Time Passages

It helps the daily jungle gym of life to be realistic about the status quo, I find.  I can dream always and forever, I can plan, aware of the stakes.  I can walk down the street listening to the theme from Black Caesar and envision myself in another time and surrounding.  (Tip: Keep this in mind when you meet someone where delusion reigns supreme, and you’ll find out just how well adjusted you live.)

So I suppose I am an adult, yes?  My responsibilities are now categorized as such and typical for someone my age.  I feel youthful, but that’s about all it is: a feeling.   I can be on a roll of comedic material with new, younger employees, and then make a fatal fuck-up: a reference before their time.  History, Pop Culture History, an old athlete…makes no difference:

“What?  Oh…was that in the 80’s?”

Yes it was…but come on, I know about shit from before I was…aw, forget it.  The joke isn't on them – it’s on me.  So, I guess I’m old.

Then I have lunch with a retired dealmaker who is telling of current life.  “She wanted me to make dinner!”  Is this an unacceptable request?  “Yes!  That’s how it works.  I mean, I go the butcher, you know, but she does the shopping, the cooking.  Sometimes I’ll clean the wine glasses, because those are done by hand.”  Mighty thoughtful of you, I suppose.  Is my situation the same?  No, it’s not.  I don’t mind doing some of the work, as long as—

I was interrupted (politely) and told the game plan from another generation.

“Look, Trip, you know what I told her?  I said ‘I can find plenty of women in the county who would like to cook me dinner, OK?  And I don’t have to set the table or any of that bullshit.’ ”  You don’t have to do anything?  That’s a pretty good life.   And I think if I tried to find a lady my age or younger who’d do exactly this request, I would probably get a zonk in my chops.  So, I guess I’m young. 

The pendulum of life always swings, but it is a mighty leaden tool…and it feels like it’s just hangin’ there; a giant disco medallion, stuck in fur.  

The Dome finally goes to the Dump

(Editor's Note: Writer Trip Darvez mentioned that this story is "likely the least Gold topic there is" but felt it was worth sharing all the same.)

From the 50's to 1981, Metropolitan Stadium was the major sporting venue in the Twin Cities.  By first and all glances, it isn't much.  As the general sports scene grew up in the area, the volume of sports fans increased.  The stadium game at the time dictated little change beyond "maintenance," so things like "indoor bathrooms for half the stadium" were never implemented.  And yet, football fans continued to pack the place.  When the Metrodome was built, fans had to accept the inevitable: the fun, the home field advantage enjoyed...it's all gone.

Before the final game, it hit tailgaters like a bottle to the head: this was it.  When you move to your new stadium, Duane and Carl, you can't tailgate.  This was no reason to give up, though: they were there to make the best of the situation.

At this point, the Vikings were out of the playoffs.  Nothing to do but play out the string.  Knowing that, look at these folks...

They are having a fantastic time, already on Schmidt #2 and it's not even 11AM.  Doesn't matter.  Well, hours later, it was game time, and the mood ebbed and flowed per usual, but the celebratory toasts went all afternoon.  How else are you supposed to stay warm?

NBC Sports was there to cover the game, and they milked it for all it's worth.  It's tough selling a game the last week of the season with two teams out of it.  Montages of the park's building...all the highlights to Frank Sinatra.

Two exclamation points.  We're live!!  The game: boring.  Vikings tease a comeback but lose (there's a shock).  And yet, throughout the game, there were shots of what everyone was feeling...we're saying goodbye to a friend.  Life as a fan is changing, and change in Minnesota is difficult.  It's especially so when it's change that seems to be for the "better" but is so far from "the same" that nostalgia pours through the veins.

With the game over, despite the increased security, fans stormed the field.  In the stands, they took everything they could.  You're taking away "my" stadium?  Well, then I can pick this carcass clean.  What do you think about that, Mr. Politician?  I'm not going to buy anything.  I was here in the cold for years.  I deserve this.  This is mine.

And then, as the drunks slowly sobered up, and reality '81 was setting in, a banner flew from fans among the debris:

The definition of being a fan was changing.  You were to pay increased prices, buy merchandise, and cheer when the big scoreboard's clapping hands told you to.  I'm not sure if this was the prevailing mood of everyone at the time, but a vintage news clip held this nugget: a fan, tailgating outside before the game...

"The dome is beautiful, something we gotta have, but...(looks around) this is the best."

Progress, Metrodome style, meant:
Built to budget withOUT adjustments to inflation (which was sky high at the time)
No air conditioning because "it's built underground"
Cheap astroturf with minimal padding
1 sheet of turf for all sports.

So, now in 2013, the Blunderdome is finally getting the ax.  I mean, look at it:

The roof looks worn and...whoa - I'm sorry, that's a photo from 20 YEARS AGO.  As newer stadiums went for either bang or bang for your buck, the Metrodome was neither.  It's complete lack of amenities (and comical attempts to make up for it) glaring to each visitor made it almost embarrassing to enter.  This didn't stop the Metrodome from hosting major events, but it was rare that the major event ever returned for a 2nd go around...they saw all they needed to see.

With the stadium long-overdue for the wrecking ball, I asked former Pacific Gold writer Drew Boatman for his thoughts.  He, too, suffered through the stadium as the only game in town, and together we present you a summary of this stadium as a venue:

The stadium itself:

• That it took almost 10 years to get a video board.  Video replays attempted to be played on the black and white scoreboard, which was clearly incapable of doing so.  Canterbury Park had a better video board at its start.
• The cups for drinks at the start...a soda said "cold drink" (blue) and beer said "Beer" (yellow)  Reusse says "At least the pop says it's cold...they can keep the beer any temperature they want"
• One sheet of turf meant chalk lines...on turf...we can't have PAINT in the end zone, that would cost too much.  Chalk.  Chalk yard lines...chalk end zones.  Cheap, cheap, cheap...
• The Met concessions sold cigarettes and cigars (!) but the Met was proudly "No Smoking!"  When enough of a fight was put up, They converted an entryway into a smoking lounge and piped in the radio call..
• The "We Like It Here" banner, put up as if to deflect attention, likely written by Sid Hartman.

