Open All Night

After a delayed flight, and a chase though Atlanta's airport (is there any other kind?), there was finally arrival.  But as settled as one could get, I'm still on Pacific time.  Late as it might be here in the South, it's dinner time to me...hmmm, late night, where do you go?  Ah, that's right.

There was no negotiation; I wouldn't allow it.  My sixth sense took over and noticed that we were in a sweet spot: after dinner, before the bars empty out.  (DO the bars empty out down here?  Well, the families with teen drinkers where everyone piles in the pick-up and annoy all around.)

When we arrived, there was no one else inside.  The crew was hanging out in the kitchen, shooting the breeze.  As we sat, it was immediately go time...not for us, for the staff.

Well, maybe it was for us diners, too.  Whether it's myth or hearsay, I knew I'd get a pecan waffle.  I knew that I'd also "need" biscuits and gravy, especially when the friendly waitress recommended it.  I added grilled tomatoes to hash browns (because I'm on a health kick).  Unsweetened ice tea, please.  And I reflect.

I don't know why, exactly, but I knew to be sure of my order.  Smiley, on the other hand, near life-long Angeleno...was looking for salads.  She tried to order off menu.  Her other asks, for a "fruit bowl" and the standard "Do you have any flavored iced tea?" were politely declined.  Her eventual order placed, I apologized to the waitress.  Knowing it was the first time, she begged off any need for remorse.  As the order was told to the cooks I set the menu aside and leaned in.

"Look, you're at Waffle House.  I know you THINK you understand this, but look around.  Now look at the menu.  Don't disrespect Waffle House with this talk about "salad."  You want fruit?  Here's some jam for that biscuit.  They do their thing, and quite well."  'I was just asking' was the response.  Feigned ignorance.

Plates came out, and kept coming out.  More and more food, all of it seemingly earth-toned, and all delicious.  I did the damage I could, and toward the end a rabble-rousing family tried to cram in a nearby booth.  The patriarch was stoic, the mother with a heavy amount of vocal fry, and the offspring were all laughing.  The son was frequently asking about grits: can I substitute, did you get my order, where are they?  For the briefest flash, I was in downtown LV, but that faded away.

That feeling?  That's still with me, because when the rental Cadillac reflected the glow of the neon sign, I realized I had made quite the achievement.  Rolled up in a Caddy to the Waffle House (as you do), put it away while chatting up the help, and off for more adventures.  To this Goldland resident (not lifelong, but nearing 2 decades) it was the real fuel I needed. 

A note to the future, from the present and past

To Whom it May Concern,

At one point, perhaps when you read this (and perhaps, also, in November) the University of Minnesota may be good at football.  They might even be "good" but due to many down seasons, the "good" is magnified.  The enthusiasm will be infectious.  It'll be hard not to want to take a part of it.  "This might be the year" they will say...they being anyone who is WAY TOO OPTIMISTIC on such matters.  It might be their job to be optimistic, of course.  Those in Minnesota won't know the difference.

As I was saying, you'll be very pleased with those moments.  You're ready to celebrate, and it'll be easy to visualize the upcoming success.  There will be Rose Bowl talk. 

To wit:

Look, I could go on and on...but don't be completely fooled: there will be some success.  Winning overall records...even winning Big Ten records.

But then...the talk will arrive.  Talk.  People in MN will Talk About It.  If it's a good season after a few bad ones, a national media member might even bring them up with "what a turnaround."

Don't be fooled.  Even with a mid-season upset win over a better school.  The check will come.  It will come in either end-of-game heartbreak or full diaper-filling, one or the other.  It'll happen.  And because you're not completely cynical, you'll be upset because of course you'd like them to be good.  Hell, you want them to be good!  But you know better!  You shove reason aside as a result...

If, one day, this achievement occurs, then this thought will be deleted.  But until that time, which is 50+ years in the making...remember the history.  Temper yourself.  You'll feel better as a result.

Long Live The Kid

Here I am, getting through a day made complicated by others.  Mindful of the winds and the air outside, constant squawking inside.  And yet, every now and then, I'm reminded of the news that Robert Evans is no longer physically at Woodland.  Oh yes, spiritually forever, but in body, he's in that great screening room in the sky.

I left the Sunset 5 in 2002 after seeing The Kid Stays in the Picture a changed man.  It wasn't a film about me...in fact, beyond my love of the swanky days, that was it.  "This movie changed my life."  How so, folks asked.  Well...beyond the fact that it's a long road...that you have to keep working, keep fighting...and, have you heard his voice?  Have you heard him tell a story?  Do you know of this gold?

And at the time, I worked at Paramount, where The Kid still had an office.  The movie showed you where...so I had to check it out for myself.  I wrote a congratulatory note (on company stationary, naturally) and walked over in anticipation.  He was out, but the secretary brought the note into his office. 

Her: "Can I tell him you stopped by?"
Me: "......wow"

Months later, a girl who was the receptionist at Entertainment Tonight (and worked at Hooters on weekends) told me to stop by.  We were friendly (she was a former intern) and said she had stacks of free DVDs the show received.  When I arrived, she handed me The Kid Stays in the Picture.  "I knew you'd want this one."  We'd never discussed it, but this became a gift shared with many friends.  It was when Dillon and I watched it that he said "You know, I think this is an audiobook."  Was I foolish to have not thought of that?  You bet your ass I was, pal. 

"I can't get it on CD, but I can get cassette."  That's right, cassette.  I said yes, because how could I say no?  Oh, there are many more tales than in the film.  It's the "complete audio work, uncensored."  Baby, uncensored is putting it mildly.  Vulgarities?  You know it.  The reviews on the back are better than any he received in his world of fickle flicks.  "Don't even try to put it down!" said The New York Times.

Evans' second act (or was it 22nd act?) continued apace.  But just a handful of years ago came book #2: "The Fat Lady Sang" - Part 2 of the Kid's life.  And if you think the anecdotes ended...if you thought the man slowed down...well, the Kid can't get out of this crazy town.  They won't let him.  He won't let himself, either.

