The summer so far--in a nutshell:

- When a small hole opened up in my schedule, I was able to submit to LifeTwo, the internet's number one site dedicated to midlife issues.  Check out my article on the Top Ten Midlife Crisis Movies. 

- I found myself in Sears recently.  What a waste of linoleum.  They're getting crushed by Target and Wal-Mart because they don't have carts or checkout lines.  At Sears you clutch what you can, like some wildfire evacuee, and go off in search of a sales clerk - and those weasels hide behind clearance racks when they see you coming.  Carts and checkout lines, that's my free advice to Messrs. Sears and Roebuck.  That's how Best Buy crushed Circuit City. 

- HelloRocky.com was once again rated highest in initial quality by J.D. Powers and Associates.  Actually, while Mr. Powers likes the site, his "associates," a bunch of MBAs, dismissed the whole concept of HelloRocky.com, calling it "overwritten and under-edited." Screw them!  If they were top-tier MBAs they would have gone to work for Goldman Sachs or Nabisco. 

- Our ObamaFest site is still rocking the political world.  We earned Barry the Democratic nomination and we're ramping up our staff for the general election. 

Epiphany - I'm the most wonderful man in the world.  Look how I spend my time: helping baby boomers transition to their golden years; advising struggling corporations; answering questions from a befuddled public; and changing the course of world history by propelling Senator Obama over a man who napalmed Vietnamese children.  I'm not saying I'm ready for sainthood, but I'm feeling venerable. 

        

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The office is now on "summer hours."  I tell the crew, "If you feel like a popsicle, have a popsicle."  Or a Fresca.  Or some melon.

I don't have a summer trip lined up.  No plane tickets.  No car reservations.  If I travel it will be in the fall.  That's when the smart money hits the road. 

What I do have are these:



New sneakers.  It's been awhile.  I've been kicking around town in running shoes, but I've never liked that look -- too middle-aged, too Larry David. 

These Nike court shoes rock.  They're vibrant.  Not everybody has the strong personality necessary to pull off  orange-trimmed footwear.  But they look good on me. 

They pair well with denim:



If I'm headed to P.F. Chang's - or a gated community - I can mate these shoes with some khakis:



I discovered these shoes at Marshall's.  The merchandise there is usually out-of-season, or discontinued, or factory seconds.  But once in a while you get lucky and find something top-shelf.  This was one of those times and I take it as a good omen for the summer ahead. 

Epiphany - This was the only pair of shoes like this at Marshall's.  They're a size 13.  Not everybody is a size 13.  I'm not even a size 13 and that almost kept me away.  Then I realized that this is going to be the summer of expanding possibilities, expanding consciousness, possibly even expanding feet.  These shoes will be my reminders, for the next three months, that what I was in the past does not dictate what I will be in the future.  The old Nike motto "Just Do It" is played out.  It did the job, got people off the couch, created a cosmic inertia.  But now that kinetic energy needs to be channeled to a higher purpose.  The mantra for this epochal summer of 2008, "Just Do It Bigger and Better." 

        

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It's Memorial Day.  I skipped the mattress sales and went to the cemetery. 

A bunch of folks showed up to honor America's fallen soldiers. 




The VFW guys  pulled color guard duty.   The two gentlemen in back are Pearl Harbor survivors.  I'll do the math for you - Pearl Harbor was in 1941 - sixty seven years ago.  These veterans have earned the right to wear those Hawaiian shirts under their white windbreakers.    



Memorial Day boilerplate followed: The Invocation, Pledge of Allegiance, and National Anthem - sung by the Saddleback Master Chorale with a slow, haunting lilt that evoked somber images of post-battle Gettysburg. 

Richard Pignone of VFW Post 2660 read "The Story of the Poppy," a simple little poem.  If you or I had read this tale of a "fair-haired soldier" who didn't make it home it would have sounded hokey.  But in his reading, told to an inquisitive child from the soldier's mother's point of view, the words caught in Mr. Pignone's throat.  They meant something to him.  Something powerful.  In the audience it was hanky time.

Then the Chorale sang "Shenandoah," a gray, overcast tune - probably the original B-side to "When Johnny Comes Marching Home."

The day peaked when Cpl. USMC Ehren Terbeek gave the Memorial Day Address:



This kid is class.  He's finishing up at Saddleback College and entering Chapman University in the fall.  And, by the way, he did multiple tours in Iraq, participating in the original battle for Baghdad and the bloody fight for Fallujah.   Like the great soldiers before him he doesn't share the gory details.  He doesn't explain how he got his Purple Heart or why he's had several back surgeries.  Rather, he talks about his friends who went down those dangerous streets with him and didn't come back.  He talks about their courage, their personalities, their families, and about the voids left in the wake of their deaths.  And he says not a day goes by without him thinking of reenlisting and returning to his place on the line. 

Epiphany - The bugler wrapped things up with "Taps," the last song on every military man's set list.  The sun sets on each day and eventually, each life.  Jesus, is that today's lesson?  I wanted something more upbeat, but surrounded by witnesses to seven decades of war I wasn't sure I would find it.  These men had seen humanity in its ugliest guises.  But had they not also seen the best side of our natures?  The most heroic?  I finally found the punctuation mark that this day deserved, a bright red exclamation point sitting in the parking lot:



I know, it's just a Mini Cooper.  But check out the license plate, jerkies:



That's how this Pearl Harbor survivor rolls.  Sixty seven years ago he was minding his own business, sleeping off an umbrella drink hangover in his bunk in the Schofield Barracks, when the Japanese Navy tried to blow him up.  He could be taking life easy now, rolling down the boulevard in the hushed comfort of a Buick La Sabre.  But this guy still wants to feel the world beneath him.  He doesn't see the curves that life throws our way as bad things -  to him they are reasons to accelerate.  That's the lesson of this Memorial Day.  Every day ends with "Taps" but every morning brings a fresh blast of "Reveille."        

        

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Life has a way of coming full circle.  March Madness is over yet I found myself back in Anaheim, at the Honda Center, where the basketball tourney began four weeks ago. 

Only this time I came to rock:


At the intersection of Katella and E Street.

I took my nephew Logan to see his first Springsteen show.  It was time for him to learn that the poor man wants to be rich while the rich man wants to be king yet, oddly enough, the king aint satisfied 'til he rules everything.  The Boss ladles up these life lessons, seasoning with epiphanies like "it aint no sin to be glad you're alive." 