Football:

• When the Super Bowl was at the dome, instead of replacing the worn astroturf, they just painted it to "look new."
• Heading to the bathroom during Super Bowl XXVI (which most people only did at the end of quarters/halftime to not miss anything) and seeing hookers in the concourse.  (Editor's Note: not a slam against the stadium per se, but something they should have included going forward)
• "Security" only seemed to exist to help old people find their seats

Baseball: Minnesota got indoor baseball to combat cold and rain-outs.  Be careful what you wish for...

• The Twins (awkwardly shoehorned into a football stadium) played "Talking Domeball" during the 80's after a Twins loss, a god-awful song.
• The Hormel Row of Fame promotion during Twins games.  The winning row won a free hot dog.  As the song goes, "Great for lunch, great for dinner, you could be a wiener winner in the Hormel Row of Fame"  People were embarrassed every time.
• The Twins band-wagon fan base swelling during World Championship runs, turning it into an "advantage" - an advantage that went away when they weren't playing good...

Basketball?!  Yes, basketball was played there.  No one wanted to play at the Met Center or St. Paul Civic Center...so it was the dome.  A decision made over and over again...the wrong decision.

• An awful place to watch a game.  You had to have GREAT seats...otherwise, you're screwed.  The great seats were about 8,000 total.
• The 1st NCAA tournament games in 1986 (sitting on the 3rd base side about 20 rows up) and still not being able to see anything.
• 1996 regional finals, and my seats were further down the 3rd base line...FACING OTHER SEATS.  You had to turn completely to your right to see the court.  The fact that these seats were sold without any sort of discount tells you something about the Metropolitan Stadium Commission.
• Sitting in the upper deck for a basketball game, Drew thought " there is absolutely no worse place on planet earth to watch a basketball game."

And yet, realities gave the Metrodome a much longer shelf life than it ever deserved (if it should have been built that way in the first place).  So, with it finally gone, I searched far and wide to see if I could find the same thoughts by fans on this stadium going away.  Not memories of teams...of missing the stadium.  The same way people missed and loved the Met.  Any video or photo evidence would be included.

Well, as of this writing, 10,000 seats have been sold (not taken, sold, with accepting fans) so there is some nostalgia...but still I searched.  I wanted to find someone who said they loved the place.  Someone who enjoyed the whole environment of the dome.  After reading nearly a dozen articles (and scanning video footage), I found a quote:

"People called it a dump,” Lonke said as he looked around the stadium. “But it was our dump. And we loved it.”

Even someone who loved it called it a dump. Or maybe it was this quote that sums it up:

"I am going to miss the Metrodome,” Tom Tolve of Brooklyn Park. “I usually come at least once a year for a monster truck rally.”

Just Deserves

It's one of the oldest tricks in the entertainment industry: a well-liked performer needs to pay the bills.  So many are "working actors" and you find them in something that might be, to someone's personal eye, beneath their talent.  During the predictable trashing of a review, a critic will add "and poor ________, she/he deserves better!"  Because, of course, the person didn't audition or approve doing the role, and went through the whole production.  How does a person in either a large studio movie or airing TV series "deserve better?"

I don't know.  I also don't know why this phrase can only apply to actors and actresses.  Why can't it apply to people in my world...my place in society (such as it is)?  Hell, why can't it apply to me?

The possibilities are endless:
Look at Trip in his beat up, old Saturn.  Sure, it still runs just fine, but why drive such an old car?  He can't use outdated safety methods these days!  He deserves better!  Get him a Mercedes!

Looks like Trip is sweating through another hot Summer day.  Why hasn't he found the right house yet?  Get him somewhere that has central air instead of window units.  He deserves better: temperature control at the touch of a button.  End his private hell!

Yes, that is a stylish 70's beer stein Trip is drinking from, but it IS a bit unwieldy.  It's a chore to properly clean as well.  He deserves better!  When will today's fine ceramic beer mug makers create something for such a man?

Writing those phrases, let alone reading them aloud, looks stupid.  Just as stupid as demanding "better" for folks who make more in one episode than I'll make in months.

A Bitter Pill for Halloween '82

(Editor's Note: With Halloween around the corner, Trip Darvez releases another old column from the defunct L.A. Reader.  This story is from October 28th, 1982)

Here at the Thrifty Drug on Magnolia Blvd., the kids are going through the usual paces: looking at the costume accessories, ogling the candy, staring through the glass case at the ice cream.  In that respect, nothing is new.  But ask their parents, or go a few aisles over, and you'll get a different story.

A handwritten sign is on shelves on both sides of Aisle 9:  "PLEASE ALERT US IF YOU SEE ANY TAMPERED MERCHANDISE."  And while people are telling store manager Mike Cristofano "They'd rather just have a headache than die." he thought he'd only have to deal with Asile 9.  But as Halloween approaches, the parents are out in full force.  Not just with Tylenol, Bufferin, Anacin, and the like...but with Brach's?