On meeting babes early in his career:
"My pal Dickie Van Patten and I couldn't sing or dance, but with purpose we trolled the auditions for every Broadway audition castin' them long-stemmers.  Between the two of us, we never copped a part in a musical.  Never wanted to!  But we never missed out on coppin' a phone number."

During rehab from a stroke, a get well card from Liam Neeson:
"Dear Bob, Just heard about your penis implant in the hospital.  Congratulations on pulling thru.  Liam"

A trip in Spain in 1964:
"The road, bumpy.  The thermometer, tipping one hundred.  Yeah, but Rubi's ebullience was on high.  Me?  I didn't know what the fuck was going on."

On recovering from a brief marriage:
"It was Dodge City time.  I couldn't take the heat.  I had to get the hell out of there, and quick.  An hour later, I was limping down the beaches of Laguna, after checking into a nearby hotel under the alias Tony Lombardo."

On and on it goes...but while the first book ends with "Fuck 'em.  Fuck 'em all." the second has a much different attitude as the curtain closes...perhaps a much more thoughtful, and honest, appraisal of a legendary run in Hollywood:

"I'm still sitting in a front row seat."

Scooters & Sleepers

About 2 weeks in, I was told that my parking would change: instead of in the building and leaving it with the valet, I would park one whole block east, on Vine St.  Beyond the dejection, I accepted my new glamorous life: parking, taking a service elevator up, ignoring the strong garbage smell, walking past stores and leading myself down a long, narrow hallway, passing a yoga studio, and out into this urban hellhole.  There, filling the sidewalks, they sit littered like animal carcasses.

Am I talking about scooters?  Or sleepers?

Both really.  If you'd have told me that there was a concert about to go on sale for the Palladium, I'd have believed you.  But now, they're just asleep.  One after another.  Next to them, every kind of scooter available.  The same kind meant for the streets yet run about the sidewalks at 25 mph, dodging children by the narrowest of margins.

I walked out the door one morning as I stepped onto Vine, and a homeless woman walked up to me and said "Shut the FUCK up!"  Have a nice day, won't you, Trip?  Others in the office told me to laugh it off, but it's tough not being disturbed...in the same way I was when I saw a man come out from the fountain in front of Chase bank, fully wet, having...what, bathed?  Hard to say.

It could just be my timing: one night as I walked to the gates of wonky world with a fellow co-worker (from Minnesota, no less) we saw one wino throwing a trash can to another on a balcony.  A crowd surrounded them not to help - all had their phones out, recording the scene.  After a few moments, enough of us created a crowd to break through.   Once I hit Burbank, I felt like I fell into Pleasantville.

Despite all of this, I have attempted to be determined.  Determined to find the swank that was there some 15 years ago, maybe longer, when I lived near here and walked the streets.  Back then, nights on the sidewalks were often alone.  Many places boarded up, and the swank sure surrounded me.  Nearly all of that has been torn down...nearly all except (at least, what I've been able to find) one place.

It has many names on its sign: The Spirit Shoppe.  Liquor Deli Mart.  (Advertising Free Delivery - a liquor store perk way before food delivery became a thing)  Back when, this place likely blended right in.  Now, it's a blink-and-you-miss-it place, but on the street level, I had to investigate it.

I walked up the ramp and immediately saw the deli was long gone...yet a cooler with pre-made sandwiches (gas station approved) remained.  An old guy behind the counter, flask-sized bottles behind him.  Lotto machine at the ready.  Further down, beyond drinks alcoholic and otherwise, were sundries of the most random definition.  In my brief tour I looked to find older packaging...had I found it, regardless of item, it would be a sale.  The old salt behind the register wouldn't bat an eye.

Back home I mentioned this for future lottery playing.  I was asked "Did it have the sign that it was a lucky retailer?"  No, I said, there's been no good luck in this store.  Ever.  Well...except 1 piece of good luck, I guess.  It survives somehow.  Tom LaBonge, in his reign of terror, bulldozed the rest, but somehow forgot this one.  And thank goodness for that, because in today's "Entertainment District" the connection to the past and the present must exist.

Letting Go

I was in a celebratory mood for clear reasons, and reached out to many local folks whom I classify as friends.  "Let's meet for lunch!  On me - just name the day and place!"  They were happy, too.  A vague range of time was listed in response.  "OK - just let me know!"

I never heard back.

One meet up was planned.  Hours before the beginning, I was told that they "didn't have their best stuff today" and that they had to cancel.  "But would Friday work?  Next week is also wide open."  I asked if they would have their 'best stuff' on Friday.  This was treated as an insult.  What the fuck does that even mean?  We're friends, if something is actually going down, I kind of expect you to be honest with me. 

Are we really friends?  And what does that mean as an adult?

These recent developments lead me to reflect way back.  In college and especially high school, friendship meant a fiercely loyal group of folks who were always there for you as you were for them...with planning not something really needed in advance.  It's helpful when, for example, Jerry has someone like Kramer to say "Hey, you wanna go up with me to the Bronx and see if there's any flyers on George's car?"  "Sure!" was the response, but it could have been anything, right?

I'm not as lucky in adulthood as Jerry, it seems.  (Oh, it's obvious)  When same-day cancellations occur twice, I often sit back to see if I hear anything in the future.  It doesn't take a genius to, when not receiving any communication through months later, realize that it's simply not worth your time.  You're not worth their time, either.  As such, reflection of this topic brought up a half-dozen people who want to meet Wednesday..."sorry, Darvez, I have to cancel...how's next week looking?"...and off they go, into the wind, never to be heard from again.  Oh, every once in a blue moon something else reminds them of me and I get a text from a number not in my phone.  "Happy New Year!  We should get together soon!"  Uh...let's keep it vague, right?  That's the lesson here?