Before the show Logan asked about the big chair/throne on the left side of the stage.  I explained to him that The Big Man, Clarence Clemons, was getting on in years (he's 66).  When he's not playing the sax he needs to take a load off of his large frame.  He used to get by with a stool, but the chair/throne is more appropriate for one of the Three Most Important People in the World. 

Logan enjoyed the show.  His favorite part was when Rage Against the Machine's Tom Morello sat in.  He joined the gang for a long, jam band, doobie-worthy version of "The Ghost of Tom Joad."  It was powerful.   Of course, it's already up on YouTube.  Check it out.  If you don't have time to watch the whole nine minute jam at least fast forward to the 7:00 mark when Tom's guitar solo enters Marty McFly country.  I wanted him to say, "I guess you're not ready for that yet.  But trust me, your kids are going to love it." 

Epiphany - Most people talk too much.  Pick your spots and folks will pay attention to what you have to say.   I was reminded of this while watching Clarence.  For 90% of the show he sits on his throne, maybe shaking a tambourine, maybe not.  He's not one to waste energy, so when he gets up and grabs a sax you know he has something important to say and you pay attention.  And when he has something completely transcendent to say, like in Jungleland, you hang on every note.  You might even weep, but you're a tough guy and you don't want your nephew to see you weep.




   

        

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It was time to put an end to the 2007-2008 college basketball season. 

Monday broke warm and humid.  We cruised over to Austin's Magnolia Cafe (the one on S. Congress) for a late breakfast.  Then we lolligagged around the UT campus before heading back home to nap.  Tip-off in San Antonio was scheduled for 8:15.  We were pacing ourselves.

We rolled out of Austin around 4:30 and by 6 we were parking in a scrapyard near the Alamodome.  We strolled over to the Riverwalk area to grab a meal, settling on the local steakhouse Steers and Beers.   They serve big portions of low grade beef at modest prices - kind of like the South Texas version of Boston's Hungry Heifer.  I had a t-bone steak, medium rare.  Craig had a burger.

Outside the air was still sticky.  The Riverwalk crowd had thinned out as people made their way to the Alamodome.  I got a shot of Craig with some of the stragglers in the background. 



Then we circled around to where the ESPN guys were making their last minute prognostications.  For three weeks Dick and Digger have been sucking up to Bobby Knight and in return he has been cranky and condescending.  He lords over the set like he's Tony Soprano.  This shot is typical:  Knight pontificating while his co-hosts eagerly wait to jump in and curry his favor.   Dickie V. and Digger might as well start showing up in skirts since they've been so publicly and totally emasculated.




It was finally time to hoof it over to the 'Dome.  When we got to our seats we saw, as expected, a lot of new faces.  Many of the UCLA faithful chose not to return for the final game.  A couple of Latino tough guys had replaced the elderly Bruin fans who sat next to Craig on Thursday.  The young men work at a local hotel and were given the tickets by the oldsters.  They weren't big hoops fans, but they were jacked up to be there.  They asked Craig who to root for and he said Kansas.  Why not?  They were suddenly passionate Kansas fans, greeting every Jayhawk dunk with, "That's what I'm fucking talking about!"

You saw the game:  Kansas lead most of the way.  Late in the second half Memphis took over and with two minutes left were up by nine.  Kansas rallied and tied the game on a Mario Chalmers three-point shot with 2.1 seconds to go, sending it into overtime where they easily dispatched Memphis.  

Here's what you didn't see:  There were more UCLA fans in our section than I realized.  During one of the long timeouts in the second half, somebody started a Bruin 8-clap.   People all around perked up and joined in, then as quickly as it started it was over.  But it did the trick, sorta like the arena version of a group hug. 

Unfortunately, many of these same people yielded to their L.A. instincts and bolted during that timeout with 2:09 to go.  Holy shit.  I know things looked grim, but if there's a miracle comeback where do you want to be - in here watching it or out in the desert cactus looking for your rented Taurus?

Craig and I stayed, though neither of us expected Kansas to rally.  I realized I hadn't taken an action shot all weekend so I pulled out my Canon.  I figured I would get a shot of Memphis celebrating as the final buzzer sounded.  But events outran my plan and suddenly Kansas was coming down the court with a chance to tie.  I took a shot of Chalmers desperation three-pointer and with all of the luck of Abe Zapruder I captured one of the most memorable shots in college basketball history:



Note that:
1) The ball is still in mid-air and yet Chalmers has already taken three steps back.  He knows it's going in and he's getting ready to play defense. 
2) Kansas coach Bill Self has fallen to his knees behind the ref on the right.  He is ready to tip into a crying fetal position if the shot misses - as is his point guard across the court. 
3) Memphis coach John Calipari is covering his genitals like a soccer player defending a free kick.  He senses - correctly - that he is about to get kicked in the nuts.
4) Three rows up from Calipari some lady in a blue sweater is standing in the aisle with her back to the action.  She appears to be talking to some guy who no doubt punched her after the shot went in.

And the rest is history. 

March Madness.  It was a wild ride from that lazy Thursday afternoon in Anaheim to Monday night's drama in San Antonio.  All of your major emotions were represented: elation, sadness, fear, lust, bewilderment, smugness and grief.  And now that it's all over ennui is creeping in.  But that's all part of the game - life doesn't let you feast on the good without taking at least a few spoonfuls of the bad.  In the end it's all worth it. 

Epiphany - Thinking about those poor slobs who left early I realized that you have to change your behavior patterns as you change your environment.  I'm an L.A. guy and my shoes too got a little twitchy with two minutes to go.  But Christ, it's not like I had another NCAA Final Game to get to.  This wasn't Dodger Stadium in May, this was the crowning of a National Champion.  So much in life comes to those who merely stick it out.

  

        

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UCLA did not, in fact, call.  They didn't raise, either.  They folded.


Back to the NCAA Men's Basketball Final Four in San Antonio: 

Between Saturday's semifinals and Monday night's championship game, a lot went on.  The first issue was tickets - many UCLA and North Carolina fans couldn't stomach sticking around.  Many Kansas and Memphis fans who were shut out of the semis took a shot at seeing the final game.  The buying, selling and trading of seats turned San Antonio into the ticket world equivalent of Hong Kong. 

Despite UCLA's loss in the semis, the thought of not showing up for the finals was never an issue for my associate Craig and I.  March Madness is America at its most gonzo.  In the words of Hunter Thompson, "We'd be fools not to ride this strange torpedo to the end."

