be why of all the shows in TV history that have been cancelled after 1 episode, HALF have been within the last 10 years.  This makes for a deadly combination...

Would you rather go online and watch shows that were considered shit afterwards and find out...hell, this ain't that bad, or struggle through some of today's "hit new comedy?"  I'd rather have another drink.

"I have no idea."

Two years ago, I wrote of a highly unlucky gambling trip to Las Vegas.  Well, here I was again (large surprise, huh?).  It's an important weekend of NCAA Football and Breeder's Cup races.  You know the dealing I had to do ensuring I'd dive head-first into this pit of despair?  Charity begins at home for this group, and so does life gambling for the rest.  I'm in one of those camps, and while my fortunes are better this time around, as I entered this rumpus room, I had WON all of my bets.  That's how life goes.  Did we sign up for that yo-yo?

(Not long after this excursion, I sat at a diner in Yermo, CA with Smiley.  We ate hash browns and discussed the possibilities of sports gambling as a vocation.  I had to tell her the sad truth:  "You do all this research, so when you win, that's your pay.  It is hard work paid off.  There's little thrill, like winning on a roulette number, because according to you it was supposed to happen.  If you win on a longshot, you get the thrill, but the rest is punch in, cash out.  But hard work can lead to losing money, and that's why everyone in there looks like they do.  Among other reasons of course.")

Matters not, because I was in the plus column after a disastrous weekend in October.  So I was scrambling in the sports book to find a seat at working TV to catch the vital Louisiana-Monroe/Louisiana-Lafayette game.  It's tied to one of my bets (naturally).  The desk I chose was littered with a half-dozen Churchill Downs tickets.  It is news to me that they race in November, and maybe to the man who previously sat here.  That's a LOT of fail tickets.  He left in haste is my guess.  He also left 3 pens (ballpoint pens in this sportsbook - we've all taken a step up!), a half-finished drink, and the wrapper for a high fiber bar. 

It was as I began to re-think the departure of this man when someone who I can only identify as the brother of Yukon Cornelius approached my station.  (It was an aisle seat, which, as a reporter, was to my advantage)

Yukon: (Unintelligible)
Me, realizing I'm being talked to: What?
Yukon, smiling: The only way you're gonna beat them is with a whip!
Me: Yeah...

Boy, I hope he's talking about horse racing.

The battle for Louisiana has been found.  (It took me a week to look it up and realize Lafayette and Monroe are NOT that close to each other: 3-4 hour drive in Sportsman's Paradise)  Let everyone else watch Northwestern and Nebraska...we've found our battle.  Clearing room on my desk I see an engraved plaque on the desk...one covered with tickets:  "Reserved for IPT Players.  See Management."  How about I don't?

I'm hearing the typical yelling as races get down the stretch, but what's been unique is the area near the collection desk: a group is there just congregating, waiting to cash in football tickets.  Their game must be near the end, but they CAN'T WAIT.  I'm really hoping for a riot of some sort, but it doesn't happen.  And then, from behind me a row or two: "Stupid Coach!"  Ahhh....that's the sportsbook member I know.

The action in Lafayette gets tight (I bet it does) when a gambling pro returns to his desk.  He has 3 magazines of various gambling and horse racing details, and multiple markers in a rainbow of colors.  By this look he should be all business, but he isn't.  He's uncomfortable, and annoyed.  Something isn't right.  The cocktail waitress walks by (at high speeds, likely frightened to death of the inhabitants, most of which looks like a High School Principal convention) and the pro stands assertively: "Miss?  Hot Tea...with MILK."  Before I can even finish asking myself if he's mentally on an airplane in 1962, he changes TV stations rapidly.  The screens here are touch, so you can move quickly between games.  "Jesus!"  Is it good or bad, Sir?  I find out seconds later.  "Back to Blackjack."

No words between us have been exchanged, but we both know he's going nowhere.  The markers and papers indicate otherwise.  In a feeble attempt of review, I scan the sheets for one last bet, something that would give me yet another excuse to extend this journey.  Again, from behind me: "3 man rush?  Sucks!"  It's not a good day for that man, like most, we'd gather.