A mother, Julia, says "See...these don't have anything on the label."  So what?  "Anyone could put something in the candy.  Pins, poison, whatever."  Couldn't 'they' do that to anyone?  "Yes.  That's why we're having a party instead."  That idea was brought up to the kids who couldn't have disagreed further.  "No!  We're going out trick or treating." said one whose name I can't print, lest he get caught.  "I am.  We already have our route.  I'm going as Pac-Man.  He's (a friend next to him, also nameless) going as an LA Ram.  Hey, what did my Mom say?"  I wasn't going to get into the middle of this, but each side made their point.

Most people giving out candy (if you're lucky to have a house...for now) didn't seem to care if kids ate it or not, but it turns out I was shopping at the wrong time.  At the Lucky market a mile or two down the road, a housewife was stocking up.  "I can't, in good conscious, hand out those fun-size treats."  She, too, was afraid...almost of herself.  "I don't want to accidentally poison someone."  Her response was to make and hand out snacks that kids would eat off paper plates in front of the house.  "I found an apricot cheesecake recipe in Family Circle.  Let's see, I need unflavored gelatin."  Aren't parents stressing that kids not take unwrapped candy this year?  "Well, I would never...are you saying that kids won't..I don't know why..."  She pushed her cart away.

It appears that Sunday night will tell us how much the hysteria hits the actual kids - about 2/3rds told me they eat the candy while trick or treating, thus less to carry down the road.  Their one complaint of all the adults making changes this year: raisins as a substitute.  "My mom won't let me take apples because of razor blades in them, you know?  But raisins suck."  I hope they don't go to Ramona's house: she was stocking up on raisins when I met her.  "Kids have enough candy as it is.  It's safer to give them raisins now.  Who's going to poison raisins?"  Why stop there?  Why not just pour from a big bag of rice?  How about samples of linoleum...or maybe a pack of smokes?

One other aspect worth reporting was the merry pranksters of the high school set, but the lone response I received seem to sum up the whole experience.  "Halloween...it's on a Sunday, so...man, this year I'm just gonna get drunk."

Fanatics at the Gate

When it comes to the Dodgers / Giants rivalry, its apparent there are two sides now.  You have the in-game baseball aspect, and everything else.  The everything else is the problem, and the "rivalry" is becoming less and less about baseball.

Your writer spent years in Boston (pre-World Series victories) and saw a team with a desperate inferiority complex.  Beyond that, there was a unifying hatred of the Yankees...really, the fact that the Yankees were a close (geographical) team that tended to not only win often, but defeat the Red Sox.  There would be anti-Yankees apparel, and folks wearing Yankees clothing (purely to act as a shit-stirrer in public) would be booed and threatened.   If you think it is & was limited to sports fans around the stadium or bars, you're wrong.  I had an older, female teacher in a college class tell me (solemnly) that anyone wearing a Yankees cap would receive a lower grade.  This was said along side the class curriculum and assignment workload.  I was surprised, but would soon grow accustomed to the scorn.

The difference between that rivalry and the Dodgers and Giants is different, and the recent murder makes any sort of "progress" made all for naught.  With the Brian Stow beating in the Dodger Stadium parking lot, the focus was on the out of control nature of the post-game LA fan.  It was LA's problem (regardless of how a Dodger fan would be treated outside Telephone Park) and often used as symbolism of Frank McCourt's inability to be nothing but a moron.

But now, 2 years later, a Dodger fan (son of a stadium employee) is killed just outside the stadium.  People wearing one team's apparel, someone wearing the other's confronts them...and then this.  "This" (thankfully) doesn't happen often...but it's the same 2 teams, and here we go.  "Words exchanged" - doesn't help whoever started the talk, but it's all the shit afterward.   Or that there's any "shit afterward."

Folks, the Dodger and Giant teams are thankful for their fans, but that's where it ends.  You can pay to see them in person, pay to eat their food, pay to wear their clothing.  All they do in return is take your money.  When I ended years of frustrated Cub fandom, I received no letter or phone call of apology from the team.  They didn't notice.  The Dodgers didn't notice I became a fan.  So it goes.

And this is just a rivalry between two teams - there are entire groups of a team's fans who uniformly "don't respect" other team's fans because...they're "rivals."  Who are?  The fans?  Does that make you the "Best Fans in the League?"  Because you care more?  Shit, on the streets of Beverly Hills this morning, I saw a woman wearing a New York Yankees cap.  The odds would be good that, if pressed to name a starting pitcher for the team, she could not...or would say "Mariano Rivera?"  But even if she did that, or did name one, or the entire rotation...who cares?!

You're a fan of a team?  OK.  You're a fan of a team that is a rival of my favorite team?  My mind will reflex and claim to "not understand why you would" but there it ends.  And that's all it should be, because you don't play, own, or even work for the team.  As an excuse for anything beyond a "look" is apparently the state we in this state are in now...and there's no joy in Dealville.

No Amount of Preparation

I can read weather reports and try to remember the feeling...one that left my brain almost immediately.  I can listen to old radio ads from the 1970's to "get ready" but it won't really help.  I can try to remember where I'm going, but all I own are memories...fleeting at that.  I likely remember the vibe of the Summer of '84, driving down France Ave, than I do "good restaurants."  How the sam hell would I know?  I don't, and even if I try to prep it won't make a difference at all.

I looked at the weather, and I swear to you this was the headline: "Record Heat Engulfs Midwest."  That's wonderful!  How about you just add some humidity for zest?  Bugs, too...be sure to include a lot of flies and skeeters.  We want to take outdoor enjoyment out of this visit.  Folks, last Saturday I sat poolside, on a temperate Valley night, drinking a margarita, talking deals.  This group concurred that any thoughts of leaving Goldville are shot down on nights like this.  I'll remember that, having been told to "come outside, Trip" for the 50th time, swatting mosquitoes and pulling my shirt from my now-damp skin as I have to respond to "when I'm coming to visit again."  Because, you know, I'm not right there in the moment.