Sunday we recharged in Austin.  In the afternoon we did some light shopping then joined our hosts at a youth soccer game.  When we asked young Max if being on the wrong end of a 9-0 thumping provided any epiphanies, he offered, "Don't go into battle tired and shorthanded."   That kind of anti-Rumsfeldian insight will serve him well in life. 

Nothing "Friendly" about 9-0.

Sunday night meant a visit to the Saxon Pub, where The Resentments were playing.  I opened up to the eclectic music and eclectic crowd by drinking an eclectic brew, the Live Oak Pale Ale.  It had a beautiful copper color topped with a thick rich head - much like Rocky Petralia in the summer of '81. 


The Saxon pays homage to Def Leppard's drummer.

Epiphany - If you need to get over the sting of traveling 1500 miles to see your favorite team lose a basketball game, try this recipe:  Warm friends, cold beer and good music.  The world will feel right again.


   


 

        

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"...like Gods watching from on high on Mt. Olympus."

From our perch high in the Alamodome rafters we watched UCLA get bounced from the NCAA tournament, their three week ride to glory abruptly derailed in the South Texas desert. 


Rocky and UCLA get knocked off track in San Antonio.

Epiphany - Life goes on.  Just minutes after UCLA and Memphis cleared the court, Kansas and North Carolina jogged on to rousing cheers.  The Bruin faithful were sad, but the rest of the world had already forgotten UCLA.  They were just another log on a 62 team bonfire, no more or less memorable than the all the other losers and might-have-beens. 

And we found comfort in this.  Wake up.  The Grim Reaper has all of us in his sights, and before our obituary hits the recycle bin the world will have moved on.  The only answer is to grab Life while we we are able.  It's why we are in San Antonio in the first place.  The only scoreboard that matters is the one that tallies our Moments.  

        

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The Alamodome - San Antonio, Texas


I can't stop now - I'm in too deep.  Tomorrow I fly to Texas to see The Final Four. 

Two weeks ago this tournament started with 64 teams.  I witnessed eight of them, including UCLA, slug it out at Anaheim's Honda Center.

Sixteen teams entered play last weekend and I monitored the games from Las Vegas.

Now just four teams remain and I need to see how this whole kerfuffle plays out - in person.  My associate Craig has secured tickets for Saturday's semi-finals and Monday night's championship game in San Antonio.  I've secured lodging for us in nearby Austin.  It's a bunk bed.  I've already dibbed (dibsed?) bottom.


The Alamo - San Antonio, Texas


Epiphany - William Travis said* at the Alamo, "One crowded hour of glorious life is worth an age without a name."  Travis was hip to the sad math that rules our lives: 99% Boilerplate plus 1% Moments -  "Moments" being those tiny nuggets of time that give our existence its texture, its soul.  We're following this tournament to its conclusion because of the abundance of Moments it has already served up, and because of the riches that still await.



*Actually, the actor (Patrick Wilson) who played Travis in the 2004 movie said this.  In real life, who knows?  In real life all the white guys were killed. But our point still stands.

        

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The UCLA Bruins spent Weekend #2 of March Madness in Phoenix.  Since Phoenix is Las Vegas without the casinos, and since I like casinos, I followed the Bruins' games from a penthouse suite at the Venetian Hotel.  The suite belonged to Craig, an associate who made his accommodations a gathering place for hoops fans in general and Bruin faithful in particular. 

My lodging was in the adjacent Casino Royale Hotel and Casino.  We're not sure why this little motel keeps taking up valuable real estate, but here it sits like a dingleberry in a box of truffles:



Note that it has a Denny's and an Outback on-site.  I'm a big fan of both establishments, and at the CR you can wake up to a Grand Slam and nod into deep slumber as the scent of Bloomin' Onions wafts through the building. 

The rooms are cute.  Check out the plantation shutters:



Pretty sweet.  And the view is post-modern industrial chic - a little greenery, some pavement, a chain link fence and my fellow lodger's vehicles.  All very convenient.  Here's the view looking in:



I felt secure behind that big mound of sand.  It made me think I was in the Vegas equivalent of the Baghdad Green Zone, where the only thing that could ruin my weekend would be a well-placed mortar round. 

I had to wait until midday to get the above picture because the Casino Royale spends all morning in the shadows cast by the Venetian Industrial Complex:




Big, honking luxurious hotel.  So what?  Who needs fancy digs when you can save more than a few bucks at a respectable inn like the CR?  Besides, if you're doing Vegas the right way, you should be exhausted enough by the end of the night to sleep well in a dumpster.

The most important thing is that everybody had a good time and nobody got hurt.  The Bruins won two more games and continue on to San Antonio.  I've got half a mind (and a full wallet) to follow them.  Stay tuned.

Epiphany - Question: What's the first thing we ask somebody who's headed to Vegas? Answer: Where are you staying?  I realize now what a vacuous question that is.  We should really ask: Why?  Why are you going to Las Vegas?  To gamble?  To reconnect with friends?  Because your wife has been riding your ass and needs to be trotted out?  Are you going to see the Blue Man Group?   When somebody answers honestly to "Why" they are going to Vegas, they expose their very core to you and give you a glimpse of a void in their life.  Ask your people "why" they are going to Vegas and be a good enough friend to listen closely to their answers.




  

        

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You're not really a superhero until you prove you can dodge a bullet, which is what UCLA did tonight against Texas A&M.

I found myself back at the Honda Center in Anaheim for Round 2 of March Madness.  I was in my usual spot, Row EE, seat #7, just five rows back from the band.  I wore black, instead of Bruin blue and gold, because I didn't want to be accosted again by the cheerleaders.  You can see how they were trying to search me out, but when I set my mind to it, I'm like a shadow:




I found out why the UCLA band ended up facing us in the second half of Thursday night's game.  The L.A. Times missed the story, but Steve Dilbeck reported in the Daily Breeze that UCLA coach Ben Howland complained to the tournament officials, saying that his team couldn't hear him talk during the timeouts.  Turns out putting your band and your players on adjacent corners of the court can be problematic.  In any case, it made me feel good to find this out.  It means that the headaches and tinnitus that have plagued me since that game can be chalked up as my taking one for the team.  I've done my part to get the Bruins to San Antonio for the Final Four.

After our long weekend together, I feel a closeness with the UCLA band and they seem to have grown fond of me.  My black outfit today give me a hip, musician's vibe that they really responded to.  My buddy Jason, in fact, handed me his trombone for a moment, and he didn't seem at all surprised when I shredded through the first stanza of "Sons of Westwood" (clarinet version here and ukulele version here).