Occasionally you'll hear a person on TV (character or person), or maybe even in real life, say something like "I only have 3 friends."  The audience, or others in the room, consider it a glib statement and that it couldn't possibly be true.  But stop and think about it.  Experience what I do, and you can't help but feel the same way.

And it's good having acquaintances, and it's good to not be on social media, and it's good running into people at events.  But when the "we should meet up" comes around, all it takes is a simple "Yes!  When do you want to do that?  (Well...)  Let me know" to cut that down.  You can be polite and not bullshit me...

Oh who am I kidding.  I live in Dealville.  This is the currency. 

In your childhood memories, there's space for lease

There's no going back.  Even if you could, you can't do it.  (And, on second thought, if you really could, you'd be stuck)  Time passes on, and that is a good thing.  Except for an apparently large segment of the population, life and society and public spaces, they evolve and change...and it's good.  It's good because the future brings new things...

But when I am back in Minnesota?  It's a balance.  It's looking at (and searching for) the new, but really wanting to hit what's still behind, to think back to a time...no specific time, it shifts by location.  I wrote over a decade ago (sheesh...well, on second thought, that sounds about right) about how all the old haunts were disappearing.  There was less and less pull to return, or so I thought.  There were new places to discover, of course, but even those around me felt put on the spot when I suggested "a new place."

If I can find anything that ties to the swank days (and, on top of that, a touchstone of my youth) it's enough for a visit.  Upon arrival it was easy to have the run of the joint because...well, unlike decades ago, I had the run of the joint.  Not that there was an abundance of reasons for anyone else to show up.

It wasn't that the mall was truly empty.  At least I don't think so...there were a lot of cars...but a lot of open stores.  A LOT.  Either the landlord is looking for a ton of cash (more than it's actual value)...I suppose that's one end of the spectrum.  Whatever the other end has to be here.  I looked left and right, and I was the only one around.  I walked from one end to the center...and still, no one arrived.

I'm not the quickest draw...in no way was I expecting anything to be the same.  The curiosity was more on how it evolved.  Apparently, I was the only one who cared.

It was very grown up to leave the house without supervision.  You went in the back entrance (where teens smoked stuff known and unknown, and you walked past them, making you just as cool).  You could go to the right, and amble down there, just either walk or check out a few places.  Well...Great Clips, here all these years later.  How about that.  In the 80s, a large video store arrived.  I know it made it through the 90s...it's where I found Incoming Freshmen, a drive-in movie that stunned people for years.

There's still a restaurant on the end, a "brewpub" now (of course).  Remember the old place with those amazing homemade cookies?  They were huge!  (sigh)

So I headed back to the other end, seeing that action near the liquor store and supermarket was still there.  As placeholders, that hasn't changed after decades.  The rest...well, here's a place.  A spa.  I think that was a bike shop.  And it had been a computer store too, I think.  A girl who worked there walked out, talking to someone on the phone about a much more interesting topic.  I was walking the other way, anticipating a look of "how'd a person get in here?" but I was allowed my memory lane haze.

There's a hardware store now (in a strip mall, unusual) inside.  Heh..."now," like I'd know.  I could wander in there, but I don't really need anything.  I felt glad it was there, though I have no idea why.

That night, post-meal with relatives, we started talking of the origins of the legendary Tailgate Dip...and then how the specific Tailgate itself came to be...an interesting and hilarious tale of the "old days" and a lot of drinking and an era of just going for it.  These were college kids and adults.  The college kids, some of them (in their late 50s now) are still around.  Most of the adults are long gone.  To a child, the adults were amazing people: men who looked older than they were, who seemed to be in the middle of the party 24/7 no matter the location.  The conversation took a lull and I couldn't help but feeling a combination of melancholy and "well, that's how it goes."

So, the day of leaving, told that the Old Dutch chips would be shipped to you as a taste of the "old country" (read: oh no they won't), I started to reconcile that I just wanted the old neighborhood to do well...as it did by me 30 years ago.

But when I left the mall, I thought "beyond the people that own this place, I'm the only one who cares."  But if I came back next time and it was long gone...would I really get bent out of shape?  No.  I don't live there, no one I know lives right by there.

The memories would be in tact.  The photos would remain.  Isn't that it, the sum of its parts?  An amalgamation of cherry-picked moments to cover the mundane, stresses, strife and abuse that was real life?

That a very real, tangible thing still stands to send me back...a very thing that, in 2019, doesn't have a website.  Well there you go - it really is 198x, or whatever, and it's my domain.

In Search Of...Potsy

(swanky synth plays)

Leonard Nimoy: In 2018, legendary gambling and eating icon Potsy was seen in Southern California.  There, his life a near secret, he seemingly vanished from all scenes.  Time went on, and the absence stunned those professionals and amateurs in his circles.  Since that time, unlike such legends as Bigfoot and The Abominable Snowman, there has yet to be a sighting.  This is Leonard Nimoy.  Join me as we go In Search Of...Potsy.

Narrator: This series presents information based in part on theory and conjecture. The producer's purpose is to suggest some possible explanations, but not necessarily the only ones, to the mysteries we will examine.

(different swanky synth plays)

Leonard Nimoy: The many characters of Las Vegas, and the effects that spill into other cities, tend to focus toward crime.  But those who are part of what said characters call The Dance feature just as many intriguing personalities.  One such personality, Potsy, had been known throughout the shores of North America.

Leonard Nimoy: What distinguishes these characters from the casual gambler, casual eater, or both, is the fervent need to find places known and, to the layman, unknown, to achieve satisfaction.  To them, successes and failures blend together over a period of decades...perhaps even a lifetime.

Leonard Nimoy: A recluse who wishes to remain so yet maintain the opulent lifestyle might stay at a swanky hotel such as this resort.  For someone established, the action comes to them.  Yet for many, a character such as Potsy tended to drift toward the action.  Such a pattern makes his disappearance all the more baffling to experts and fellow degenerates alike.