Oh, activities could be planned, though mostly outside...but add weather to the new travelling companion and it is even tougher.  I'm attempting to harness a young mind - how dare I expose her to such depravity?  I'd love to loiter at a mall, but there's Smiley giving me a look and a fake-question, such as "You want to take her for a minute?"  So, leisure, plenty of space...that's our preferred mode.

This makes the planned carnival even more intense.  In the past, large amounts of unknowns wouldn't be an issue at all (except when you get cornered), but not anymore.  My priorities lie in ol Puddin' Pop.  Here are more randos wanting to look at you, poking and prodding.  I bet you'll love that.  Oh, you don't?  I'm not surprised.  "Trip, why is she upset?  My friends from a Super 60's booze cruise want to meet her.  Just bring her out...remember, they sent you the bibs?"

Long before the details were given to us, we agreed that we had to hit the Fair.  Smiley needed to see the state condensed into one area.  No words or descriptions will do it justice, and when you add the weather I mentioned above, I am anticipating...nay, demanding some MN oddities.  Thankfully, we know the Fair will deliver.

And then...that's it.  Finding and searching for time with those we haven't seen in years, those who we really want to see and enjoy?  Sadly, the time might be limited to an hour.  Some will understand, and some who don't will still be sympathetic.  It's all we can ask.  I can take someone, show them the battleground, and do as I wished someone would have to me 20 years ago: send em back to Goldland.

Not trying to sound harsh or above it, but if you knew the difference, you'd agree.

The Perils of Programming: KCBS, July 20-21, 2013

Just how easy is it these days to program the weekends on a local station?  Well, you can forget about having to schedule aggressively, or even concern yourself with anyone else.  If anything, you'd be fighting a collective 6 share.  Doesn't seem worth it, does it?  And, as long as the FCC continues to let you do whatever the hell you want, well, you could just sit back and make money.  How?  I'm glad you asked.

I'm sure you've seen stations do this, but I hadn't seen such a give-up attitude from a network affiliate (let alone an owned network affiliate) than what KCBS put up this past weekend.  CBS Sports offered no programming over the weekend, so KCBS just opened the grid and made it a paid programming festival.

Saturday, 10-11AM, 11:30AM-4:30PM
Yes, folks, that's 6  hours of "I give up, just pay me" scheduling.  (The bump in the road was a completely random rerun of NewsRadio at 11AM, ranking 3rd in the time period)  How did it work out?  Well, as long as someone is watching it means people will want to be on the station, particularly on a good time of day.  Never mind that 3 of the 6 hours literally no one watched.  Cash on the barrel.

KABC's kids coverage, a show called "Recipe Rehab" and tape-delayed coverage of the British Open registered up to a 2.4 rating.  Outside of some tune-in of another Yankees-Red Sox game on KTTV, it was channel 7 or nothing for those not wanting to be outside on a summer afternoon.

This must have been KCBS's thought.  There's no need to go dark - let's do it again!

Sunday, 9:30-11:30AM, 1:00-5:00PM
Out of Face the Nation, the run of paid programming continued.  Lucky for them, Face the Nation's median viewer age hovers near 80, so the audience held a small percentage as they attempted to find the remote.  However, with sister station KCAL airing the Dodgers/Nationals game, KCBS' interruption from dicers and hair growth systems was the solid gold movie "Back to School."

"Do you look at a menu and say 'O.K.'?"

It was enough to outperform the paid runs on independent stations KTLA and KDOC.  Reality did begin to set in at 1PM, so as with the day before, half of this run saw no one watching.  Beyond the Dodgers, the LA viewer was left to wander.  "Doc told me to stay outta the sun, so I'm just flippin around."

The "give-up attitude" I mentioned above isn't so much an indictment to KCBS' blase-faire attitude as it is a clear view that, for them, the bottom line is the bottom line.  Regulations get weaker and weaker, and on the weekend turning a profit  is really the only goal.  Of course, if you asked anyone at the station, they'd speak of their attempts to have a "TV-everywhere" app to play on all platforms...which is well and good until they realize no one will be watching "everywhere" either if there's nothing to see.

...2-3-4

We're an American band, woooo hooo!
We're an American band, woooo hooo!
Yeah!

All right!  Thanks.  Can you guys hear us down there?  Dyn-o-mite!  Haha.  OK, let me take a gulp of the Coors...thanks, Duane.  What's next?

We could do "I'm not in love"

We should do that later, I think.  Like, near sunset.

Yeah, man, but that's, what, 4 hours from now?

Aren't we going to have the Bar-B-Q then?

Yeah, but are we gonna play afterward?

How about BTO?  "Ain't Seen Nothing Yet?"

Let's do "Hey You."

All right.     

(3 minutes later)

Hey You, sha la laaaaa la
Hey You, sha la laaaaa la
Yeah!

All right!  Now we're rockin'!  We are gonna party!  Hey, Janice, could you bring Russell a beer?  Whatever...Olympia, Schlitz...

How about some Stones?

Yeah...do you know the the parts for "Bitch?"

Um...is it...wait, I could do "Brown Sugar."

Cool, man.  I know that one.  You ready?

Gimme a second.  How does it start?

I'll do the part on guitar and then give you all the nod.  You know, "naa naa na naa na nanna NA NA."

Right on.

OK...uh, 2-3-4...    
   

