Train in vain

It's rare for me to find public transportation, let alone use it, but that all changed during his trip to Boston. Witness this exchange:

A wino picks up a half used bottle of juice on the floor.

"Aw man, you gonna drink that?"
Uuuugh, I'm thirsty.
"My god, you're disgusting. That thing got all germs."
But the person drinkin' it didn't.
"You don't know what's in there."
Uuugh, but they wouldn't do something bad to their drink.
"That's so gross. Oh my god."

This conversation went on, but I unfortunately had to change trains. To think, for 4 years, I usually had a portable music player with me at all times. The conversations I missed! The society, the people, the color of Boston.

It's a shame really. Too many conversations simply didn't last that long as I was on the go. Oh sure, there were gems here and there, and I never had to start a conversation:

Spoken to at Wendy's
Creepy guy: "I usually like to sit at the counter and look out at the girls on the street. But they took away the stools."

Spoken to on the plane
Old Lady: "Oh, you work in TV? Let me ask you, what's the name of the guy...the one, oh...who does the news in the morning on CNN?"

Spoken to in a convenience store
Wino: $1.50. You gimme...I get a dollar and...haha, shit.

In a cafe
Waitress: The tea is really good...a blend of green tea, some Chamomile, and we add some spices to make it really cozy!

On the plane home
Stewardess: For you sir, the pasta? It's a pasta...with CHEESE. A CHEESE pasta. Another drink, sir, or do you want to wait for the CHEESE pasta.

On it goes. And tonight, I meet a visiting sister, who's fear of the English language should yield more fun.

Here we go, again

What's happening in Hollywood isn't that much different than downtown Las Vegas. Swank leaving for the stupid. What do I mean? Well, look at the intersection developments that have showed up this decade. Hollywood & Highland is useless except for the Oscars. Sunset & Vine is nothing but the same old storefronts, but with tougher parking. And now, Hollywood & Vine:

From the LA Times
"Los Angeles officials cleared the way for a luxury hotel developer to seize buildings housing about 30 small businesses through eminent domain so a $400-million project with a W Hotel, condominium and apartment units, and glitzy shops and restaurants can be built on the southeast corner."

I am not sure I understand a new luxury hotel where, beyond the Pantages theater, there's not that much to do. What are these fucking ritzy people doing in Hollywood, anyway? This article accents the local business that gets the shaft, but it really is true. I lived in Hollywood for 4 years, and I saw new developments serve absolutely NO ONE. No drug stores, grocery, hardware, you know, things we NEED within walking distance. Could a new property, oh, I don't know, SERVE THE COMMUNITY?! Of course not. Just keep spending the public's money for the private gain. Meanwhile, the American Eagle becomes a Gap which becomes a Tommy Hillfiger, and they stand confused wondering why the fucking 99 Cent store gets more business. HMMM - LOOK AROUND.

If your name was Johnny Swank (which it is) and you were all about deals (which you are) would you stay on Hollywood Blvd. so you could dine at Burger King? Or would you stay at the Chateau Marmont on the Strip? Hunter and Belushi walk those halls. So does Morrison.

I bet there's folks in MN who say the same thing about stadiums. Why spend my hard earned money when I can't fit in the seats? I could spend that much for a dinner at Ponderosa, and we could hit Dairy Queen on the way home. Difference is the Metrodome sucks. Met Stadium was the shit. I don't make the rules.

Alas, instead of trying to make the best of it, I shall dodge the dumb and continue gold mining. After all, that's what making deals is all about.

Jameson Clean, Please...