Epiphany - Sure, basketball careers are brought to sudden halts during March Madness, but who stops to think about what this all means to the band?  What the hell do you do with a trombone after graduation?  How tough is it to walk away when you've played that thing under the sacred banners of Pauley Pavillion and marched with it across the hallowed turf of the Rose Bowl?   As I stewed over these questions I realized that we all develop skills and passions that we can't carry with us into the real world.  Whether it's hacky-sack, like my friend Wes loved, or mushroom trips like my buddy Craig was wont to take, we all have to walk away from something.  It's a shame that, when you get a job, you can't horse around for twelve weeks and then tell your boss not to worry because you know how to pull an all-nighter.   But life forces us to jettison old talents and master new ones.  The great unspoken truism of this basketball tournament, where every game ends with senior players lying face down on the floor, crying like colicky infants, is that it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.  This holds true for basketball players, band members and beer-bongers.

        

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For UCLA, this year's road to The Final Four began on Katella Avenue.  The Honda Center in Anaheim hosted the opening round of March Madness and I was there to soak up one of the great rites of spring.

The Bruin cheerleaders liked my UCLA themed shirt so much that they asked for a photo.  I obliged.



Two of the girls are interested in a summer internship with HelloRocky.com, although the front runner for that gig continues to be the mascot.

Thanks to Wes we had great seats just a few rows up from the floor.  We were right behind the robust UCLA band.  They only stood up during timeouts and for most of their songs they faced the floor.  The few times they played towards us it was painfully loud.  Jeff surmised that the big culprits were the french horns. 




Pat arrived late, but since he's Pat he was still in a good mood. 




UCLA won the game, defeating an outmanned Mississippi Valley State by a cajillion points.   Next up for UCLA is a Saturday tussle with Texas A&M, who defeated BYU in the game that preceded UCLA's.

Epiphany - Any baboon with a remote control can watch the tournament on TV, but only by being there in person can you appreciate all the different story lines.   On the lower level there is segregation going on, with four rough quadrants containing UCLA fans, A&M fans, BYU fans and MVS fans (although there were very few MVS fans - Craig surmised that many of them have never flown, while Wes is convinced few have even ridden elevators).  UCLA had the most fans, as is befitting a top seed playing close to home.  Yet despite the varied rooting interests there was love in the air, a coming together of friends, fans and families all celebrating basketball, to be sure, but beyond that we were celebrating youth, that transient mistress who makes you believe all is possible while she holds you, but whose embrace is short lived.  Most of these players are not NBA bound.  For many these are the last few moments of their lives when they will be on stage, cheered on and adored by people they have never met.  Outside of the Honda Center they will get on buses that will carry them to The Rest of Their Lives.  Everybody in the arena is aware of this, so while we cheer our respective teams, there is no booing, there is no hatred for the opposition.  Just let the boys play.  Let the boys play.

        

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Who's up for some bullet points?:

• Add to the list of notable Petralias - Sam Petralia, who at age 14 completed the L.A. Marathon on March 2.  When asked for an epiphany he measured his words carefully, "I trained with the idea that my adversary was the twenty six mile course.  At mile twenty, however, I realized that my real opponent was the nagging voice in my head that wanted me to quit.  The voice is in all of our heads, and it throws words at us like "no" and "can't" and "impossible."  The only way to deal with it is to beat upon it with the fisticuffs of achievement, and, when I crossed the finish line, I opened upon that voice a can of whoop-ass."
• March Madness Vegas style is a go.  My colleagues and I will be there the weekend of 3/27 - 3/30.  When it comes to lodging, small is the new big, and rather than stumbling around the luxurious and massive Venetian Hotel, I'll be highly mobile as I operate out of the nearby Casino Royale where, in the words of James Bond, I expect to be shaken, not stirred, by the condition of my room.  I am still looking for a diversion to rival last year's experience with Don Rickles. 
  
• I'm not doing movie reviews for Rhino this year.  Like Sam Petralia in a marathon, the gag of doing phony movie reviews ran its course.  The final posting was the much talked about Beowulf review.  The widely read review paid tribute to the once popular Dittos jeans and has had the effect of reviving interest in those fetching pants.  If this leads to a full comeback for the snug, pocketless jeans then I will finally know for what purpose God put me here.
• My live-blogging of the South Carolina debate for ObamaFest continues to receive a ton of page views.  There's a chance I will be asked back.  There's a chance I won't.  As Vin Scully pointed out, we are all day-to-day.
• HelloRocky.com continues to thrive even as Ask.com endures layoffs and a rethinking of their internet strategy. 
  

 

 

        

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This morning I was snuggled in bed thinking about the day ahead.  I had an appointment to give blood.  They tell you to have a big meal beforehand so I decided pancakes were in order.  As I started to stretch with happiness,  my left calf went medieval on me.  After several long silent screams, I felt the muscle untie itself.   This could have been a bad omen for the day ahead, but I don't believe in omens. 

I went ahead with the pancakes.  I go back and forth between the full Bisquick recipe and the just-add-water pancake mix.   Traditionalists may disagree, but the Bisquick cakes, with the eggs and milk added, go down heavy.  Too heavy, sometimes.  Today I made the Krusteaz instant cakes and they were light and fluffy and just what I deserved. 

The Red Cross folks were happy to see me.   My blood is quite the elixir.  I'm O-Positve ("the universal donor") and CMV negative (I don't have a herpes-type virus that is present in 50% to 80% of the adult population - and you didn't believe me when I said I was only in Amsterdam for the giggle weed).  They can give my blood to babies and pregnant chicks, no problem.  Whoever gets it, I feel like the more my blood gets out there, the more love there is in the world. 

I had my phone in my pants pocket while I was giving blood.  It rang.  People at the snack table heard it.  They all start looking around and I hear, "Somebody's phone is ringing."  So what?  It's not yours.  Go back to your cookies!

In my car afterwards I checked the message.  It was Pinkus, driving South on the 405 towards Costa Mesa.  I felt no sense of urgency to return the call.  As far as I can recall, nothing good ever happened in Costa Mesa. 

