Sunday, January 29, 2006

Fear and Loathing at the Buick Invitational

Look closely. At first glance, you may say, okay, that's a small bathroom. Then you blink, think of more pleasant thoughts, and resume your daily meanderings. Today, however, is not a day where I can allow you to look away. It pains me, in fact, to suggest that this would be your response to such a vision; yea, I shalt admit that if presented with such stark toiletation, I would perhaps affect a similar response. Affect, I say, for it would be but an affectation. To think, I, in face of such toiletalitarianism, would be swayed to negate the very CORE of my being, all for which I stand? You forget your author, and I assume too much from my readers. But I shan't assume again, for when I do such, Dear Reader, it merely makes an ass of both myself and thine.

So look closer.

"Say," you might perhaps.. say.. , "Isn't that a shower curtain?"
"Exactly," my Holmes would say to your Watson. "Carry on, young investigator!"
"So that's really a .... shower?"
"PRECISELY! And that would mean that..."
"By Jove, sir! There's a Toilet in the Shower!"
"You've done it, young adept of life's mystery."
"But sir.." spaketh the adept, "Why?"

I could not answer my apprentice, for the evil, if spoken, could then be considered bespoken, and we all would be doomed, or perhaps even damned, to a greater extent than usual. And by that I mean... more than usual.

This photo is perhaps the summation to a week and weekend which could only be considered .. unclassifiable. Lovecraftian, in its very .... inability to be classified. For meditative purposes, I decided to smoke a cigarette, for the clearing of the mind be always mine own greatest mission. This clarity led me to the discovery that my cigarettes lay in the middle of the driveway, having been run over by mine own vehicle. Perhaps by me. On Friday, I was the willing passenger in my own vehicle, having relinquished the onus (and the ability) of driving to another. Upon exit, cigarettes off my lap, onto the ground. Next day, wake up, drive over them on return from the morning coffee run. Lucily, the car merely rode over the pack, so it lay, bruised but salvageable, underneath the carriage of the car, not, like many (and one specifically) characters of Hesse's oeuvre, crushed, Beneath the Wheel.

The weekend climaxed (and really, like a typical weekend, just rolls over and goes to sleep afterwards) with a trip to the Buick Invitational, since I got the free ticket kickdown by a loving friend. I got to see all the heavy hitters; Mickelson, Woods, Garcia, et al. Jim Nantz even drove by me in a golf cart. Looked just like I thought he would, too. Big dude. Standing against the rope boundary, I turned to see Davis Love III walking two feet away, up towards the tenth tee box. It still felt like T.V. There were still rope fences, policemen, security, people with customized golf standing chairs. Once the last group (Tiger, Sergio Garcia, some other guy) had played the 15th, I went and used the Players Only Porta-Potty. Some golfers had definitely taken some shits in there, but by jove it was certainly one of the cleanest porta-potties I have ever experienced. As I contemplated the Professional Origins of the most recent shit pile below (Too small for John Daly or Craig Statler, probably more like a David Toms or a Justin Leonard effort), I felt the presence of greatness. I was in the company of champions.

As it turned out, this discussion of toiletry worked perfectly as an analogous comparison to the penultimate conclusion of the match. At the 18th green I sat (in the stands, special pass, bitches), awaiting the arrival of the three players involved in the sudden-death extra hole playoff; Tiger Woods, Jose Maria Olazabul, and Something Green from Australia. I forget his first name, and frankly, I should. He had the perfect drive, outdistancing Tiger and J.M.O. His second shot, however, flew off to the left of the green and into the stands. Lucklily for him, free drop, since it's a manmade hazard. And then, dear Reader, not since Najeh Davenport left the messy Kryzewski in that poor co-ed's laundry basket has a sports figure done something so inexcusable. Homeboy green mishits his chip, then COMPLETELY FLUBS his second chip as well. Goes Two Inches. Game over that guy. (Which is too bad; he had a great tournament and a sweet eagle that I got to see firsthand).