Dogs & Butterflies

I have a greeting card that I mean to send to someone but always forget...it's one of those where an old 1950's picture has an out-of-context caption.  A pie is being pulled out of the oven, the baker clearly showing off her goods to someone else, and it says "Funny, I don't remember asking your opinion."

If you ever get through this stage of life (and maybe you have) there are folks who have been down that road before, and they dispense advice.  Some of it is noteworthy, but more often than not it's re-assuring.  That's really what anyone needs.  But then there are others, desperate for a new life, who would love to take over yours.  They'd like you to know what they would do if they were you.  Because you'd immediately do it, right?  You'd take unsolicited "advice" and just run with it?

We shun man-made tripe around these parts...either with un-returned messages or polite smiles and then we leave the area.  It's because in a world that we let become complex, I continue to crave simplicity.

All we were doing was sitting in a park.  There were cares, of course, but we knew it was a window with no cares...and we just laid out there.  Under a tree.  And we looked up...and that was it.

"Look at all this stuff up there.  What do you think of all this?  That's a pretty big tree.  You know, sometime soon, you and me will plant a tree.  And you'll get bigger.  And you'll start to think that the tree will never get as big as you.  Then one day you'll come home and see the tree is much bigger than you.  Someone did that when I was young, and you can do it.  Isn't it nice they did that?  We get to sit under this big tree."

This description was met with odd vocal sounds, hopping legs, and giggles.  I can only hope she understood what she can considering the circumstances.  We saw the doggies...we saw butterflies...sitting in the shade.  I couldn't ask for much more without it becoming complicated and expensive.  Too busy living it up to wonder what people think we "should be doing" today. 

And hell, I got a t-shirt from Smiley that said I'm more fun when I'm drunk. 

When you're in Dealville, it's all about finding gold as you know.  But it's what you do with it that makes the difference. 

And the hits just keep on comin'

I was there in Hollywood on Tuesday to see the sun break through clouds and shine down on Shotgun Tom Kelly as he received a star on the Walk of Fame.  In a long radio career, it was another validation of his success.  And yet I couldn't help but think that this would be the last star on the walk of fame for any radio talent.

There were days were a personality would entertain you between songs, and the talent and style ran the gamut.  If they were good enough, you stayed listening to the station even if the song playing was not your favorite.  But that style and theory left the business long ago.  When the Telecommunications Act of 1996 went into effect, and the corporations began buying stations at a furious pace, they realized staff would have to be reduced to turn a profit.  The most expensive staff at a station is the air talent...one of the two main reasons a person would listen to a station.

Of course, listeners would tune in for the music as well, but without the personality you're left with just a song.  Said corporations would run study after study to find what songs were recognizable to play it safe.  All the while, on-air talent had two choices: try to go elsewhere and suffer the same fate, or watch the actual talk time reduced to 30 seconds before an 8-10 minute ad break.  "Stay tuned!  I've got Van Morrison and Chicago coming up next!"

Time marches on, and now it's 2013.  You have a generation who's had no need to listen to the radio to hear the songs they like...the airwaves cluttered with stations playing the same songs they did a decade ago just to keep those who remember radio (hint: 30+) around.  It's the bed congress and the corporations made for themselves, a mattress of diminishing returns.

But what of the talent?  The jocks?  Some went into other forms of entertainment.  Some went into production.  Some, voice-overs.  (The "celebrity voice" trend of ads makes it harder to find work)  But many were there to salute Shotgun, exchange pleasantries, but really talk of the old days.  Yes, I was successful, it really worked out.  Thanks a lot.  Now...well, I've got a few things I'm working on but...

It was Shotgun's day, though, and it was celebrated in his style.  We dined on hot dogs and toasted a man who just wanted to play the hits.  He's been doing it for decades...and instead of grandiose dreams of others (some realized, some not) he has an afternoon drive shift, a top floor apartment, frequent trips to Hawaii and a lifetime of memories.  THAT is success in broadcasting by anyone's measure...and it's Solid Gold.

Aged give or take half a century

One of the complete surprises from the Thanksgiving Las Vegas swing was a liquor treasure chest.  Folks from the North Country were on their way, and pounding the bottle is a common way to mask the pain.  Preparing for the visitors meant taking stock of Big Ed's inventory...and even he had to admit he knew little of what he owned.

To everyone's surprise, the doors opened to show dozens of bottles of varying age.  With wonder matching that of a junior high school-er opening dad's liquor cabinet for the first time, we examined the booty.  Some bottles had sealed shut.  Some had cracked, with mysterious shrapnel inside.  We didn't lose hope, though, because each bottle became a comedic defense by Big Ed not knowing or remembering why he'd own such elixirs.  Then, out of nowhere, this gem presented itself:  

That's an unopened bottle of Chivas Regal, with a TAX STAMP.  I'm old enough to remember when liquor bottles of all sizes had these red stickers.  Then we view the tax stamp:

1966

Everyone was stunned, and even I had to ask: at some point, Big Ed (or someone) purchased this bottle.  This bottle sat in his cabinet as he moved multiple times.  It made the trip over a decade ago to Las Vegas.  Packed and brought along because...he might need it for parties.  It remained, and when I was asked if I wanted to take it home with me, the answer was swift.


Consuming it was another matter.  It is a spirit...but does it go bad?  (No, it doesn't)  Does the extra age increase its value?  (Apparently not: this isn't wine)  Is it worth anything?  (No takers)  Well, I guess I'll just have to drink it.

Is it a special occasion thought bouncing around my brain, or casual nervousness?  Whatever the case, I waited a handful of months until I decided to go for it.

Opening this sucker was not the easiest task...but with some prodding, it accepted its fate.  A sniff test produced the expected: yeah, it's Chivas.  Smells right.  Color is fine.  Nothing has settled.  Into the glass...let the cubes cool it down.  The taste?