The pro gambler to my left is getting more and more worked up.  He changed channels, muttered "Fuck.", changed channels again, and muttered "Damnit."  By word choice alone, there has to be a difference in outcomes, and his paperwork could give insight.  I'm starting to plot my next move of his actions...that and the fact that Lafayette is down 10.  The Cocktail Waitress walked right past the pro without the drink...something that did NOT please the man.  "Aw, Geez."  Wait a minute - what's with the Leave it to Beaver talk all of a sudden?  You're a Pro - do as Pros do, get pissed and swear aloud when Santa Anita's fortunes don't work out. 

The turnover was getting higher and higher.  The desk attendants were laughing, which made me curious...enough to wander out for fresher air.  It was just a brief breath, but I can't hide it: I wanted more.

Indian Summer

What gets you through life in transition?  Is it anticipation of the future, and the vast unknown?  It would have to include the outlook that whatever that will be in the future will be better.  Is it the fact that the present is new?  Your immediate surroundings (physically or mentally) are different; that itself is interesting.  Is it the feeling you have when you notice you as a person have evolved?

When I look through the music I have, the first thing I associate with it (normal or bizarre) is when I bought it and what I was doing at the time.  If forever briefly, the music can take me back to that place, living life and (simultaneously) getting into the songs.

Around this time in 2002, I bought this album.

It is a game of youth, matching lyrics to your current situation.  And these were things I likely didn't notice at the time...I was too busy doing some of the activities mentioned above.

From Second Hand Store
So you burned your bridges and headed downstream
Never know until you try
Spent your fortune on riverboat queens
'Til the river ran dry
---------------------
So you keep on following directions until
Pretty soon you passed it
Guess you should've know better and still
It was fun while it lasted

I had just got out of a long, complacent relationship and moved out on my own...and the song refrains "Any Way the Wind Blows."  Living and working in Hollywood, I didn't want to move too far, and I found a furnished place at the base of Laurel Canyon, north of Sunset.  A perfect place, it was not, but it had a location that couldn't be beat.  Easy drive to work, and to the valley to hang with the returning Dillon.  I could walk to nearly anywhere on the Strip, which helps if you're drunk.  You also don't realize how long you're walking with all the shit going on.  The place seemed to find me, and it was (for the most part) good.

From Indian Summer
And it's not as easy as it used to be
Finding time to let my mind wander
I can still hear them calling
Indian Summer

Not that work life was improving, at all.  The wheels were spinning, the volume unending.  It could've been worse: a "friend" around this time asked me to co-sign a loan for him, so deep in debt...this is what happens when you graduate college and "moving to LA" is the end of the goal.  We stopped talking roughly after I turned him down.  Did he know how hard I worked to get that cash?

But anytime it would get me down (daily, as it turned out) I could walk around the lot and smile - shit, this was at least progress.  Remember when you said you'd be doing this, and your father didn't believe you?  Nobody said the line to the top, whatever that is, is straight.

From At the Station
(Not lyrically, but it reminded me of the theme from "Fridays" which is always a plus)

From Tomorrow
Tomorrow, made up my mind
Gonna get busy, come from behind
Today, I'm staying right where I am
Break a few rules, make a few plans
 
There's thousands of things to keep you from doing
What you want to do
And if isn't this, then it's that
Back where it's at, and you're never through
 
When the aforementioned things did change, I wanted everything else to...as if life is that much of a switch.  Balancing a desire for change is hard if there are moments and things in your life that you want to stay the same.  After a while, mentally it seems easy (pushing away the cop-out) to drift back.  There's comfort in knowing, but little excitement. 
 
In my new place, I was one dart across the canyon to the hills.  And I would wander.  My entry was the Chateau Marmont, and on nights the kitchen door would be open, dining room empty.  It's a room service kind of place, after all.  Many times I passed the ghost of Belushi, and each time he looked out of shape.  But we'd nod, and I'd move on. 
 
Up and up I climbed to Hollywood Blvd...an aspect few seem to realize: it's up there, too.  A perfect vista route, there was inspiration all around.  At the time it seemed like a good walk: peaceful and relaxing.  I'd continue to Kings Road, which I'd take back to the Strip and the then-Hyatt House Hotel.  Once or twice, on the walk back, I'd see someone I know at a bar's patio.  "Hey Trip - did you just walk from up there?"  Yeah...(yawn)  "I forgot, you just moved.  You're in the hills?  That's awesome!  You want a margarita?"
 
The album ends with Life's Been Good...no need to go over that ground.
 