So then we go Tiger and Olazabul. Next hole. Tiger drives green, two putts, par. Jose Maria Olazabal drives into the sand trap, but hits an absolutely perfect recovery chip. Two feet to the hole. Lines it up. Hits it. COMPLETE, UTTER FAILURE: MISS. Tiger wins, and even he's embarassed for J.M.O.

I didn't even get to see it live, since the hordes leaving the 18th green bottlenecked all traffic, and the match was over soon after (a quick par 3, thank you very much, there's cab fare on the dresser). I got to see it on a big screen TV from the sidelines of the 17th fairway.

As I walked away from the fabled South Course of Torrey Pines Municipal (where I once shot a 104, bitches), I felt comfortable, safe in the knowledge that the world is slowly warping to adjust to mine own level of disreputableness and disappointment, as indicated by the lackluster display of professionalism and skill exhitited before me.

I do thank the day, however, for providing me with one certainty : Like the unknown professional did before me, it's always better to shit in the cozy confines of the Players Only porta-potty than to emulate Jose Maria Olazabul and that Green guy, who in their losing efforts, shat directly on the Green, the PGA Tour, and thusly, on their very Selves.

Tuesday, January 24, 2006

Every night Jon-Benet talks dirty to me from Beyond the Grave (and we discuss New Year's Resolutions, the Broncos, etc..)

Such are the song lyrics that run through my mind. "Police!" you shout, "This man! Now!"To this chorus of dissent, I can only say: Hear me out. You see, Jon-Benet and I go way back. Before living in this corner of the Lower California, I did, for a five year period of my life, live in Boulder, Colorado.

After she was murdered, if you must know. But for anyone who has spent any time in Boulder, and become familiar with the sensationalistic ubergasm that was THE JON BENET RAMSEY CASE, I thee acknowledge and can only respond, in kind, "I know you've heard the voices, too."

You see, Patsy did it. I've read the books. I lived in the town. Not to rehash it, since you all are doubtlessly familiar with the main points, but you make your child a beauty queen, Beware of Darkness. And it's ridiculously obvious to all involved who the guilty parties are: Everyone in that entire fucking family. Don't fucking breed if you're that fucked up. Granted, Jon Benet had to die: The karmic forces created by forcing a child into beauty pageantry are peerless amongst even the icy winds of ultimate transgression; nature has little precedent for comparison. I fear for a parallel dimension wherein young Miss Ramsey lives on - what could teenage and young adulthood hold, save a delirious, darkened destiny?

Moving on. The frequency of my posting has slowed recently, yes, due to a terrible clarity which hath pervaded mine own consciousness : Sobriety! Three weeks without Weed or Dairy Products, the end result of New Year's latest resolution. This all ended horribly, however, when my beloved Denver Broncos shat not only their bed, but the beds of millions of Bronco fans across Colorado and the surrounding areas. About the game, I can only say I do not blame Jake. If the fucking Bronco defense could have made ONE FUCKING STOP the entire 1st half, we could have pulled some shit out. But NO. Every third and ten, fucking Big Ben gets a twenty five yard completion. Wide fucking open. FUCK. Regardless, Papa needed his medicine after that one, and medicine he did get. In spades. And tonight's dinner of Pizza with Klondike Bar dessert ensures that the dairy portion of said resolution hath also went the way of the dodo. But so be it; I knew that you, Dear Reader, were in need of some of mine own oratory homeopathy, and who am I to deny a friend in need?

Since we're talking about Colorado, and specifically Boulder, I will tell you that the greatest live music venue in the nation, Bar FUCKING none, is the Fox Theater. Now, I'm no musical slouch; I been to dive bars, I been to M.S.G. on New Years Eve, I've been to inbetweeners, I done seen big and small, loud and quiet, and I done been round that block. Bottom Line: Holds about 700 people, Loudest yet CLEAREST music sound system, from everywhere you feel a part of the music. Now I admit; I was a bit of a hippie back in the day, and I done liked to do experimentin' with them hallucinogens. But I also done been there sober on many occasions, and it's all good.