It’s this time of year that I begin to revert back to my normal schizophrenic self. It’s March. Fabulous, fabulous March. It’s in this month that I was born, Saint Patrick is celebrated all over the world, winter unwraps her chilly hands from around our necks, and spring training gets underway. Things really start to look up in March. Golf courses begin opening, the birds return to what once was a blistery, cold land, and Minnesota begins to more closely resemble the wonderful weather goldmine that is California. Of course I have yet to mention the greatest part of this beloved month. March Fucking Madness. Yeah, that’s right, the NCAA Tourney. There’s nothing on this planet that makes me happier than those two short weeks in March. They start with my birthday and end with the crowning of a national champion. Fuck the Superbowl. Fuck the NHL. Fuck the NBA – for now at least. This is the time when my attention to sports is at its peak. I’m tuned into and reading every little thing there is to read about each and every team as they get ready for their conference tournaments to begin. Selection Sunday can’t come soon enough. I’m checking and rechecking records and stats and RPI and everything there is to check to see who’s going to make it and who’s going to get left out. “Hey, are the Griz gonna repeat as Big Sky champs, or is Idaho gonna make a tourney run and wipe out their chances!?” Who fucking knows! That’s the beauty of it. At this point, yeah, there’s not really any reason for me to be trying to get my brackets together because they won’t be in place until March 12, but I don’t care, I NEED THIS SHIT! I’ve been down for a month because, in case you didn’t know, Minnesota sucks balls in February. But now the sun hangs in the sky a little longer – anybody see Nate Robinson in the dunk contest? Yeah, like that, except he played at the University of Washington and that’s the only reason I care what he does. Sure, we’ve got a few cold days here and there, but overall the jackets can be shed, and the shorts can be taken out of storage – yes Goldminers, some Minnesotans wear shorts when it’s 35 degrees out.

But really, who gives a fuck about the weather, Selection Sunday is two weeks away!!!

All I’m concerned with is what time what games are on so I can watch dreams get made and shattered, all while sitting at Runyon’s pouring Newcastle and Jameson down my neck hole. Nothing else matters. The conference tournaments are a warm up to the real shit, like getting some crack while you wait for payday so you can go out and get some China White. Hey, I fucking need something to get me through. It’s a great opportunity to see who’s playing well, who maybe has some magic, or which team’s head is too big, lending to a possible early upset that could win you the bucket of money at the end of the March rainbow. What? You don’t know what I’m talking about?

Okay, I’ll put it in terms you may understand. So you’re talking to Sol, a new drug dealer in town. What you really want is to get some top shelf Sneeze, but you’re not sure if Sol is the real deal, so you get a bag a Stankers to do some quality control before diving head first into $2000 a week contract. Got it? Good, lets move on.

That’s the funny thing about life. Totally meaningless shit to you, makes my whole life improve in a blink of an eye. Does that mean you’re better than I am? No, it just means you don’t know shit about shit and you’re idea of life success is my idea of complete and utter failure. But that’s fine, that’s why I don’t have your life.

March has always been an important month for me. At first, it was my birthday. I get presents and really, who doesn’t love getting presents? Fuckin’ A, I know I do. But as I got a little older, St Pat was my main excitement of the month. Back then, very little made me happier than get so drunk I couldn’t stand up for a week afterwards – and no, I’m not talking about gay sex with a leprechaun. I’m talking about ingesting so much green beer that your liver goes to Las Vegas for a week, just to get some time off. And that’s still one of my favorite past times, although I’m not in as good of shape as I was then, so really, the liver just turns hard and stops taking advice from Dr. Jameson and I’m left with the bill. Oh well. But, sometime in my late teens, early twenties, that all changed – sort of. In high school I had a hard time concentrating on the games because they were on during the day and well, I was in school – or rather in the vicinity of the school. But in college I discovered the lovely art of sitting around all day not going to school. Yeah, funny how that frees up a lot of time for other things, namely smoke and drink, but also for 12 hour stints in front of a television watching Americas top collegiate athletes play ball. Yeah, and I still do it. Of course I work the other stuff in too, mostly drinking more because I have three reasons to do it – or rather, three more reasons.

I was always told that as I got older my priorities would change. That’s true, but I don’t think this is what my Dad meant when he told me that.

A matter of time...