Leonard Nimoy: The study of such phenomenon, specifically in the living world, is not unique to academia.  Yet it's here at UC San Diego, in the famed Geisel Library, where the research of Potsy's whereabouts began.  That it was a university nearest his previous sighting was the largest reason for location.  We spoke with Professor of Social Behaviors, Dr. Torsten.

Dr. Torsten: The behavioral pattern of the degenerate, though however unsavory, is one that as researchers we feel we can identify through our work.  Here, this is a completely different case.  All of the usual locations turn up nothing.  It's a topic that confounds us for many reasons, not the least of which is the perception that a degenerate can completely change.  That's never been seen or recorded, because even in instances where the gambling may become problematic, the dining aspects remain the same.  That's not the case with Potsy.

Lenoard Nimoy: The motivation of Potsy has been attempted to be discerned ever since.  Is it a fear of gambling-created enemies, living or dead?  It is ironic, that a degenerate's motivation to disappear supersedes that of what we know of a degenerate.

Dr. Torsten: There are aspects of life that even someone at, say, their low ebb, can't avoid.  And even so, you can't even say 'well, look at it like setting up a trap.'  That is useless in this situation, because we're talking about someone who can simply glance at the day's lineup at Aqueduct or the line of a Big Sky basketball game, and make a move like we blink an eye.

Leonard Nimoy: When communication slowly faded, few were aware of how the future would play out.  The first locations searched were those where he'd been seen.  As far back as a decade ago, researches wondered if, like a deer returning to a salt lick, the search would be simple, and swift.

Leonard Nimoy: Though anyone who has ever walked through a casino floor or wandered through a sportsbook is all too aware of a constant movement of people, men often hiding in plain sight.  While this may not be the intention of many, it makes the searching all the more difficult.

Leonard Nimoy: Searching a hotel, from garish lobby to the many stories of suites, smoking and non-smoking, is an endless task.  No more successful than searching for a person on the street from 8 floors above.

Dr. Torsten: It was established that there was no sighting at the major casinos.  And in that moment. I felt it was the quickest, surest way to know this was going to be a problem that was immense...that we may never get through.  He was an off the strip man, so that's the next step, though it has to be said we felt, and I can speak for myself, inside...that this was futile.  I was optimistic, but all too aware of the reality.

Dr. Torsten: The motel manager, particularly the night manager, is used to inquiry, and even confrontation.  If you're the law, he or she will help you.  But if you're an academic, if you're curious about a guest's whereabouts, and the guest isn't causing any trouble, then you're at the end of the road.  It was at this point that we felt lost, that this was the rare case that was unsolved.

Leonard Nimoy: The terminology that has been used in some circles may even sound of that of a policeman, looking for clues of a crime.  But no crime has been committed here...only that of defying logic.  It is precisely that shattered logic that baffles scientists, researchers, even fellow degenerates.

The Message: TOLD Y'ALL!  Y'ALL AIN'T GONNA FIND HIM.  Y'ALL KEEP LOOKIN' BUT...WHO WE TALKIN' BOUT?

Leonard Nimoy: It was here, at this fast food restaurant, that Potsy was last seen by the outside world.

Leonard Nimoy: A man who seemingly never had his fill would do well to dine at an establishment with affordable prices.  But whether it was the food, the location, or the jolly sign, Potsy was drawn to this establishment before moving on.  And yet the question remains: to what?  And why?  And, most importantly, where.

(swanky synth plays)

Leonard Nimoy: In Search Of...cameras are traveling the world, seeking out the great mysteries.  This program was the result of the work of scientists, researchers, and group of highly skilled technicians.

Don't Call it Love When You're Talking To Me

It was well into the "shank" of the evening (if you will).  People were slowly drifting away, or breaking away.

This went for the guest of honor as well.  The cool nighttime ocean breeze was wafting through, and with fewer guests, the fire seemed like a good enough place for some private conversation.

How do you feel about 42?
42 what?
Well, you know, years.
It depends.  How do you feel?
I feel betrayed!
Oh, really?
Well, you know, they say, whoever they are, that life begins at 40.  And I spent the last 2 years realizing they've been lying through their teeth.
You know, I think the last 2 years have been rather good.
That's because you're 38.
Keep your voice down.
Oh!

Some guests came by to say goodnight, and in a way it was perfect timing.  Up to get more wine, desperate to keep the party going...even in this slower state, if that meant reality wouldn't arrive just yet.  Not today, at least.

How do you feel, Birthday Boy?
I feel invalided.
You mean invalid?
I'm...well, that too, but basically invalided.  Like an invalid.
Well, remember what they say, George.  After 40, it's all 'patch, patch, patch.'


Ugh.  I'm going home.

Hard Times

There are so many metrics and measures for what "making it" suffices that "getting by" gets closer and closer to the middle.  The usual.  Remember when people used to just dump shit they didn't want?  That turned to charitable donations.  It was then, an approximate time and date unattainable, that the charities said "thanks but quit sending us your old TVs."

What do you do with all your shit is a problem when you have too much of it.  It's only when you have a larger problem ("getting by") that an enterprising idea hits the neighborhood.  "You know, you could post that online, maybe you could make some money."

The late Steve Simpson once wrote that the phrase "not worth my time" is a heavy one, because at some point you have to acknowledge and accept a dollar value for which that IS worth your time.  And we're not just talking work...it's anything taking up your time.

I thought of that when I saw this ad

Here's half a spindle of blank DVDs.  How about $10?  Give this person a sawbuck, these can be all yours.  It's the same as Amazon's prices.  Or something.  I don't think you need to tell people you're not sure what to do with all your discs.  I used to put DVDs I made into slim cases in some sort of bizarre display.  The spines were too small to read, so I still had them in alphabetical order.  Then I bought a DVD case and not only saved room, I got back some pride.  DVD collections are quite a sight today - I know a guy who has two floor to ceiling cabinets that have doors housing everything.  You wouldn't know what's in them unless you knew someone who was buying each season of The Facts of Life on DVD.