They say to have a big meal afterwards, so when I got home I made a fried egg sandwich.  Just as the two eggs where sliding out of the pan onto the lightly toasted sheepherder's bread, the phone rang.  Pinkus again.  I pick up.  He's in Long Beach now, still on the 405.  He wants me to meet him in Costa Mesa to see Jesus Christ Superstar.  Show starts at 2:00.  It's now 1:20.  After five minutes of arguing that I don't have time, I agree to go.  I take one bite of the sandwich and slide the rest into the trash (you can't save a fried egg sandwich for later - it's a time sensitive entree).  I don a clean shirt and jump in the car. 

At 1:55 I jog up to the front of the Segerstrom Theater and meet Pinkus.  This is big, he says.  He has seen the play over twenty times, but today Ted Neeley is playing Jesus.  Neeley played Jesus in the '73 movie and countless times on stage before retiring from the role - he even did a farewell tour.  No hardcore fan would miss what was in effect a career resurrection (the day was full of biblical wit, the most frequently heard was that, at his age, Neeley should think about playing Moses). 

So I saw the play for the first time and it was terrific - I see what all the fuss is about.  Pinkus says every show he's seen is different.  He pointed out at least two things he'd never seen before.  One was a Last Supper scene where Jesus and the twelve apostles freeze for about thirty seconds positioned as in Da Vinci's famous painting (a tip of the hat, perhaps, to the nearby Laguna Beach Pageant of the Masters).

The other was at the end.  There's a death scene that takes place (Spoiler Alert!) on a cross.  After five minutes of huffing and puffing and forgiving, Jesus dies.  There's thunder and lightning and then HE ASCENDS off of the cross and into Heaven (or the rafters).   It was visually impressive, inspired perhaps by the work Franco Dragone is doing in Vegas, in particular what he achieved with Celine Dion's New Day.  I suspect cables were involved, but Jesus was shirtless, so I'm guessing he wore some type of prosthetic torso.  Anyway, it was a first for Pinkus and I'm glad I witnessed it too.

Epiphany - Half the fun of special events it the time you spend looking forward to them.  Pinned on the wall in front of me is an envelope that reads, "THE BOSS 4/8/08."  There's plenty of psychic income that comes from knowing I've got good seats for Springsteen in Anaheim, and I'll be cashing those paychecks every day for three months.  But that doesn't mean that I shouldn't stay open to life's last minute opportunities.  As I watched Jesus and his posse enjoy their Last Supper, I realized that for the first half of the day I was thinking only about the body and blood of Rocky.  But before the sun would set I would be reminded that there's something out there much bigger than me and my worldly concerns.  There's Broadway, baby.

 

        

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Last night's windstorm toppled the super-electric Costco snowman.  Too bad stronger gusts didn't carry it to another street. 

The whole contraption is so 2004.  It's been supplanted, first by electric deer, then electric deer doing the head bob, then spiraling neon cones, and the latest: giant inflatable Santas. 

Twenty miles away, at San Onofre, they've got two nuclear reactors glowing twenty four hours a day.  For what?  This meshugeh?  Holy infant so tender and mild.

Snowmen should be made of snow, Santa Claus should be a fat dude with real whiskers, and if you slap a Nativity scene in your yard you deserve to have your baby Jesus stolen. 

Maybe your God digs all this stuff, but my God says to save the bright lights for Las Vegas.


Epiphany - My Jewish friends have got it right - light a candle or two or eight (or nine, if you count the shamash, which I of course do).  A candle is warm and quiet and lends itself to contemplation.  Next year there will be no electric snowman - just me, my people, our candles, some booze and a little chocolate gelt for noshing. 



 

        

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Some people don't get the mystical beauty and cinematic perfection of "Field of Dreams."  These people lack soul.  They cross party lines - Guiliani and Clinton sycophants dismiss the movie as "hokey" (while Huckabee and Obama supporters weep over the closing credits).  And those people don't read Petralia.com because they don't believe in the search for epiphanies - they think they already know it all. 

But on an October drive from Cleveland to L.A. I was determined to visit the little farm where the movie was shot.  I fled 'The Cleve' in the a.m., hustled across northern Ohio (skirting Sandusky and Toledo) then Indiana (through South Bend and Gary) and into Illinois, where my Magellan GPS navigated me through Chicago and my momentum went all to crap in thick traffic.  It was nightfall by the time I crawled across the river into Dubuque, Iowa, a city that bills itself as " The Masterpiece on the Mississippi."  I checked into a brand new Hampton Inn and enjoyed their patented "Cloud Nine" sleeping experience.

The next morning, under icy gray skies, I drove the final 27 miles to Dyersville.  I popped in the Grateful Dead's '71 self-titled CD for the drive.  It fit my mood and struck me as something Ray Kinsella must have enjoyed in his days  at Cal.  "Me & Bobby McGee" was playing as I made that last left turn onto the driveway and down to the field ("nothin' aint worth nothin' but it's free").

Having seen the movie enough times, I was prepared to hand over twenty dollars without even thinking about it, for it is money that I have and peace that I lack.  But there is no charge to look around.  

The field is hauntingly familiar and I had it to myself.  I strolled out and peered into the center field corn.  I walked the basepaths then stepped into the batter's box and winked towards the pitcher's mound ("make the pitcher think I know something he doesn't").  I went behind the first base bleachers but found no trace of the hot dog weenie that little Karin choked on. 

The souvenir stand down the left field line had some tattered "Going out of Business" signs tacked up.  But it was boarded closed and appeared to have already gone out of business.  I hustled into the first base souvenir stand, happy to get out of the cold wind.  A middle-aged Japanese man was there with his elderly parents.  He had been to the field once before and now brought his folks all the way from Japan.  He was translating for his father, who had a lot of questions for the clerk about the various t-shirts.  Most of his concerns were about percentage of cotton and possible shrinkage.  It intrigued me because I couldn't imagine the crafty veteran ever actually wearing one of the goofy t-shirts - unless it was as a pajama top.

After they finished I got my own memorabilia.  The clerk was really chatty and she had me sign the guest book.  I wrote down Rocky Petralia then added, as an afterthought, HelloRocky.com.  Let's see how that drives traffic.  She said they get about 50,000 visitors a year, even though today's total was four. 

Back outside I found the Japanese goofing around on the field.  The son was on the mound throwing an imaginary ball to his father behind the plate.  Mom stood off to the side, looking a little too self-conscious to play the umpire.  How about that, I thought, a boy "having a catch" with his dad.  I almost teared up but I caught myself.  The biting wind made it just too cold to bother.