Over and over it goes...but you ask anyone who writes for this blog (well, either of us) and we can both tell you: a clearing of the mind, when you do something as simple as switching up locations for any length of time, does wonders for the soul.  It gives you life anew, and there will be a moment, either in the hills of Hollywood or at a bar, in a Hawaiian hut, or whatever...that you realize your life is Gold.

Sports in the Heartland, Part "Doof"

Three years ago, Drew wrote a summary of where sports were in the twin farms.  The summary wasn't that glowing in full, and now things might be worse.  Consider the following flat tires on the mini-van:

> The Minnesota Twins are in the dumper.  A year removed from winning the division and legions of fans who devoured the concession wares, the Twins posted the worst record in the American League.  Further reports on the blog to your right give the impression the model for which the franchise had been built in the 00's is long busted.  I won't pinpoint to what, exactly, is the biggest factor to the fall...I just hope Joe Mauer doesn't have the Hog Flu.

> The Vikings "start" is their worst in 9 years.  For those NOT Vikings fans (the majority of this blog's writers) it has been entertaining to watch.  All the warning signs were there: retread QB, lack of key position players.  Yet, the fanbase continue to chug ahead.  Remember: this is a fanbase who knows the Vikings are ready for a Super Bowl dynasty "if they just get the guys they need."  True, these 3 losses have been close games, and you don't need to tell ME about close losses.  Consider last night's Redskins loss...and the fact that the last 3 trips to Dallas brought a 1 point loss, a 3 point loss, and a 2 point loss.

(Fun Gambling Story: Lazily beginning my Sunday, I see the Vikings game is at halftime and they are up big.  Knowing their story, I attempt to place a 2nd half bet for Detroit -4.  I receive a missive that the bet I'm trying to make has now changed.  It's -4.5.  OK, lemme have...that and Detroit 2nd half moneyline.  "Your proposed bet has closed."  Huh?  Halftime didn't end for another five minutes...but the word was out, and heavy coin was being placed on Detroit.  Been a long time since that happened.  You can guess the result.)

> The University of Minnesota's football team was recently outclassed by North Dakota State.  The coach might legally not be elgible to be on the sidelines.  Fans and reporters point fingers at everyone but themselves.  More in-state recruits hit the bricks.  Anticipate U of M-Crookston being added to the schedule in 2013.

> Gathering all relevant reports, the Wolves don't really exist.  4 cans o beans still get you two (2) tickets to a game.  I wish them luck, of course.  Your reporter received silence on the phone when asked if the town was "ready for the season."

> It would also appear that the Wild fanbase could care less if they achieve success.  Sure, they might not attend all dates because Madison and Tanner have their Mite game at 5:00 at the Bloomington Ice Garden, but that's OK.  The Wild do seem to make news now and then for illegal hits, and I'm perfectly fine with that.  Old time hockey.  It's just that when the Stars left, my ability to properly care about the NHL went with them...maybe you know someone who feels the same?

It was one of these rake-ups that led my own mother to say (swimming against the tide of reality - a Minnesota problem if there was one) "How 'bout the Linx?"  I apparently misunderstood her, thinking she was making a golf reference.  "No, our WNBA team."  I laughed, heartily.  I laughed AT my own mother...and had to be the person to tell her "If the WNBA is your big highlight right now, does that mean you're no longer following the Viki--"  "Oh NO...but they're a good bunch of girls."

That response sent my mind wandering to somewhere else in that state.  A truthful yet mythical locale.  "Yes, ladies and gentlemen these are the Spring Prairie Homecoming Queens for 2011.  A great bunch of gals there.  Is it true two of you work at Rosie's Diner?  I'll have to stop by and say hello.  Line up for da pictures now, girls.  What a great bunch of girls.  Band practice starts in 10 minutes in the Cafitorium."

The rest of the seasons for the aforementioned teams can't be THAT bad, can they?  It won't snow AS much this year, will it?  This waistband WILL stretch if needed, right, LuAnn?

But the Earth is all we know

A casual glance makes me seem ambivalent, doesn't it?  Shit, maybe I am, but I'm making deals somehow.  Just you see.  That might be a college football bet coming in.  It might be lunch plans with the diplomats from Paraguay.  Or, an evening at a swanky nightclub in Santa Monica, which is when I was snapped into an alternate-reality (beyond a congregation of robots) by Smiley.