"All the cords"  If you have a working SD television, you're in good shape.  GTA games are tons of fun, right?  Damn right they are...wait, is the memory card empty?  I remember when I thought the PS3 had graphics "good enough" for me, and then I saw the same game on PS4, and then I pretended not to care about that kind of thing.  

Speaking of which, I have the Atari of a girl I knew in college.  I have a ton of games with it, too.   "Works great."  Last tried to hook it up a decade ago.  Survived multiple moves for the simple reason that the box was unopened from the last move.  

$15?  Retro gaming action!  You never know.   I could make some money, and after the "tax relief" I...any takers?  Hello?

High Off the Hog

You'd think, given my background and heritage, I'd have been invited to a get-together and told "bring bacon" before in my life.  Sadly, this has not been the case, because kind hosts would provide and all would be well. 

"So...you want me to cook the bacon at my house and THEN bring it to your house and THEN you'll cook it again?  I don't...you can't cook it at your house?  Why can't...OK, but how much are we...THAT much?  Shit...ok, I'll try but..."

You know how you have favorite vices?  And that one of the vices might be bad for your health?  And that one of the ways people are told to quit is to, say, smoke a pack of cigarettes in an old phone booth or something?

(These are stories...I don't smoke, never got the hang of it...and I don't buy or cook bacon for the fact that it should be a treat, damned if it isn't so good.  I even had a breakfast once with an Orthodox Jew who said to me, as he dined, "come on...it's bacon."  And, proceeded to eat an entire side of it)

You'll just have to believe me but I'm pretty sure I have a hog's worth (hogsworth - is that a farm term?) now, ready to go.  Whole house smells of it.  Interested dogs are slowly walking past the house on a warm Spring day.  Yeah, pups, I know.  Even turkey bacon, which, let's be honest, looks like an eraser.

It's nearly the lunch hour, and I've got to head to Malibu for this event, so we'll be in the car, and the car will SMELL of it, oh yes it will.  Natural bacon car air freshener.  I'll open the windows and look at the fish just jumping out of the ocean.

People moving slow, whining, all the usual B.S. that surrounds me each weekend.  How do I escape?  Farmer John, you have any ideas?

Mmm...bacon.

Locker Room Talk

3 points?  That's it???  Sheesh.  Well, the media around town has continued to dissect why, how, and most importantly what was said after the game.  Why?  Well, there wasn't much to the game.  What are the secrets?

If we're talking about what's said, I go with what the Big Scoop said when New England went up 10.  "Fiddlesticks!"  Things like that help keep it all in perspective.  I was later found sitting on the floor with my head adjacent to a coffee table, in essence feeding myself empanadas.  Sounds like any other weekend.

Looking for solace, I went to YouTube to find some post-game talk from bygone eras.  I didn't need a rehash of what we all saw with our own eyes.  I'm climbing down the 70s football well and then I saw this...I immediately got out of my chair, turned around to see that no one in my house would possibly care about this the way I do, and then sat down and looked again.  In wonder.

 That's Bert Jones, Baltimore Colts QB, happily discussing a win.  But what was that in the frame?  It wasn't supposed to be the focal point...but good god.  Is that a stack, half a dozen plus, of snoose?  Just for Bert?  I guess I shouldn't ask questions but...



How much do we want to bet he got it for free?
Did Irsay miss it because he was on a plane to "Ariezooner"?
How often are the tins replaced?
Who on the staff would claim it's just "leftover from the Orioles"?
Is the percentage of people back then not even noticing 99% or 100%?

Bert got the win, he has some dip to deal with, leave the man alone.  Football season is done.  March can't come soon enough. 

The LA Rams: Success

It sunk in quickly for me.  The Rams are going to the Super Bowl.  The LOS ANGELES Rams, as it was meant to be.  As I'd dreamed.  As I'd written about on this very blog.  And not a re-hash of Super Bowl XIV.  The real thing.  I'm overjoyed!

That isn't the narrative, of course.  It was the missed Pass Interference call.  It's turned not just Saints fans, but many MANY professional hot-takers, into those very infamous Talk About Its: those in the sportsbook who drink too much, don't win, and can't stop telling you why their incorrect guess should be correct.

I, of course, can mention 2 missed Fase Mask calls, 2 missed Delay of Game calls, and I just get "Yeah, but...".  OK, we all agree, they missed the call.  The game didn't end that very minute, but that's what everyone wants to think.

I've seen some incredible home-team delusions in my day.  I saw the Vikings fans in the...hell, doesn't matter the decade.  "Letting go" is not a phrase in their lexicon.  But I also never saw the Vikings fans want to sue the league.  Or demand the Kommissar start it over and play again.  These people aren't dreaming.  They aren't joking.  They aren't upset just because they ran out of salami.  They're serious.  One so serious to spend real money to buy billboards in Atlanta, site of Super Bowl LIIIIIIIIIIII to remind everyone it should be the SAINTS that represent the NFC.  We all agree?

As I've always said, if you don't want your money, just give it to me.  But honestly, these fuckers really think this is pro wrestling, where suddenly a new ref will come out and say no, we saw in the back he hit him with the belt/brass knuckles/roll of dimes, and the REAL winner is _____.  We've gone to wacky world.

The day following the game I went to the beach.  There, I saw a large amount of tourists along with LA citizens.  I saw Rams gear a-plenty.  A child yelled at me "GO RAMS!"  That's right, son.  We're gonna do it.  Hell, we got this far!  Can you believe it!  After so many years gone from LA...

Oh shit.

Fuck.