And since we're talking about music, I shalt confess: I do enjoy reading the "Celebrity Playlists" over at the ITunes website. Having recently acquired the Pod of I, I hath learned that digital music be the bomb. In fact, as I composed this entire letter of love to YOU, Dear Reader, I was listening to it THE. ENTIRE. TIME. And now, since I am your own Private Celebrity (a Celebrity for money, do what you want me to do), I thee present my Private Celebrity PlayList, composed of the songs I was listening to (or currently am still listening to) whilst composing this very amalgamation of letters.

Song One: "My Sweet Lord," George Harrison Concert for Bangladesh.

I was watching Access Hollywood tonight on the TV at the gym, and lo and behold, they show clips of George Harrison and start talking about "Celebrity Wills" and how his last will and testament has no provision for the trust should both his wife and son die as well. Fuck you, Pat O'Brien. I will always have a special place in my heart for George Harrison, so I listen to the six songs after this one, but get especially "happy" when I hear the next song on my list..

Song Two: "Beware of Darkness," George Harrison Concert for Bangladesh

.. specifically the part on the third verse when Leon Russell comes in and moans, "Watch out now, take care beware.."

Song Three: "Dean's Dream," The Dead Milkmen, Big Lizard in my Backyard

Perennial favorite on the "Get Psyched for High School Athletic Events" mix, along with "Missippi Queen," "Battle of Evermore,""The Song Remains the Same," and many others.

Song Four: "Peace, Love, and Understanding," Elvis Costello

After the Milkmen, I had to get serious, because I knew Jon Benet awaited, awaiting to be written, nay, blogged about the place. And when she beckons, I become indignant, and become compelled to right wrongs, much like Elvis in this song, calling out the so-called "strong" and "trusted," and asking, plaintitively, "Where is the harmony? Sweet harmony?"

Song Five:"Pass the Gat," Brand Nubian In God We Trust

I think Jon Benet requested this one. I was powerless to stop her. "Pass me the Gat," she begged, lifting her small hand to mine, "And just like that, I squeeze like a man possessed from the old West."

Song Six:"One Brown Mouse," Jethro Tull Bursting Out Live

Because I like middle aged Englishmen dressed like minstrels from the dark ages leaping aroud the stage in tights, and playing highly organized, acoustic electric hybrids of morbid, nonsensical delight.

Song Seven: "Say It Ain't So," Weezer Weezer

(... feedback ...) wooooooooaaaahhh.. "SAY IT AIN'T SO!! MY LOVE IS A LIFE TAKER!"

Song Eight: "I Bleed," Pixies Doolittle

Since listening to most Weezer tunes (and Radiohead's "Creep" alike) bring me back to the Masters of the slow- verse-slowly-building-to-the-guitar frenzied-chorus, The Pixies.

Song Nine: "Mockingbirds," Grant Lee Buffalo Mighty Joe Moon

Because I'm sensitive, damnit, and the rocking out is burning out my adrenal glands, and it's time to bring this post to a close. But no IPod/Blogging binge would be complete without the resolution provided by...

Song Ten: "Bridge over Troubled Waters," Elvis Presley (The Kang)

Since grade school, I have been forever troubled by any literary bridges spanning any bodies of water due to one horrifying childhood incident, in which I watched the movie Bridge to Terabithia. I believe that any child of the Massachusetts public school system shares this archetypal memory of darkness, a film wherein a poor girl drowns in a rain storm raging river, crossing a bridge she built out of a log which led to a secret hiding spot, dubbed "Terabithia." There she escaped her abusive family, and she frequented this locale with her friend, a neighboring boy. Whenever I hear The King belt out his (far superior than the original) version, I think of the little boy, walking down to the waters edge, thinking of his lost friend.

Sail on, Silver Girl. He thinks.
Sail On By.
Your time has come to shine. All your dreams are on their way.

And he finds comfort in those words, that vision, Serenity sailing on into the setting sun, solace and hope anew.

It's what I think of when I think about an innocent young child, murdered in her own basement, and no one arrested or imprisoned. In the eyes of Socrates, the unimprisioned suffer greater by their own self torture, and hopefully that is the case for whomever did in young J.B.R.