Dealville surrounds me, but does not envelop anyone.  You could tell me you're visiting but lost yourself in a Ross Dress-For-Less off the freeway...and then I'd tell you to get the fuck out as fast as possible.  So in said nightclub (outdoors on the deck), when first glance is all anyone gives anyone else, I would advise to find a pocket where people have broken away and are making it happen.  Blending in?  Worry not, tell them you program "hold" music.  You run a puppy spa.  You are an accountant for bakeries.  They don't give a fuck. 

So, I had my entry key to this window of gold.  Should I behave myself differently because it's a wedding after-party and I've never met the bride and groom?  Of course not!  Dance, bullshit, keep an eye on the waitress.  Looks like the tab is still going - how polite of these aggressively drunk revelers to include me! 

Moments later, the bride was laying on the lap of Smiley and myself.  I had to be involved somehow, right?  If I didn't hold on to her waist, she would roll on to the floor.  So that was her desired position - I would never be able to live with myself to see the photographer take snapshots of her on the floor, no matter the cheerful attitude.  There is a photo, somewhere on the east coast, of us as a motley crew.  7 and 7 in hand.  Everyone's happy.

"We're visiting from Florida...I love the feel of this town."  Hell, you're on your 12th drink - if you still feel that way, I'd consider that a ringing endorsement. 

"Really?!  I grew up in Coon Rapids.  Did you know they wanted to change the name to Rapid City, but they couldn't afford the stationary, so they didn't do it."  If that isn't true, it should be.

"I'm in Silver Lake."  Wow, very hip.  "Yeah...it's..."  Maybe another line of questioning, miss?

This went on and on until we made the 2nd (3rd?) goodbye.  The glow that you get after a night of sudden fun: is it that you found gold, or is it because gold found you?  I slept 10 hours and then woke up and actually said "Oh man...what time is it?  Oh - football is on."

(Hide comments)

A television personality echoed my own brain last week when he mentioned that reading comments online of ANY kind of story was a waste of time.  It's as if you took the can of tuna that's your town and ripped it open to find the most confusing mess of your own fellow citizens.  No room in this cab for rational thought.  Those of us in Pacific Gold attend summits in Las Vegas and sit in the sportsbook surrounded by "Talk About Its," but these are generally people who confine their opinions to sports.  That doesn't make what they do logical or right, of course, but shove those dolts into the "fandom" file and close it.

Lest you forget it wasn't always like this.  If you truly had any response to an article, good or bad, you had to write a letter to the editor.  90% were quickly glanced for lobotomy drips...and then tossed.  As you look back, this means that millions of articles in multiple publications never experienced a writer's hard work dumped upon by the lonely and absurd.  So, let's go back in time and give a completely random collection of news articles their due!  (Comments reflect that specific day's response, not current views)

Headline: H.R. Haldeman Dies (11/12/93)
The Story: 4th White House Chief of Staff dies.  Key member of Watergate scandal, post-prison saw him as a successful businessman

Comments
Sandy Huddelston: A low point in our country's history.  How come Bush's group never got such a deal?

Luis Barry: OMG you're kidding, right?  Haldermann totally admitted everything - you can't say he wasn't a patriot.  Right or wrong, at least he copped up to it.

SK8ter_dude: Guy was in jail, bro


Headline: The Atlanta Braves' success is nationwide thanks to WTBS (8/9/82)
The story: Ted Turner's "Superstation" is spreading the Braves' fan-base across the country, creating interest (and ratings) along the way with a winning season.

Comments
Paul LoSchiavo: GO BRAVES!!!!!!!1

DZ41982: This is totally unfair.  I want to watch my Oakland A's play, and there's more Braves games on.  I bought a satellite dish for a lot of reasons, but I can't find my favorite team?  I'm pointing toward Satcom 3 - does anyone know if that's right?

DanielD: Whatever, man, Braves are gonna blow it again.  Did you even read the article or are you another hillbilly moron?


Headline: Exxon Valdez tanker hits reef, spills oil (3/24/89)
The story: A half-million barrels of crude is now all throughout Prince William Sound.

Comments
Natasha Dailey: Guys, this is devistaating.  What is the Red Cross going to do about it???

LI1990: Greenpeace!  We have to stop drilling for oil!  Our planet needs to survive and we're killing ourselves and animals to do it.

PeterD: Like anyone can prove it!

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I think we can agree the "gold" days were nice without em, huh?

Note: What to do if people leave comments to THIS?