I forgot about that good ole narrative...LOS ANGELES DOESN'T DESERVE A TEAM!  Don't EVER let it die, right, windbags?!  "Jimmy Traina" of Sports Illustrated and "Joe Flint" (clearly a bot and not a real person) of The Wall Street Journal, take it away:

For fuck's sake.  So Los Angeles just flat out doesn't get together to watch football games.  It must be solitary, in the privacy of their own home.  This metric alone will show "true" fandom.  Shouldn't have won.  Shouldn't have the Rams back (where they never should have left, nor run by Georgia).  Shouldn't HAVE an NFL team because...well...Rams fans don't watch enough TV.  And the Dodgers fans leave early!  And Lakers fans DURRRRRRRRRR

The envy, folks.  The envy on this one is mighty THICK!  Not just for victory, but everything: lifestyle, weather, whatever is seen...through their eyes, ready to judge, deliver the opinions to an agreeing 49 states.

"They don't care."

I think, as a Rams fan, as a person who long hoped for just the team to arrive, to having to put with Jeff Fisher as a coach...to someone who's phone was so nutso after the game that the fucking network went down...I'll tell you what I don't care about.

Everyone else's thoughts.

Oh that might sound harsh, but inasmuch I don't have any interest in saying I'm for or against any other team, that I know next to nothing about any other team, I don't spend any of my effort, energy, or time (for what it's worth) on giving a flying fuck about other teams.  It doesn't interest me, and I can't see how someone could for another.

Wait.  WAIT.  I've got it.

Hmm...no, because if I lived in New Orleans, there are so many things to do, so much culture, that I wouldn't get that bent out of shape...but I guess that's just me.  Because if I DID care, and went out of my way, on an ongoing basis, to do so...

I'd be a windbag.

7 Days

Day 1
Hurry and get the supplies, it's the Dawgs and the Tide, part 2!  Let's Hunker Down!
Hey, looking good at halftime!  Course, we've been there before.
She's seems warm?  Maybe it was the dinner last night?  She seems fine otherwise.
Oh man, here it comes.  It's happening again.  Bama is Bama...oh well.
She's not well?  OK, I'll come home, but we'll watch the 2nd game there and--
Let's just go to urgent care.
You're not sure?   Look at her.  There's nothing?  All I'm doing is keeping her mind off it.

Day 2
Well, you've got to check in to the bathroom before anything.  I know it hurts.  I'm here.
No, I'm not going anywhere, and neither are you.  Just relax, we'll get through this.
Try to eat this, if not, that's fine.
Well, maybe we should go back to urgent care, because this isn't working.
She does seem fine, but this is the lull, you have to believe me.
Let's try this.  Can you sleep?  I know, but you need the rest.

Day 3
Checking in to see how she is.  The same?  OK, I'll get supplies.  She has to be miserable.
Look, if the doc says to ease into the usual food, why not?
Oof, ok that didn't work.
We can do the same tomorrow.  Just keep me posted.
Sleep good, we'll get over it.

Day 4
I know she should stay home, but can she go out?  Let's go to the doc.
Her personality is completely different, Doc, but I would too if...
No, they're still in there.  You can hear she's in pain; anything for that?  Anything?
I gotta go back to work, but please let me know how she is.
I'll stay here in the morning.  You're so tough.  We're going to get through this.

Day 5
Yup, I'm here all morning.  Yeah, we're getting better, aren't we?!
I know, but you if you can eat this and everything is good, then we'll try other stuff.
No, can't do mac n cheese.
OK, gotta go to work.  See you in a bit.
Budget cuts?  I'm sorry, I wasn't ready if...are you sure?
I'm sorry, it's just that this has been a hard week.
Fuck it I'm going home for the day.

Day 6
I'm trying hard not to say bad words or the wrong thing, but do you know what this means?
Don't you like it when life is normal?  Why can't it be normal?  And...what does that mean?
Man, that rain is coming down.  Hoo wee. 
Wait, is that a squirrel eating our Halloween pumpkins?
Hold on, I'll get it.  Stay inside. 
Tomorrow, we'll go places and stuff.  I'll check my work from now and then.

Day 7
Well you do seem better.  OK, let's get stuff at the library.  No, we have to go here first.
I can tell you're feeling better because you're trying to boss me all over.  Knock it off.
I said tell me about Christmas presents but I'm not getting you anything.
If I get you that, you're gonna lose it, and I'm out $5.  Remember what I said on Wednesday?
Come on, let's go.  Hey, watch out!  Pay attention to your surroundings!
How much is that?  Christ, listen to me...sure, OK.
(Sigh)  Yeah, the weekend.  Well, you're back on it.  You really want a cheeseburger? 
Tomorrow?  OK, tomorrow.  This has been quite a week. 
Getting better.  Didn't know we had to, huh?

My friends say no, don't go for that cotton candy

Finding myself in such a tense moment, I saw immediately that the left and right sides of the ridge had to continue to be watered.  The shrub in the middle was weak anyway, and we let that go.  My adrenaline was increasing, but it went tandem with the moment.  Holding the line, hoping to delay the sparks.

Then I woke up.

 

Last weekend, I was 35 miles from fire destruction moving at an unrelenting pace.  35 miles wasn't shit.  We were all stuck inside (lest you think you're some big timer who could go out for lunch and set aside your headache, eyes watering, awful throat, and depression).  35 miles and for all I knew I was surrounded by webers full of pall malls.  Thanks to the firefighters, it was a slow fade to Sunday night, which was deemed "tolerable" and colder nights, which "help" insomuch it's not 80 degrees at that time.

 

And true, this isn't the first rodeo; in 2003 the fire in San Diego blew up here and made a run of fall days look like a permanent 5PM.  Even last year, I opined that the Verdugo mountain fires had no way of hitting my domicile because it would have to cross a freeway, train track, and "river" to get over here and...

 

Oh, fires can do that?  Well color me a fucking simpleton for being so caviler to think I could out-smart the beast.  The very definition of dumb luck, there's now talk of "here are the masks" and "this looks like a good indoor air purifier and ionizer" without a trace of irony or what-are-the-odds inflection.