It tasted...a bit thin.  I wondered if, over time, it weakened.  A quick glance at my report card shows that I enjoyed Consumer Chemistry in high school, but they don't grade on the chemicals I enjoy, so that was of no help as the glass was finished with ease.  I ate some Cheetos and realized that I might as well have another.  Poured #2, and it was a much smoother affair.  Maybe things did settle somehow, someway.  But over time, glass two was finished, and I was starting to think I was a better drinker at my age than I--

SLAP

"Good evening!  My name is Chivas Regal, and I'm sorry it took me so long.  I was stuck in this bottle forever.  I am a genie of happiness and joy.  Well, well...it appears you hit this pond a bit quick.  This time it's my fault.  I was asleep.  Do you feel it now?  Haha!  I bet you do.  Isn't that enjoyable?  It's enjoyable for me, too.  Thank you for bringing me back to life."

This conversation ended once Smiley came home, but even she couldn't detect what just occurred: this old friend was woken from a decades-long slumber, and it was ready to party.  Every occasion is the right occasion as long as there's moisture in the bottle.

The Heart of Beverly Hills

Lunchtime.  The sun shines, though a bit breezy, but it isn't stopping anyone.  Even at work, they are dressed differently...dressed to make deals because of the location.  Dressed to make you notice how they're dressed.  Everyone except me, of course.  But don't let that distract you (or them)...I'm a tourist from Sacramento for all they know.  Just walking around.

"...was some show they're trying sell internationally, and..."
"...you have to send me that when you get back to work so I can look..."
"...did you hear that cab driver?  He said "hope to see you again."  Uh...no."

These aren't the grinders at the office park, heading en masse to Quiznos with coupons, wearing the same shirts.  There are Bentleys, Rolls Royces, and even an old Camero.  This is where deals are made, and they arrive each day in force.  As an epicenter, it is an enjoyable show.  What makes it even better is the attempts by everyone at making it look effortless.  Hey, this is just our life.  This is normal.

"OK...this is totally top secret; I shouldn't let this out.  So, the script they're..."
"I've got one date at 7, and then another at 9:30...I know, I'm so bad."

Could these quotes happen anywhere?  Maybe, though it would be a different setting.  A backlot, or swanky restaurant.  But the people (for the most part)?  Yeah, they don't make these people where I grew up.  That woman with the skirt that ends juuuuust below her rump?  Of course she got out of that Maserati.  The next table over?  Don't question their tactics.  They wouldn't be there by accident. 

And then there's a roughed up Saturn.  A wide collar, shades, and unmanageable hair.  A laugh that, when spontaneous, is likely a bit too loud.  The conversation can be about deals, but it can also be about Foosball.  This dish cost $30?  Fuck this place...we'll go the other Italian place.  No, the other one...next to that one. 

The conversation stopped when I sat down.  Not because I don't belong, but that they were surprised to see that I do belong.  What does it matter?  There's a place at the table now.  As I look at the freaks, the gems, the models, the dunces, and the gold?  I fit in there somewhere.  I could step up some material things, but the bell-bottoms?  Sorry, they stay.

The Lion That Roared

The personalities that surrounded me were either indifferent or mirroring the weather: glum.  Glum Glummington: The kind of thing where it's hard to find any get up and git.  I'm a dealmaker, so I can't say I boogie to that, uh...ideal.

What's this?  We're making the turn back to studio life and some of those surrounding the current zone don't like it?  Of course not - it's change, and the adjustments these folks take at this aspect in life is their own while watching others move...who gives a fuck?  The check is gonna clear, the doctor said I was healthy, and the changes that are happening to me, made by me, are all gold. 

Then I was writing Dr. Gold an e mail and I wrote a sentence describing what I was had to do this weekend.  (I neglected to include things like drink alcohol and check the lines for the Big Sky, but this would be redundant)  I almost sent my own reaction because those are the moments, not when you're in the thick of it, but a random brain separation almost knocks you over.  It's happened to me before (good and bad, mostly good) and I'm sure it's happened to you, too.  If you stopped and looked backward with any regularity, everything you did that was different from before would seem "odd" or "a cautionary moment."  But those of us in Dealville don't live life that way - we move forward.  Onward. 

There are people who spend time on a daily basis using phrases such as "When I worked at..."  "Back in the '90s, I used to"  "I remember when you used to have to"  They are wading in the pool.  We nod, smile, politely bullshit with "That must have been something" and shake our heads when we leave.

As such, we gotta a lot to do: move shit, assemble it, and begin anew...but this isn't starting over.  2013 means staring these deals for the first time. 

"The Record" that (seemingly) made all other Records

LA hardcore band Fear released their first album, The Record, in 1982.  It is a culmination of their previous years' hard work in punk clubs all over the place.  Their performance on Saturday Night Live on Halloween, 1981, continued to push them toward the forefront of what was left of the general population's interests in punk at that time.

The list of songs are, classically, hilarious in title alone.  "I Don't Care About You" and "We Destroy The Family" are just the tip of the iceberg.  It seemed, however, that the band was destined to be a one-album wonder.  Members were interchanging with other bands (Flea had a cup of coffee as the bass player) and lead singer Lee Ving's acting career was taking off.   Whether due to record company contracts or boredom, the band released More Beer in 1985.  With Lee still fronting the band it is unmistakably Fear upon listening, but not at the heights of the previous album.  I can't imagine (nor will I try) to guess what it was like for hardcore punk bands trying to not only release a record but tour in the mid-80's.  Couldn't have been easy.  But at the time of More Beer, Lee's acting career in full swing (he's in Clue as well as guest starring in two series in '85, a damn good showing for a punk singer a few years back).  So, is this the end for Fear?  Moreover, is it any kind of a telling sign that More Beer also included I Love Living in the City, a track from The Record?