They departed and again I was alone on the Field of Dreams.  I took these pictures of myself to pacify the skeptics who suspect I invent these journeys into the belly of the American Dream:




Epiphany: Conventional wisdom would say that a baseball movie set in The Corn Belt might fare well domestically but not overseas.  Conventional wisdom is a boob.  The heart of a good movie is relationships and relationships are universal.  "Field of Dreams" is so perfectly constructed that it inspired a Japanese man to bring his parents to a tiny patch of Iowa in search of a moment.   Dyersville is hard to get to.  Once you reach the Field of Dreams you're surprised that you made it and surprised that you're welcome there, which, at the risk of sounding hokey, sounds a lot like Heaven.

 

  



 

          

        

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Halloween ranks up there with New Year's Eve as one of the dopiest nights of the year - and one of the most depressing.  Every year you see a few kids who are too big to be trick-or-treating desperately clinging to a childhood that is slipping through their fingers like a half-melted gummy bear. 

So if you need cheering up check out my new reviews at Rhino.com, where I dissect 30 Days of Night and Good Luck Chuck. 

You should also check out HelloRocky.com, where I helped a reader get a handle on possible Halloween costumes.

        

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I turned in my review of The Nanny Diaries to Rhino three weeks ago.  I just checked in to see why it was never posted.  It turns out Scarlett Johansson has recorded an album that Rhino wants to release next spring.  The suits  don't want to upset S.Jo and the legal team told me that they are holding my review in abeyance (page 2 of the dictionary if you need to look it up -- I did). 

Unlike music snobs, I have no problem with actors recording albums.  Anybody who has a song in their heart should sing, by God, with verve and with gusto.  Marlo Thomas taught us that we are free to be you and me, all of us, even a Rubenesque thespian whose beauty evokes a world of art-deco penthouses, Shalimar perfume and black velvet off-the-shoulder evening dresses. 

Ms. Johansson strikes me as being self-actualized enough to tolerate a whimsical review of her latest potboiler.  As an artist she can't take pleasure when another artist's work is squashed under the jackbooted heel of censorship. 

But the organization has made its decision.  Despite this setback, I will continue to listen to the lilted voice of my inner muse and go wherever she beckons. 

In the meantime, my Nanny Diaries review can be found at HelloRocky.com.  It borrows heavily from my groundbreaking Slate magazine poem "The Dingo Come Sniffing,"  as both include the words umlaut, tilde and marsupial.

          

        

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Today The Rocky Cup, the imaginary perpetual trophy that goes to the world's oldest human, was pried from the rigormortis grip of Yone Minagawa.  Yone served The Cup well during her 183 day reign and restored some of the luster that was lost when her predecessor, Emma Faust Tillman, died after holding the title for a scant four days. 

Yankee pride is in full bloom as the Rocky Cup is now in transit to Shelbyville, Indiana, where Edna Parker rests up in preparation for the robust party scene that accompanies The Cup.  She also plans to update her MySpace page, beginning with the sad job of dropping Yone from her friends list.
  
The Rocky Cup was designed to remind us that every day is a gift, every friend is a blessing, and every oldster is a valuable source of insight and wisdom.  As Edna Parker might put it, if you can't learn something from somebody born in 1893, you can't learn period.

        

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The reason I never used the word "prosaic" is because I didn't know what it meant. 

But yesterday the cable went out.  After staring out the window for twenty minutes or so I decided to finally look the word up so that I could move on with my life.  I was surprised.  I assumed that "prosaic" was a positive word.   To my tin ears it comes off as magisterial and high-fallutin'.  But the definition is sobering:

prosaic adj.  1 like prose, lacking poetic beauty.  2 unromantic; dull; commonplace (took a prosaic view of life).  prosaically adv.  prosaicness n.

Jesus, I feel like a fish that just learned the definition of water.  Welcome to my world.  Welcome to America in the Prosaic Year of our Lord 2007.  Welcome to Republican and Democratic candidates who beat the life out of the English language the way Canadians club baby harp seals.  Welcome to a third of our population using the word "like" as if it's part of the breathing process. 

Prosaic.  With apologies to my dog, that word is my new best friend.  I'll be dropping p-bombs the way T-Mobile drops calls.  I'm going to abuse it until I realize that my overuse of a single word is in itself prosaic.  Then I'll move on. 

In the meantime, my review of the absurdly prosaic movie "I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry" is now up at Rhino.com.  With the exception of "Punch-Drunk Love,"  Adam Sandler's whole career has been prosaic. 

Traffic continues to be heavy at HelloRocky.com.  The post on terrorist chatter seems to have struck a nerve with intelligence agencies and Rosie O'Donnell fans.  And the post suggesting a baby name for one of my readers is exceptionally un-prosaic. 

        

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Terrence Mann once wrote:  "There comes a time when all the cosmic tumblers have clicked into place and the universe opens itself up for a few seconds to show you what's possible."

This is not one of those times. 

But my review of Ocean's 13 is now up at Rhino.com.   And  HelloRocky.com has been getting a lot of traffic thanks to good Google positioning for two articles:

1.  The Dutch John Wayne: Jaap Van Ballegooijen
2.  Gotta Sing, Gotta Dance: The Soprano's Final Episode

Also, on a recent business trip to the Central Coast town of Cambria I took time out to hang with this guy:

His life seems to be all about lounging around between meals.  Still, I felt a connection. 

I suppose what binds us is that we both know that there are sharks out there.  The seal knows that he could be enjoying a plump cod and, like Tony Soprano sucking on an onion ring, his screen could go black.  This creature and I know that every day is a gift, and as we looked into each other's eyes we silently told each other, "don't stop believing."

        

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I don't spend much time at the water cooler anymore.  I'm too out of touch with the topics of discussion.  Case in point: "American Idol."  I guess last night was the final episode.  They were cackling about it on all the morning news shows.  The L.A. Times had team coverage with photos and articles splashed throughout the paper.  As far as I can tell, the winner was the girl from "Ugly Betty."   Good for her - I've liked her ever since "Real Women Have Curves."



I've tried to watch "Idol", but after a couple of minutes I can't hear the people singing.  They are drowned out by a voice in my head shouting, "This is so fucking Junior High!"  And I'm not talking good, private school Junior High.  It's lower middle class, chipped paint, broken toilets, female teachers sleeping with students Junior High. 

I've heard the show referred to as a high class "Star Search."  Nuts.  "Star Search" dominates "American Idol."  They mixed in singers, comedians and models.  And it was always one-on-one.  Lose and you're done.  The only weak link was the kids competition.  They overestimated how many times we wanted to hear a little girl belt out, "I love ya', tomorrow..."  But we sat through it because the payoff was the spokesmodel competition that followed.  "American Idol" has no payoff. 