 

I've lived here long enough to see the changes.  Santa Ana winds were expected in the fall.  Now they're more of a year-round intruder.  The winds could bring a possibility of a wildfire.  Now we know there will be one, just a matter of location and size.  We used to have a rainy season, without fail.  Now some years it rains, but most are barely moist.  Rain used to be met with gritted teeth knowing your drive.  Now there's dancing in the streets.  Holy shit, it's raining!

 

The hurricane, the snowstorm, the tornado, it arrives, it devastates, it leaves.  The wildfire?  It isn't leaving.

"I Owe You Nothing!"

As a topic that's been conveyed in various ways on this blog, a lesson learned is to not get overly involved in your favorite sporting team's fortunes.  This is a rule that I've been able to apply to nearly all sports-related aspects of my life, and it's occurred with great success.  Life, on the whole, has fewer man-made pitfalls.

And then there's my fandom of the Dodgers, which for some reason has avoided this trend.  I actually thought I had applied it, but when you run into people who are like-minded (intentionally or otherwise), I find old habits die hard.

Maybe it's the great success that does this...or the sense of community.  I don't know.  What I DO know is that I was at a "party" on Saturday which was decidedly not a party for the World Series, but the hosts were kind enough to turn on the game for those intrigued.  Even the most casual baseball fans surrounded me to watch.  Then a lady entered the room.

"Oh!  Who's playing?"

I think I did a sensational job by saying, in a calm and measured tone, that this was the World Series, and the hometown team was playing game 4.  In the intervening hour, Dick Mountain was doing his thing, and apparently I was an ebullient and humorous individual.

Later on into the evening, Dave Roberts wanted to revisit the warm glow of "Red Sox Hero" and he...well, you know what he did.   I got up and left the room.  I wasn't angry (well, overly angry), but I was more than anything disappointed.  Bewildered.

A woman who's only known me a few months said "Oh no.  Yeah, I can see it in your face.  It's not good."  Holy Moly...that's the vibe I'm giving off here?!  The anger, the disappointment, the frustration...that's truly on me.  The over-investment didn't pay off?  Well that doesn't feel good, does it?

When was the last time I felt this way?  Well, it wasn't after the NFL playoffs, or National Championship, so I must have been doing something right, or at least better, at the time.  It was...well, it was the 2017 World Series.  

Dialing it back.  More often than not, good advice in every situation.  "Funny" I guess, that it took two gut punches for me to realize I was not completely free with my lowered engagement.  There's wood to chop, there's deals to me made, can't we do it with a clear head?

The Rams won.  Great!  Will they lose?  Probably; got some good competition coming up.  Inevitable...that's how it goes.  (breath)  Ahhhh.  

The Electricity is in the Upheaval

(Trip Darvez once again shares a column from his archives of writing from the L.A. Reader, this from September 24th, 1981)

When you work the streets (or hell, even walk them) on a daily basis, things don't change suddenly...but stop paying attention, even if you're planted right in the middle of the zoo, and you suddenly look around: what in the???  There's another comedy club?  Oh...sure, they have a "New Wave Night" - OK...huh, another mini-mall on the way over there...

 

L.A.'s own Go-Go's "This Town" was playing over the speakers when I entered The Whisky last week, and in hitting me like a ton of bricks was the fact that the band, just 1 year ago, was selling out this place, and the Whisky itself was now, very slowly, looking around going "Oh....got it."  And here we are.

 

I began a recent day (notice how he's withholding information-ed.) rolling out of bed, enjoying a beer and watching Lost in Space reruns with an earthy girl whose attempts to replace the "food" in my kitchen with jicama were politely tolerated.  Later in the day, after some in-between respites at Sun Bee liquor, I happily weaved throughout the Strip with nearly every club playing live rock from bands that were in the least passable, and best, fantastic.   Brother, I don't mind telling you that, if asked on the spot the day after that Go-Go's show a year ago the future would be that drastic, different, and (in most respects) better, I wouldn't have believed it.  Hell, we were to happy to point out our future enemies to our new friends all the while lamenting the residue of roller disco.  (And no, there were no earthy girls in my place a year ago, either.  Not sure if that's good or bad.)

 

None of these bands were chasing the past, either.  This is a path forged anew, with most stepping aside and nodding, while a few toss their roller skates in the closet, and wonder if they should pick up racquetball.

 

Chrissie said "That's showbiz, big boy.  You've got to be cruel to be kind."  I think we are in this paper, and I think a lot of club owners throughout town are now acting, with too many reacting, to trends.  Things move fast for them, because, as I've announced, when you don't look around each day, you miss what's happening.

The Bad News Bugs

Just have fun...don't take it seriously...it's about getting exercise...they'll be our new friends...let's see how it goes...

At a field near the airport, we entered a crowded mass of families: dozens of kids wearing a rainbow of colors, the parents all set with lawn chairs, tents, blankets, snacks.  And then there was our team...a crew who had as much familiarity as a random meeting in the park to toss the ball around.  

Drills were introduced, but only as a guide.  It's about effort, really.  I don't care if you went around the cone, just look at her trying.  You're not walking away, you're not saying you're bored.  I call that an accomplishment. 

Then we looked across the field.  Damn - when did they have time to make a banner?!  That's cool.  I know we talked about making one, but look.  They have matching bows, too.  And...wait a minute, there's no way that kid is in this age group.  This is a ringer.  Right, right.  We don't keep score.  I know.  Hey, let's have fun!

 

A huddled mass, the same as discussed by the Statue of Liberty, they move to and fro.  Bodies occasionally fall, conversations begin in the middle of a game on the field.  Distractions as minimal as a dragonfly occur, and even "out of bounds" has a loose definition.

 

It's her turn to sit out and be a "cheerleader."  She was eating a watermelon slice when the Bugs went up 1-0.  I know, we're not keeping-  "I scored."  Hey, why not?