The reason I bring this up is that Fear (Lee Ving and 3 other people) are the musicians in The Fear Record, Fear's "newest" album...inasmuch it's a re-recording of that famous debut.  All the songs are here with Ving naturally sounding even more grizzled (which is good) and a much cleaner sound (which is not good).  Another aspect: lyrics changed.  Some of these things can continue to be made fun of...the Wilcox Hotel being one of them.  But the filthy, raw edge of Fear slaying everything in society and confused meatheads taking them seriously is cleaned up here.  Is that political correctness, or is it cherry picking to please someone?

Lee might be bored...he might need cash...or he might have simply wanted to record the same songs all over again and you can just eat shit.  Maybe Lee still gets the Fear vibe in his brain but abandons the thought for a genuine comeback.  It's not as though this is a unique phenomenon...look at any state fair: you find bands from the 1970's & 80's just churning out their greatest hits.  The audience gets just what they're looking for, the band gets a nice check, and on it goes.

(And even if Lee didn't think they were a punk band but more what concert-goers expected a punk band to be, or whatever)...punk bands do this too, but when you know their ethics and mantra back then, it is a little off-putting years later.  Your writer can quote Ms. Cervenka of X when she famously said "There's going to come a point when people say 'sure, they're desperate.  I just paid $6 to see them.'"  Well, even with the handy inflation calculator, $6 is $14.62 now...not $45, which was the ticket price to an X reunion show last decade.

So, is this kind of music truly of youth, or is that what we as listeners and fans remember?  Just as comedians who drag their old jokes out of the mothballs are greeted with sighs, musicians re-recording their own songs is a curious plea for attention.  Punk music just seems different, which it is: music created and reflected in its times.  By making a "2.0" version of the original product, it continues the marginalization: a move you wouldn't expect from one of the genre's greats.  Then again, if I said this to Lee, he'd just tell me to fuck off...and everything would be all right.

So you want to bowl 5 games in 2 hours

Interesting choice.  If you make that decision, here is the outcome:

Friday, 6:15PM
On the drive home, you notice your left knee is sore, but it is brushed off due to it being the end of the work week.  It's also been a week of driving, and long periods in the car are not to your (or anyone's) benefit.

Friday, 9:45PM (approximate)
Sitting inside a movie theater, you see James Bond being told he's missed a step.  You sympathize with 007, but you feel a jolt of energy in your legs.  I bet you could bowl another 5 games!  Such exercise is needed, or something...hey, how old is this carpet in here?

Saturday, 10:12AM
You're awake: no problem there.  It's when you roll out of bed - it appears that "lumbering" will be your method of transportation today.  Each step is deliberate.  You attempt to keep your normal pace, but your lady can tell something is up.  A hearty breakfast makes you realize, while eating, that your wrist doesn't hurt.  That's because when it comes to the roll, you know what you're doing.

Saturday, 11:26AM
Well, that "nice, long shower" felt comfortable but did nothing for your condition.  Keep fighting it.  Walk it off.  Going up and down the stairs multiple times makes you wonder how it occurs without effort on a daily basis.  Someone asked if you "stretched" but isn't that like asking a drunk "Did you pace yourself?"

Saturday, 6:12PM
When crossing Wilshire Blvd. along Beverly Drive, you're given roughly 30 seconds.  This should be no problem at even the most leisurely pace.  Today, however, you pay particular notice to each car turning west.  You'll make it, but...hey - look, someone is walking a dog.  What's going on, pup?

Sunday, 9:52AM
Things seem better at first glance, but movements are still pained.  A memory comes from out of nowhere to your brain: you have finished playing catch with a family friend in your childhood.  You are told that you're lucky: you aren't sore after doing a workout.  But this was no workout - this was a Christmas party with free booze...that is until you saw someone openly cough uncovered on a pitcher of beer.  It was dry from then on.  At least you don't have a cold.

Sunday, 7:23PM
Now we're getting somewhere.  You're on glass 3 of Sangria, people are laughing, and you're sitting on the floor.  Sure, getting up looks like a TV tray trying to walk on its own, but at least it doesn't hurt.  The key is drugs...why haven't you taken those wonderful pills?  If there's a pill that can make you or your surroundings better, why not take it?

Monday, 8:04AM
Shit, why are my shoes so far away?  Seriously, where are those pills?  Summoning the ghost of Belushi...help me.

Monday, 12:16PM
How was my weekend?  Oh, it was fantastic.  Had a lot of fun.  Wished it would never end.  Could you hold that door open for an old man?

The Transition of Power

Thanksgiving in Las Vegas on the surface appears unusual.  Here it is a holiday, and you're in a town that seems to shun day and date, time and length of day.  When you enter by car or plane, you can clearly see you're in a city, but unless you drive around, it seems that everyone is from somewhere else with no one home.

Then again, think about every other trip to Las Vegas, whether it's a holiday or not, and the timing doesn't matter beyond the weather.  Was it cool and windy as fuck?  Was it hotter than shit?  Was it "just right?"  Even if it was, once you get there, you're ready for action.  The rest?  Everything outside the cash-grab maelstrom?  It doesn't matter.  Even when shopping at the finest supermarket in the West (expansive, full of deals, and there's slot machines by the checkout) my mind was on sports.  How could it not?