So as my colleagues gather round the Sparklett's bottle and rehash last night's show, I stay at my desk and put the new coversheets on my TPS reports. 

      

        

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The scent of orange blossom mingles with the fragrance of jasmine and together they are dancing through the open office window.  My heart is as full as my inbox and I feel in my marrow that this is a good day for bullet points:

• My review of the Nic Cage film Next is now up at Rhino.com.  I don't hate Nicolas Cage movies, but I don't love them either.  They kind of just pass through my system like too much Vitamin B.
  
• I am recommending that my HelloRocky readers cash out of JP Morgan Chase (symbol: JPM) and rotate their cash into The Gap (GPS).  This has nothing to do with my travel companion Bubbles new job at Chase. 
  
• The other night a song came to me in a dream.  I was at a Springsteen concert in Pittsburgh.  He was doing that folk thing that I don't much care for, but then he played this ditty: "Pack up a bag for me Old Pittsburgh/ Pack a bag for me/ Pack up a bag for me Old Pittsburgh/ I've got some sights to see."  It was catchy, and then he pulled that trick where he stops playing and the whole audience sings the chorus.  I woke up and wrote down the lyrics, but by breakfast it didn't make any sense.  By "bag" he means suitcase - that much was clear to me, but would it make sense to others?  Or would people think of lunch bags?  And don't people pack their own suitcases?  You don't ask the rest of the city to pack it for you.  Later that morning, however, I was walking the dog and the completing lyrics washed over me: "Just throw in some pants and a couple of shirts/ Don't make the bag so damn heavy it hurts / Pack up a bag for me, Old Pittsburgh/ I've got some sights to see."  Anyway, I'd like to get the lyrics to The Boss because, like everybody else, I've got a hungry heart.
• I've never tried peyote, but after watching the latest "Sopranos" I think I'm ready. 
  

Only three episodes left for Tony and Big Rock.

        

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So I'm driving towards Tarzana on Saturday night and Jack-FM plays Great White's "Once Bitten, Twice Shy."   It's a great song - love the piano - and it rocks especially hard if you're flying along at 75 mph on the typically crappy 405 freeway.

But who can listen to Great White without thinking about 100 fans burning to death in Rhode Island?  Not me.  And given the news of the week, the mind starts juxtaposing the Station fire with the Virgina Tech shooting.  Which is the bigger tragedy?  I gotta vote for the fire.  Since three times as many people were killed, isn't the fire three times as tragic?  But the nation didn't lower it's flags to half-staff for the Great White fans.  The President didn't address the nation.  Nobody made posters that said, "Today we are all Great White." 

I guess people think that the nature of the VT tragedy gives it more heft.  I guess some nut with a gun trumps an ill-advised use of pyrotechnics.  It's not the quantity of deaths, but what these deaths says about us as a society.  We have too many guns - or not enough guns.  There is too much coarseness - or too much pampering.  Whatever.  But if the death count were two, instead of thirty two, it would not have been front page news and America would still be focused on how Larry Birkhead was going to raise Dannielynn. 

I would suggest that the Virginia Tech story had a greater impact on you if you went to college than if you didn't.  And you felt it more if you lived in a dorm, went to class and minded your business.  But you probably felt the Great White story more if you like big rock and roll at a small bar, where that same band you saw twenty years ago in a large arena now lets you set your beer on the front of the stage while you dance to their greatest hits. 

It's human nature.   Suppose I read a story about a middle-aged man gunned down at Trader Joes while trying to decide on a bourbon.  You might not understand my weeping as I thrust the newspaper in front of you.  You wouldn't share my despondency and outrage because you haven't been there.  The Jack Daniels is a fine choice at $17.  But for $5 more you can enjoy the mellower Maker's Mark. And five more bucks gets you the buttery smoothness of Woodford Reserve.  There is no wrong answer, and choices like these are what make living in the 21st century such a blessing.     

Anyway, I was headed towards the Pinkus estate.  He was turning forty and his wife threw him a classy party.  I weaseled my way onto the guest list and brought a gift, a painting of Dodger legend Sandy Koufax throwing one of his explosive fastballs. 

If you look closely you can see the fastball emerging from the side of the painting.  It's a metaphor for the way Sandy transcended the game, reaching a dimension beyond the plane of mere mortals. 

Years ago, when Pinkus was trying to learn the game of golf, we were playing at Brentwood Country Club and found ourselves catching up to a foursome in front of us that included Mr. Koufax.  On a par three hole they stepped off of the green and waved us to hit so that we could play through.  It was a long hole, but Pinkus strung together three of the best shots of his life, earning a par in front of his all-time baseball hero.  He was giddy and elated (Pinkus, not Koufax) and surprisingly speechless.  Afterwords, he talked about wanting to shake Koufax's hand and tell him how much he admired his decision to skip Game One of the '65 World Series in order to observe Yom Kippur, but the giddiness of the par thwarted all that. 

There were a lot of good people at the birthday party and it ran into the wee hours.  It was challenging at times.  I saw some folks I hadn't seen for a while, and when you're in a transitional phase, as I am, it's hard to answer "What are you up to?"  I deflected some of the questions with empty phrases like, "Putting out fires."  I suppose I should be thankful for the few people who wouldn't let me get away with that - it means that they actually cared for a real answer.  I wish I had one.

It was almost 3 a.m. by the time I motored home and crawled into bed.  But there was no sleeping in on Sunday - I was picked up at 8 for a road trip to Santa Barbara.  My niece Lauren was accepted to UCSB, and I went with her and her father to look at dorms and other housing options and to offer my perspective on what it means to be a citizen of Gaucho Nation. 

The grey drizzle that greeted us as we rolled into Isla Vista fit my mood nicely.  It looks like the exact same kids are walking around, wearing the same jeans and sweatshirts that they did when I was their classmate.  And now I'm a cadaver.  What the hell happened?  Where did those four years go?  And what happened to all the years since? 