Overheard in more than one place

Boy, it's really raining out there.
I know. I bet the traffic's bad everywhere.
Did you see the size of that puddle on Coldwater? It covered the entire car!
It's only been raining since, what, 2? 2:30?
I wonder if there's going to be mudslides.
Well, just to be safe, when I drive through the canyons, I'm going 15 miles per hour.
Good idea. You don't want to fall off the road. I'm going extra slow today, too. You never know.
The rain here sure makes people do strange things.
Like the Santa Ana winds.
Dude, we saw a girl who wasn't wearing a jacket - she was all wet and looked hot.
Was her car wasted?
Naw, she was just walking.
Man, wish I saw that.
I wonder if this place is gonna get flooded.
But it's only been raining since this afternoon.
I know, dude...man, I just wanna go home.
I heard they'll let us out early because people drive so bad in the rain.
Sweet! I know, man, people drive fuckin crazy out here.
All right, I'm out.
See ya, good look driving.
Thanks, watch out. I'm gonna blast past the traffic.
Ha ha.

You And I, We Fit Together Like A Glove On Hand, That's Right

We all know how much I love public transportation, as it seems to weave in and out of my existence. My daily life is run by the number 4 bus. It controls when I go to work and when I get home. It decides whether I’m late or early or, God forbid, on time. It makes my decisions for me. When I drive, does it miss me? No, not at all. It has hundreds of others just like me to fill it’s seats and smudge it’s windows - wow, I guess Rick James was leaning on this window, or maybe Pat Riley. But that’s okay, I don’t touch the windows. I know better. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love my car. I treat it like shit and it still loves me, most of the time anyways. The bus though. It’s the bus that I can always rely on. The bus is where I go when I need to reassure myself that I indeed am not a total failure. It’s the bus that starts and ends my Monday through Friday.

Sometimes I read and sometimes I listen to some music - "When I make my move to her room it's the right time." Other times, I try to keep my attention on the lunatic sitting across from me, or the drunk guys behind me. Any way I do it, I’m always entertained. It’s like watching good reality TV, yes I know, oxy moron. The bus always provides. Sure, some of the seats are broken and you’re forced to steady yourself for fear of falling into the lap of the buyer for Target sitting next to you – by the way, she’s really fuckin’ hot. And when you’re not lucky enough to sit next to her, you’re stuck next to the mildly retarded guy who’s shaped like a grapefruit, wearing a backpack, and mumbling to you about who know what. But it’s all good. For every time you have to sit next to that guy, you get to either sit alone, spread out over two of those generously sized bench seats, or next to her. You just have to remind yourself that it’ll all work out. Man, yeah, she’s really hot.

No matter how much I love the bus, the bus doesn’t always love me back. Sometimes, when I’m happily rolling along, it decides it’s no longer interested in taking me all the way. It stops for a minute, beeps angrily at me, then dies. There I am, stuck on the side of the road with no hope of getting back on my bus. It’s sad, frustrating, and very stressful. Now, being a number of blocks from my house, I’m left to walk the rest of the way, deserted by my bus. I say my bus because I really to mean my bus. Is funny how busses work. They can sometimes take on the persona of a neighborhood.

“Yo man, what set you claimin!?”

“Ganton Motherfucker!”

It’s the same way with busses, albeit, to a lesser degree. There’s even website chat rooms dedicated to certain bus routes. At first I thought it was quite strange. That was until I had spent more than two years riding the same bus. Sure, my stop changed, but not the bus, not my trusty number 4. Yeah, people come and go, but not the bus and not me. Fuck the 6 yo, they’re a bunch a bitches! When you meet someone away from the bus who rides your bus, there’s an immediate connection. If they ride the same bus, they probably live in a neighborhood near you, but maybe not. Maybe the live in Edina, or Bloomington, but they ride your bus. It’s instant respect, even if they aren’t from your neighborhood.

Ah, the bus. We’re linked together, regardless of what neighborhood I live in. We ride down the street, hand in hand, enjoying each others companionship. We get into fights, just like in every other relationship, but we always make up and right the ship – or bus if you will.

Ride or die you ask?

I’ll ride, thank you.