I feared that I would have to spend time explaining the variations of bets to those not caring, or trying to enforce the value of sportsbook living, when I find that my sister placed her first-ever sports bets.  She tried to tie it to her fantasy football team, but before she could start to expound on a subject which interests only herself, I found the topic to her and I getting along: the very thing that I love about Las Vegas the most.  What were the odds?  Oh, here's the difference between points and moneyline.  Here's what to look for in a parlay.  I was a fountain of ideas, and to my amazement, she responded in awe.  To me, this was the key to move forward...to see how much of an addiction this had become in mere hours.

"Here's a stat sheet from the sportsbook.  The lines may have changed, so ignore that.  Look at the trends.  Now, if you're setting up a parlay, this can be helpful...take Miami of Ohio for example..."

"Oh...yeah, so, wait, what's the line?"

Honestly, had you told me all I'd have to do is get her into sports gambling, our relationship might have been saved years ago.  But when she was left to nurture that idea on her own, I ambled around the casino, looking at rivalry games that just scream STAY AWAY.  If you don't believe me, or hold up the Dawgs vs. Tech, my response to that is Washington and Washington State.  The Huskies beat Stanford, but couldn't beat Wazzu?  Yikes.  Nothing stings like that feeling: in the nerve center, not seeing anything appealing.  That's how one used to end up in a hockey parlay knowing nothing about anything.  (Back when there was hockey, of course)

I took one last lap around the casino floor to collect my thoughts.  Either I dive head first into this and pick something, just because, and live with it...or I don't and accept my fate.  I see a man leaving the 'book wearing a T-shirt that says "You Ain't Me."  And thank goodness for that life switch: he is being lead...nay, pushed out by a frumpy looking lady.  I continued to weave through the slot machines seeing a man in front of a video poker machine that reads "JACKPOT!  $1250.00"  He is smiling, scratching his chin, while the machine goes nuts.  Others would scream, but he just nodded thinking "That's right..."

Just then, the phone rings from the financial conscious.  "Hey - Louisiana Tech and San Jose State.  You've gotta bet the over."  I look at the line and say to him "76 points?"  "Come on!," he implored, "it's the last WAC game ever."  He made a good point.  The conference who put the pass, pass, who cares about defense style in vogue (a style embraced by the Big XII) was slipping quietly into the night.  They were on ESPN or something...they had to do it right.  I opened the wallet, money down, and off I went.

Just in case you didn't see the final - the two teams passed the O/U with the first score in the 4th Quarter.  Ah, WAC Football.  We'll miss your zany games.  But it's a new day, a weekend-in-sportsbook-only trip is needed, and someone new is in the fold.  She'll learn to put away horrific nachos while scanning notes and taking in another free drink.  That's the vocation.  Make it happen.

Ring of Bologna

In the industry that dominates Dealville, you have many types of personalities.  There are the true Dealmakers: those who can make things happen anywhere and everywhere...from someone's couch, to a long lunch at a swanky restaurant.  In their meetings, there are a lot of smiles, nods, and "yes, I agree."  There are also the soldiers: the ones who play 48 each day, some overpaid, some underpaid, but they know what's really going on.  This is helpful when trying to land a new job, because you can give the inside view.

But oh, the loathsome phony.  I'm not talking about the Salinger "phony" who is just a general prick, and will never make it halfway to the lofty goals already achieved in his or her head.  I speak today of the person in entertainment who simply has no fucking clue how things work or what is going on, but clings desperately to a self-belief that if it wasn't for their presence, things would cease to be.

Now you might read this and say "Sure, Trip.  That kind of person is at my work, too."  That is true.  I remember long ago Jake writing about such a person back when he wrote.  Since the shakes set in again, I have to guess he retired.  (Editor's Note: We do receive submissions from Jake around late March every year, with the topic usually "Wake Forest to the Final Four")  The difference would be in another industry, the person is usually a blithe spirit...so harmless and confused that most don't care.  That is, until said person gets yet another promotion and everyone shakes their heads.

Dealville's phony is quite the breed, and the stuff of characture.  In a town when most people are looking for "great job!" as honest feedback, where everyone thinks they have an inside track, these folks have two actual tracks:

1. "Work" constantly to keep all plates spinning.  Make everyone you know think you're working with someone else...who thinks you're working with someone else...
2. Don't do any work at all but consistantly remind everyone that you did all the work.

The first person will be around and contact folks sporadically.  You will hear from them how "Things are taking place" and "It's just a matter of time."  After two months, you realize another deal that was imminent turned out not to work.  Just as you delete their last e mail, you receive another contact about how "It's looking to shape up soon."  These folks trend to prey on those even lower on the star ladder because what they're doing appears to be so impressive.

The second person is all bluster - the type anyone can spot a mile away.  If they're nearsighted?  They spot them right as they hear this sleaze begin to talk.  Everything is in generalities.  Few specifics are naturally given because they know none.  Large projects are discussed and framed as if they are telling you about the topic, when, as the conversation grows, it is clear they are unfamiliar.  It is wise to not involve these people in any aspects of your life.  Avoiding them is your safest bet. but that doesn't mean they aren't around.  You can see them trying to fool others.  They talk to those more uninformed than they, and usually younger: trying desperately to appear as a "Seen-it-all" legend who in all likelihood has been dumped and fired multiple times.  Their only known topic (themselves) is a favorite.

I could go on, but it's against human nature to want someone to fail for no other reason than they're bad at their job.  It's not YOUR company, of course.  Yet it stings the brain whenever you hear money discussed and standing there at the edge of your tongue is "I know how we can get some fast cash!  Dump that sod and save 6 figures!"  Maybe, in a way, that's chump change.

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.