 

The only yelling is to get your own offspring to notice that the ball went behind them, or to notice everyone else is on the other end of the field.  The rest of the time is spent in laughter.  Not the players - the families ourselves.  This is all utterly hilarious...but are we laughing at the sight?  At ourselves for placing any kind of weight behind this endeavor?  At the concept?  Maybe we're just giddy.  After all, the sun broke out right as the game started and now we're all at the mindset of "that's enough, don't you think?"

 

The biggest reaction came from the snack bag received in the post-game high five round-up.  Snacks are what life is all about?  Well, I agree.  Don't take that jersey off unless you want to.  Yeah, I say you let everyone know you were making it happen out there.  If the only win/loss measurement is fun, how can you lose?   

Only if there are no snacks.  Keep the snacks coming, folks.

Not Yet

Despite the weighted responsibility in molding today's minds for tomorrow, you can work with every fiber in your being to make a great person.  Someone with only your best qualities, the qualities you wish you had but don't, and the entertaining qualities that might get you confused looks from people like teachers or...anyone else.

A certain former late night talk show host stated, and I'm paraphrasing, that he was excited to have a son because "he'll be just like me, he'll like 90% of the things I do, and he'll sit right next to me and not talk.  And oh, was I wrong."  To that extent, all I can do is continue to enjoy the things I do and then not help but be bewildered on what, of all things, connect.

I've written 3-4 metaphors and I can't come up with anything but the truth in that hearing the soundtrack to National Lampoon's Vacation hit.  So you enjoy the songs only so long until the audience starts to ask questions.  What's happening when this is on?  A 1-line answer doesn't suffice at this age.

"Can I see the movie?"

No...someday, but no.  It's for older people.

"But are there parts I can see?"

Sure!  Let me...(oh shit, what did I just do)

Explaining this to anyone else in the general public isn't the kind of thing that makes an overflowing pool of friends, but you'd be surprised to find who is caught off guard by this development, enjoys the trip down memory lane, and in conclusion, does not judge you.  And why not?  

Dinner time arrives, and when asked what music would be the preference, I'm told "Smooth Jazz."  Not by any adult.  Smooth Jazz, each and every time, and while that means most meals sound like someone left the TV on the Welcome Channel at an 1980s hotel, so be it. 

This is going to change, you know.  There will be some thing, almost certainly media-related, that will be undoubtedly current and modern, that she and I will both like...and there will be even more that she likes and I think is awful.  It's how it goes. 

But between you and me: if she genuinely enjoys watching current commercials, why won't she watch old commercials...with me?!

Hell Breaks Loose

After the dogs n burgers went down on the 4th, and fireworks properly viewed and enjoyed, the return to work brought only the most cursory conversation that it was going to be hot over the weekend.  "Did you hear?  100 on Friday.  Wait...it might be hotter.  Is that for here?"

Leading into the day, it was accepted and/or assumed that it was going to be 105; a stark contrast from the 4th, but it's Summer...that's how it goes.   Then Friday arrived.

Holy shit.

Shit.

You know when you open the oven to take out a pizza or whatever?  Imagine that outside.  Well, I wasn't imaging it, and it couldn't be that unusual.  I've driven to Las Vegas in June, ate in Baker at sundown when the world's largest thermometer was triple digits.  So...wait, is it me or is it getting hotter?

115

I tried to cool down inside, but the indoor temp kept rising, too. Well of course it is...you can't win this fight. It was around this time that I went briefly outside to watch the plants die that I noticed quite the problem: the AC wasn't moving...but the fan was on inside which means...HEY! This'll be fun to fix!

SHIT

Checking circuits, switching shit, waiting for a thunderbolt to fall from the sky to save me or impart me with knowledge...none of it arrived. Temperatures were rising HAHA

It was like no euphemism I can think of to get the caravan west to the beach in the evening. It wouldn't be repaired until tomorrow, so let's cool it down - even in the dark. No surprise that we weren't alone in that feeling, the San Diego Freeway busier than usual for a Friday night with plenty Happy Brakes out there...but I made it to the PCH and even the salt air was cooking. I slept like a fallen log.

I drove back to Heat City and the solace of my neighbor's, awaiting the repair man while everyone else sipped drinks in pools right and left.

Of course, it was very quickly fixed, I was given an education, gave the guy some extra cash (because I'm a compassionate man who also was very happy to have AC) and it was taco time. Didn't mean the house was cool yet, but after the updated supplies from Ralphs, I was reportedly found relaxing on the couch, Pacifico in koozie, watching the Dodgers give Anaheim a few pointers. (Ross Stripling is going to throw a...well, look at that, strike 3. Next?)

By Sunday morning everything was "normal" inasmuch it was "only" 98, but damn near 20 degrees cooler is damn near 20 degrees cooler. After a minute out of the pool, it was all I could do to amble home, look at my dead plants, and rationalize my life with "at least the beer is cold."

The Longest Day

It was 5AM (or so I was told).  "Can I watch something?"  I stumbled out and damn near collapsed on the slumber party mattress.  "Today is the longest day!"

Already, this early, I think you're right.

Make bacon as fast as possible, essentially ignored as I leave home.  Off to show up when others don't.  Wait, wait...eh, fuck it.  Gotta go to the mill.

Meetings cancelled, time for reflection.  This will be a full day in terms of sun...let's try to keep it otherwise. 

Deals discussed.  A few laughs, nod in agreement.  Off to get sun.  And to think, on this very spot yesterday, I ate what was reported to be dinosaur meat.  (Not as gamey as I anticipated, but not that tender, either)  After more wood was chopped, I returned to view the horizon.  The sun was unrelenting, though an ocean breeze kept it cool. 

In-between bites of a Cuban sandwich I reminded all that there was much left to do with all this sun.  So we headed home and pet dogs for a while.

Goof and more goof, then a fleeting look outside brought an already-set sun.  Check it out...let's hang on.  To what, specifically?  The feeling.

It was dusk...I laid down and she sang me a tune.  The sun doesn't stay long in southern states, it's true.  We boogie on after dark.