The Rhythm of Southern California

They are everywhere, but not here. As I amble down hallways, Schlitz mug in hand, it doesn't even register. There's windows, and we work, we communicate, and that is life. However, working in visual media, the coast-to-coast TV in my office shows me people in the same field but in a completely different attitude.

A certain "day after day" vibe exists, but there's two ways of looking at it. Some, they have to make a train. They get off the elevator and are stuck there for a few hours. The visuals are bleak. They find solace in the bathroom and a small mirror - the drive is for time to pass. There's no feeling for the moment, it's to get PAST the moment. You hustle to get to your neighborhood that has "the best Hunan in the east side." And that's just the lucky ones. Lest we forget those who are stuck in Coney, sipping on Malt Duck, angry. The screwdriver is sharpened not as a weapon, but getting at least $23 worth of quarters from that piece of shit Laundromat.

The others, those that surround me and including myself, move in a similar speed. Instead of "making" transportation, there one tries to "beat" it. Where they have only a goal, the others have three ways. "No" cars around you is the kind of thing that a person tells others about. They smile, pleased of good fortune. And you smile, too, knowing it doesn't happen often. But the surroundings are markedly different. Here, they buy a bottle of Tropical Blend in February because you want a jump on that "savage" tan...you remember last February, and you want to take advantage. They drive to Brentwood for the same neighborhood lunch, but you're not going for the food so much as a possible O.J. sighting. You can look around, traveling back, and realize how little surrounds you to create anxiety or envy. How can such a large area, so complex and so popular, offer so may opportunities to avoid the dunces? Move from those dippin sauce lovers who spend a half an hour telling you about nothing. This is where the small mirror is abound so that you can get the MOST out of every moment.

That's the two ways to live. There's two ways for life: The Right Way and All The Way. You don't have to be here to know it. Make it happen. Me? Every day isn't a winner. But it could always be worse. All it takes is making deals, and it isn't a worry. So that's the update from Dealville. We march on like madness.

That Smell

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

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

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

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

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

This is the year we get that one for the thumb

Here we go.

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

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

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

They used to build fucking trains here, god dammit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here we go.

Happy Fucking New Year….25 Days Late

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

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

“Hey, you got a light?”

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

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

As For The Picture…

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

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

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

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

I thank the kind doctor and go home to bed.

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

And So We Go…

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

Hey Doc, pass me the painkillers.

Quit selling me a car

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

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

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

"So, we still on for Wednesday?"

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

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

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

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

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

The Guts

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

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

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

And somewhere, Moses will die.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By the grace of god, there go I

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

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

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

I have work to do.

Back On The Bus

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

“Hey, what do you do for a living?”

“I’m in construction.”

“Shit yeah? Me too man.”

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

“Hey man, where you comin’ from?”

“I just came from the strip club”

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

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

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

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

Yeah, no shit man. No shit.

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

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

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

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

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

Oops, wrong question.

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

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

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

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

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

Then the lady gets involved.

Oh, this is gonna get gooood!

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

“I’d do all types of shit.”

“Like what?”

Yeah yeah! egg him on!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you public transportation!

Home To The Cretins

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Put everything you have on odd.

Midnight In A Perfect World

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

Karma is a tricky bitch

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

Pat Bush? George Riley? Stan Van Clinton?

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

Pass the Mad Dog, it’s onto round two

Stanley Williams And The Flying Idiot Parade

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

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

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

Here’s the thing. NO ONE DOES!

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

“Hey Hunnicut! Pass the syringe!”

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

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

No, and fuck you.

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

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

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

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

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

Peace be with you, I need a drink.

A Foreign Film without rain

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

"LA is the old New York!"

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

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

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

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

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

Johnny San Gria To The Rescue

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

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

Lights drop, on with the show

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

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

“What the fuck? Can’t be!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How do you my name!?”

“Jimmy dude, it’s me, Chief.”

“Jesus Christ, when did you get here?”

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

“What up Jim Timmons?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mongrel Meets His Maker

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

"Next Stop, MCTC"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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