Sailing Right Behind.
Like a Bridge to Terabithia.

Tuesday, January 17, 2006

Oh where are you now, Pussy Willow that smiled on this Leaf?

"The time has come," spaketh mine own inner conscience, "To talk of many things." For too long this blog has been filled with generalities, pregnant with the inconsequential. But you, dear reader, you demand more. You Demand Better. And frankly, you DESERVE better. Who am I to withhold the truth, the veracity of my own soul, when you put forth the effort to arrive at this site, every day, seeking, nay, expecting, satisfaction? My new Goal? To Thee Quench. So Quaff away, ye of inner thirst, and fill the empty bowels of thine own depravity with mine. For, as you may have heard , my cup runneth over.

I will disclose a bit of mine own truth. I recently reached the modern age of music, 'ere around the time of the celebration of the mass of Christ, with the attainment of the Pod of I. Specifically, the video pod of I. The black one. And it's fuckin' dope. Word to thine own respective mothers; let them know I'll be by soon to pick up my bestained vetements; and drop off a bounty of me own excess kibbles, maybe some bits. And bits. And bits.

Due to the acquisition of the aforementioned object, my blogupdating (yea, t'is one word) has fallen by the side of way, some would say wayside, and some would be correct, some would not be, but judgement, befalling us all, would simply be. Sitting in front of a computer at work all day, and then at home burning my entire collection of music, has not only diminished my eyesight, but hindered me own desire to type or stare at a monitor. BUT TIME HAS COME TODAY, old hearts will go their way; the burning is done. 2500+ songs later, three books of CDs, many, many days passed to reach the realms of my current disposition. So there is time, yea, to return to the origin, nay, the genesis of this whole blogsterectomy. Telling Tales.

The very first post on this very Weblog involved a party, wherein my lovely roommate won a Camel (the cigarette) party pack valued at $1000 +, where they sent smoking jackets (one which I wear to this very day), a new stereo, cigarette holders, fedora hats, feather boas, etc. It brought to mind the day in college when as Freshmen we held a "40's Party," and our friend Katie said she was so excited to "wear a flapper dress." "Katie," we told her, "We mean 40 ounces. Like St. Ides."

And let me tell you about St Ides, my friends and never neighbors. That shit is the single strongest 40 ounce available, at least if you are subject to the idiom in which my disposition exists manifest. Not only have I unsuccessfully hit on innocent young women every time I consumed its plentiful poison, but I also did other things. Which I can't remember. Just the rejection.

But getting back to my first posting. 23 posts later, I am willing to share one story which occurred during that time; the story of Plumber Paul.

The tale of our consonantly ascribed friend begins one day, when an inordinate amount of shit clogged one of the toilets in our house. Having been built in the 1940's, the plumbing in said domicile isn't exactly up to the "snuff" in which the new millenium s'est situee. But it's ok. So the cup of shite done run over, and we had to call some outsourced plumbing goodness. And like a criminal to Florida, so done cometh the Plumber man.

At first glance, he seemed like a great guy. Sober (REMEMBER THIS DESCRIPTION), knowledgeable about plumbing, calloused; in short, that which you look for in a laborer. Turns out, he lived in our 'hood. "Here's my number," he thusly spoke. "I'll come by when I'm not on call with the company, and hook it up for you, under the table, cheap, etc." And though "etc." he did not verily speak, I summarize to open thine own eyes to see the point of the ice pick. Some suckers say we're free I gotta disagree. But tequila grabst (like Jeff doth Probst) mine own capacity of mental focus and attempt to turn me toward Ice T, O.G., which really doth contain one of my favorite tunes (and currently playing on the 'pod as I type) of all time, "Pulse of the Rhyme." But enough about my street cred - You know I got it. Bow down and frown 'cause I'm down with the brown. Yes, heroin.