The most underappreciated film of the 20th Century is "St. Elmo's Fire."  People misunderstand it.  They think that the message is about growing up, but it's about moving on - they're two different things.  You never actually have to grow up.  But you do have to move on.  That space that you occupy now will soon belong to somebody else.  The best scene in "St. Elmo' Fire"?  It's the closing credits.  It's a cold night, the cast is out front of their old college hangout when they finally decide it's time to start meeting someplace else.  And they walk off.  And that sad piano theme starts.  The camera holds on the bar and the "University Bikes" shop next to it.  A guy enters the bar.  A couple walk out.  A dog strolls by, sniffs, keeps on walking.  The credits are rolling and that sad piano music keeps playing.  The cast is gone, yet the world keeps on spinning just the same. 

Well all of Isla Vista feels like St. Elmo's and I'm that dog, back in town decades later for one more sniff.  First stop was a little apartment where we picked up Lauren's cousin, Matt, now a UCSB sophomore and our host for the day.  Then we visit on off-campus dorm, Tropicana Gardens, where a future RA gives us a tour.  The dining commons blows my mind.  A chef is making omeletes to order over a beautiful grill.  The kids shuffle around in their big shorts and baggy t-shirts.  Son-of-a-bitch, I think to myself, I don't dress that comfortably for bed. 

We bounce around I.V. for a while, stopping at Freebirds for lunch.   It wasn't quite noon, but since I'm a believer of "when in Rome..." I had a pint of beer with my burrito, a tasty Firestone Ale.

Matt calls Naveed, his roommate from freshman year who now lives in an on-campus dorm.  Matt asks if it would be okay for us to come check out Naveed's room.  It is and we do. 

Son-of-a-bitch.



The arrow points to the white Mediterranean buildings that make up Naveed's dorm.

But my mood lifted as I started to breathe deep from the fresh salt air that crawled up from the damp bluffs.  I hope these kids enjoy their time here.  Soon enough, they too will have to move on. 

Leaving the dorms we passed the commons where somebody had tacked up a cardboard sign.  Handwritten  letters, made runny by the rain, read "We are all Virgina Tech."  And that got me back to being a little bummed out.  It wasn't the thought of Virginia Tech, but the thought of some kid getting all emo about it.  Sure, the bell tolls for thee.  But whoever wrote that got to sleep in late just a few yards from the ocean.  In the meantime, some chef waits to learn what that kid wants in his or her omelete.  Of course no man is an island, but a UCSB student gets to live a few years on a pretty sweet peninsula.

        

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Whitey, who lives in South Korea, was asking how our gambling went during our March Madness Vegas trip.  Here it is in a nutshell:

Most everybody did okay betting on hoops, I believe, since there was a strong UCLA bias that most of us were tapping into. 

The Thursday UCLA/Pittsburgh game was easy money for Bruin backers.  In fact, the three of us who had to leave before the game ended in order to get to the Rickles show left with no sense of trepidation that Pittsburgh could come back and win (or even cover) that game.   Personally, I felt that some of the drama was taken out of that game by Congress.  In the past, that Thursday night game would tip-off as dusk settled over Vegas and the city lit up like Pottersville without George Bailey.  But with those Washington hacks moving Daylight Savings time up a few weeks, the harsh desert sun was still robbing the city of its texture.  The game felt less prime-time and more like an ABC Afterschool Special. 

Saturday night's win over Kansas was a different story.  It had a real "Main Event of the Weekend" feel.  The Bruins were underdogs, and the key discussion was whether to take the Bruins and the points or to truly back UCLA by taking the moneyline wager (where they have to win the game outright and where you get rewarded - I think $100 bet would return $135 in winnings).  I took the points.  I know that Onion took the moneyline and scolded the non-believers who sought refuge in the spread.  Nonetheless, we were all winners (except for Trey, who quietly bet Kansas out of conference loyalty, I presume, or maybe it was just a Texas-size brain fart).  Dano, who owns season seats at Pauley, abstained from betting on the game.  He swore off betting on his Bruins after a particularly tragic result years ago - it might have been the Princeton debacle - for which he takes personal responsibility.  He feels that UCLA has a better chance when he doesn't bet on them, and as the rest of us cashed our winning tickets, we thanked Dano for respecting the Universe's unseen Mojo. 

That Saturday Night game was followed by a winner's dinner at Postrio in the Venetian.  We adjourned to the Venetian casino where Craig, Keith, James and I squeezed onto a $15 craps table - high stakes, but with pockets full of Bruin Bucks and bellies full of fine food and finer bourbon, we felt the table could be conquered.   And conquered it was.  Every shooter made at least one point, and most had extended rolls that rewarded come and place bets.  The best celebrity calls at the table were a player who looked like Jack Black and the stickman next to him who looked like Chris Farley.  The juxtaposition left us lamenting that those two never had the chance to work together.  The Jack Black call was wearing a polygamy-themed micro brew t-shirt that I was able to track down:
We all did well at that table.  As Craig and Keith left to cash in their winnings, I chose to roll one more time.  I had a decent roll.  I didn't realize I was rolling a lot of hardways, but James, who is a hardway specialist, made $460 dollars on my roll.  I ended up making more than six smurfs at that table and I felt young again.  I still do. 

Other gambling reports:
After the Rickles show, Trey, Keith and I rolled at the Fremont.  We all made at least $200, I think.  Maybe Trey made less.  This was on Thursday.  I understand that the non-Rickles guys - Craig, Wes, James and Dano, got butchered playing craps at the Mirage that night. 
Saturday morning, after breakfast, Craig, Trey, Keith and I walked down to the Frontier for some low-stakes craps.  But it turns out that the stakes were high and we all dropped a couple hundred in the blink of an eye.  Craig pointed out that it is especially distressing to lose money in a dump.  We checked out the Wynn on the way back.  It is an upscale oasis of serenity and it lifted our spirits.  Trey bought a gelato in a waffle-cone the size of dunce cap.
Friday is a blur.  I can picture Wes rolling the dice, but I think another year came and went without him making a point.  Most of us took a hit on USC's loss to North Carolina, but that serves us right.  As a rule, you shouldn't bet on the Clippers, USC or any Lute Olsen coached team. 

The bottom line is that we are all winners for getting to spend time with friends. 

 





 



 

        

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I didn't blog from Vegas this weekend.  Before I drove out I had a moment of clarity: leaving a laptop in the skanky Imperial Palace Hotel would be like leaving chicken scraps on the floor of a NY KFC.

But here's what when down on Thursday Night: Rickles.



Two of my buddies from Austin, Trey and Carms, joined me.  We made it to the Golden Nugget in plenty of time for the 9:00pm show.   Carms offered to get drinks from the bar.  I ordered Jack Daniels on the rocks.  It's what Sinatra