So we're like "Plumber Paul, you down with our crew now. Come by on Saturday, we're having a bash, fix our plumbing, then hang out, get absolutely shitty, and do some of the worst shit.." OH Wait! I almost spoiled the surprise. But basically, you get the idea - come on by, Sir Paul, fix it up, we'll hook it up.

So he comes by. We pour him a nice Vodka drink. He goes under the house. And in California, ain't nobody got no basements - earthquake shake of death and all. So he gives our home's undercarriage a little how's your father, and bada bing, bada bang, plumbing's working. "Paul, you the man," etc. Have a drink. And another. And another.

So I roll home after a tough day doing something. See laughing Plumber Paul. Having a good ole time. I'm like, "Sweet. I'm a motherfucking (co) home owner. Under the table labor solves problems. Life is good. I'm gonna make it, this fucking life of mine, I'm gonna let it shine, Pour a beer, put on a smoking jacket, let's rock."

And then I notice Plumber Paul. Talking to our favorite housemate's mother. With said mother's husband right next to her. Talking loudly. Talking shit. And then he starts telling her that she looks good. Telling me that "Your roommate's mother is hot." Spilling drinks. Falling over himself. And it's still daylight outside. But hey, it's a party, let's rock.

So nightfall comes. Plumber Paul is out of his mind. Fellow co-homeowner/housemate is behind the bar, serving up cocktails. I am on the back porch, enjoying a smoke, talking to some friends, being atypically social, etc. Fellow co-homeowner/housemate has a sister. At the time, unmarried, yet engaged. Fiance is at the party as well. I am on the porch with Plumber Paul. Having a (I think at the time) harmless discussion.

Plumber Paul: "I'm so fucking wasted. See that girl? I wanna fuck that girl."
Me: "Nice. Yeah, she's good looking. (kind of blase, kind of egging him on)"
P.P. : "Shit, I'm so fucking wasted. (he stumbles, I help him up)"
Me: "Why don't you tell her she's cute?"
P.P.: "(garbled something or other) Nah.. (actually showing restraint.)"
Me: "Hey, (girl's name withheld to protect the innocent) Have you met Plumber Paul?"
Girl: (smiling, walking away nervously)
Girl's Fiance: "Hey Paul, I'm (name withheld)"
P.P.: (drunkenly falls over. gets up.) "Name withheld, I want to fuck your wife." And then, most importantly, HIDEOUS LAUGHTER. From P.P. Cackling. Yet wholly serious.
Me: (laughing like I've never laughed before)

Ok, so really, that's the whole story. Shakespeare be it not, but Shakespeare be not I. I grabst the poor young fiancee's brother, and he walked P.P. to his Plumbing truck, and threw him in the passenger seat. And, in a twist of fate not cruel but cool, Me housemate, the Golden Shower himself, got to drive the plumbing truck. He dropped of P.P. in front of a house after P.P. indicated "here, this is my house," but when he got out, he walked in another direction, and lord knows where he ended up. My roommate walked back to the party and resumed the festivities.

Fatigue and alcohol hath dulled my senses; perhaps this post is valid only to those who were there. Or insulted. But as Melina says, no second guessing posts in Aught Six. T'is what T'is.

And as an addendum to such ridiculum, most importantly, I must say goodbye to Lou Rawls.

Thank you for everything.

Love is a Hurtin' thing.

Monday, January 09, 2006

The Ghost of Drinks Yet to Come...

Throughout history, man has vaingloriously searched for glimpses of an unknown, some would say ethereal presence, manifesting through the ordinary and mundane details of life. Fervently driven by the fiery passion of diligent dreamers, our kin have witnessed weeping statues, stigmatic still lifes, images of iconography religious and otherwise, etched in living oak, stained into lascivious linen, found in foodstuffs. Several months past, there was a certain party celebrated for a certain housemate, and unbeknowst to us at the time, there were... OTHERS in attendance... Others of a divine, perhaps demonic, but certainly.. otherworldly origin. Specifically (and reverently) I thee present, Dear Reader, Sir Floating Skull Face, unseen until downloaded, staring down at us through the oversized martini glass..

.. Only to receive a Seductively sullen stare in return.

And a fuzzy one for good measure.

Now, I'm no luddite, but I now know how to break an old washing machine: Put a large load on a small cycle, sit back and smell the sweet, salient scent of Triumph.


Cleaning a kegerator, however, falls under someone else's jurisdiction of responsibility. But seriously, everyone, get your hand off that fucking mouse. Look. Look closely. This is a rare, one of a kind, IN ACTION photograph of a kegerator cleaning. I've seen your New Year's resolutions lists. I know your inner dreams and goals; your very fantasies circle the fringes of mine own psychic consciousness, waiting to be realized, hoping for acknowledgement. So look; nay, look well. Regard this incarnation of thine hope, manifest.

Water goes in, AND WATER COMES OUT!*

Apparently, however, I cannot seem to remove the time date stamp from a picture, although many have tried to explain the process, I simply smile, nod my head, and plod on, unsuccessfully.

One thing I do know, however, is that a good manservant is a priceless commodity, specifically one cartoonish and green. Like Gumby.

And when preparing for festive occasions, those half-barrels can be quite the load. So why not have others bear the burden of our own spoils? And spills?

Easy there, big fella. Lift with your legs, not with your back.

Uh oh.. looking a little shaky...

Alright, Gumby, step aside.

Mount that golden shower like only you can..

And calmly witness the throng of gin-soaked pilgrims flocking to pay homage to skull-face-in-the-glass: apparition, lover, deceiver, thwarter of bad tidings, beatific harbringer of a gloriously strange and enigmatic Aught Six for one and all.

*Um.. what the fuck?

Sunday, January 01, 2006

The Captain and da Neil

When thinking of traditional holiday tidings, yule logs, Christmas, and, eventually, New Years, one's mind inevitably turns to the "out with the old and in with the new" procession walked by our favorite characters, the emaciated, grey haired, toga wearing fellow who represents the "old year" and the little sash wearing baby who's all "Waaaaa I'm the New Year waaa I just shit myself" etc.

This year, however, there were only two characters. Representing, well, any and every aspect of the annual transition from December to January, the one, the only, Captain New Year.

Yes, the Good Captain himself. He looks a tad familiar, no? Yes, after investing in a custom gold body suit for his halloween costume, he couldn't just let it get one use, could he?

I think not.

Which brings us to (in a stupefyingly unabrupt transition) to the Neil Diamond concert, where the other character of the New Year bequeathed himself to our world: Hell, I had someone else in mind, but let's just make it Neil himself, timeless representative of years past and yet to come.

I accompanied Captain New Year to the concert (about a week before New Years Eve), and although he did not have the gold suit, he's still a dreadlocked dude who happened to be wearing a leisure suit. Neil's crowd, while containing all types, tended toward the elderly - It's one of the first times I was asked to sit down at a concert. Actually aggressively grabbed by the fucker behind me, who tried to play it off like someone behind him asked him to do it for him, but I knew better. But that's beside the point.

So about three quarters through the show (which was utterly and epicly amazing), the band slows it down, and Neil starts talking. He talks about love, life, and hints briefly at the meaning of it all. And then he says the following; "I want each of you to turn to the person to your right, put your arm around them, and tell them 'I love you.'"

I hear this, and I think it's just fucking lovely - the captain is to my right, and he already knows I love him (but not in that way, geesh, you guys) - but even if he weren't, I'd be down all the same - spreading love and harmony between people is always fucking great, especially in the loving environment provided by The Neil. But to The Captain's right.... is crotchety old ex-marine looking guy, who has sat the entire concert with his arms crossed, and looked generally pissed, with an expression of "I'm only here to get the wife off my back and I would sooner kill everyone here than admit any of this shit (i.e. emotions, appreciation of art/music) has any value at all."

So The Captain, in his white leisure suit, throws his arm around the crotchety dude, looks him in the eye, and tells him.. "I love you, man."

And the fucker's response?

"Do you want to fucking live?"

I think, though, that he had something else on his mind. What he really wanted to say was..

"Lower the groin shield, Captain!"