People ask, "Hey, Rocky, what were you doing at a Mercadante family reunion?"  It's an epic story, actually, spanning 130 years.

In Lucca, Sicily, on October 15th, 1881, Tommaso Mercadante married Francesca Musso.  They struggled for fifteen years before word trickled back to Tommaso about opportunities in America.  In 1897, he sailed from Palermo to New Orleans aboard the S.S. Montebello, bringing his oldest daughter, Lucia. 

Tommaso soon found work cutting sugar cane in Lousiana.  He sent for Francesca and their four other children - Antonia, Paolo, Carmelo and Maria. 

The twentieth century began with the unification of two storied lineages, when Lucia Mercadante married Salvatore Petralia on February 10, 1900.  The young power couple moved to Florida, where they eventually were joined by Tommaso, Francesca and the rest of the family.  Sometime during WWI, the entire clan, including married children and grandchildren, moved to southern California.  They settled in San Bernardino, saying it reminded them of the Sicilian countryside. 

Lucia and Salvatore had a son, Giosue.  People called him Joe.  My sisters and I called him Grampa.  Joe gave the world Sam Petralia.  Sam gave the world me.  Later, he gave me his '68 Mustang.  Petralias are givers.


So when we heard through the sangiovese grapevine about the Mercadante "Cousin's Party 2009" in nearby Fullerton, we said, "va bene!"

Noted restauranteurs Tony and Pat Florentine hosted the party (Tony is descended from Lucia Mecadante Petralia's younger sister, Antonia Mercadante).  To everyone's delight, the Florentine's catered their own party:


The lively crowd included molto surnames, including Trozeras, Cannellas, Pattons, Kimballs - even an odd Costanza or two.  Under the hot sun everybody enjoyed cool drinks with warm friends:


Other than my sisters and my aunt Judy, the only other Petralia encountered was Angie Petralia, pictured here with her recently wed husband:


We couldn't nail down exactly how we are related due to some murky record keeping (possibly intentional - you do what you gotta do) by the Petralia side of the family.  Nonetheless, she is a welcome addition not to be messed with since, as the old schoolers say, she's "a friend of ours."

Epiphany - San Bernardino seems a lot more inviting when you appreciate its similarity to the Sicilian countryside.  It reminds you of what America is: the best of the rest of the world with the added bonuses of Freedom and Opportunity.  Maria Mercadante Trozera penned her life history in 1969.  Recalling the house her parents (Tomasso and Francesca) built on 9th Street in San Bernardino, Maria writes:

There was a big walnut tree in the backyard and in the summertime they would set a table and eat outdoors in the shade of the tree.

Happiness isn't complicated.











 

 

        

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It's Inauguration Day 2009.  Time to reflect.

Two years ago I dropped by that little park in L.A. next to Dorsey High to hear Barack Obama speak.  I blogged about it.  I'd read both of his books and I was intrigued by the idea of an American politician who was so fluent in English.  I bought into his speech that day, purchased a t-shirt and started ObamaFest.com, a pro-bama blog with a Los Angeles slant. 

Two years later, my work here is done.  Bush is flying back to Texas, Karl Rove is passed out drunk in a 14th St. cathouse, and Dick Cheney is rolling around in his wheelchair, finally looking exactly like who he reminded us of all along, old man Potter from the Bedford Falls Bank:

So today I am retiring the Obama '08 t-shirt that I purchased way back in '07.  It was in heavy rotation and will need to be replaced.  I scoured my closet and found a big t-shirt that I haven't yet worn.  I bought it a while back but when I brought it home I had one of those, "What was I thinking?" moments.  It seemed a bit flashy for the suburbs, so I tucked it away. 

Well, that shirt comes out today, for I am emboldened by this defining moment and by the words of President Obama:

"Today I say to you that the challenges we face are real. They are serious and they are many. They will not be met easily or in a short span of time. But know this, America — they will be met.

On this day, we gather because we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord.

On this day, we come to proclaim an end to the petty grievances and false promises, the recriminations and worn-out dogmas, that for far too long have strangled our politics.

We remain a young nation, but in the words of Scripture, the time has come to set aside childish things. The time has come to reaffirm our enduring spirit; to choose our better history; to carry forward that precious gift, that noble idea, passed on from generation to generation: the God-given promise that all are equal, all are free, and all deserve a chance to pursue their full measure of happiness."

I wear Tupac with pride and hope and love, and I say to all da tru down azz bitches who tried to derail the Obama Express, I aint mad at cha.





  

        

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Los Angeles is experiencing a dose of civic pride unlike anything they've felt since being awarded the 1984 Summer Olympics.  The Rocky Cup, the perpetual trophy for Earth's oldest living person, is jetting to L.A. following the death of Maria de Jesus in Portugal. 

Gertrude Baines becomes the new cup holder.   The 114-year-old Angeleno, born to former slaves in Georgia in 1894, is clearing a space for the trophy between her stuffed animals and room humidifier.  These are good times for Ms. Baines:

"Baines appeared cheerful and talkative when the Los Angeles Times interviewed her in November as she cast her vote for Barack Obama for president, whom she said she supported because "he's for the colored people."

"I'm glad we're getting a colored man in there," she said."

Here's to Gertrude having a long, healthy tenure as keeper of the Rocky Cup.

Epiphany - A living child of former slaves makes you realize how the history of America has happened in the blink of an eye.  In August, Maude Hopkins, recognized as the last surviving Civil War widow, died.  In 1934 she married an 86-year-old veteran of the Civil War.  Historians suspect that there could be surviving Civil War widows who just don't want to come forward.  When you're tempted to think of the Vietnam War as ancient history, imagine these broads, who can recount their husbands tales of how the battle of Antietam was one fuck-up after another. 

The blink of an eye. 

        

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My Acura Legend just hit the 200K mile mark. 




I'd seen it coming, of course.  I was looking forward to watching it click over, figured I might pull over and have a ceremony or something.  But I was away from the house and my nephew stopped by and borrowed the car without asking because his much newer Pontiac went tits up and he had to get to work.  So I missed the clicking over.  And he was a wise-ass and told me nothing incredible happened when it clicked, like I'm stupid for caring about such things.  That's the kind of bullshit thinking that goes on in the suburbs, where material things are cherished but moments are ignored. 

Anyway, the car still runs great and looks good.  More importantly, it looks good on me. 



Epiphany - So I started to think that, even though 200,000 is a nice round number, it is just another number and my plan to celebrate it was kind of arbitrary.  But before I could get down on myself I realized, "So What?"  I like arbitrary.  It's not a bad word.  If I want to celebrate my car because it hit 200k, or drink because it's Tuesday, I should.  By being arbitrary I am demonstrating free will.  In fact, I'm going to be real arbitrary here and make arbitrary my religion.  I am an Arbitrist.  And I am abitrarily making myself a Bishop.   My car looks like something a Bishop would ride in. 

The next milestone for the Acura will be whatever number it reads when I am driving out of Orange County for good. 

        

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I like to begin Saturday mornings at Cook's Corner, the rustic hangout that caters to motorcycle enthusiasts, where I order an omelet and either a cup of joe or a pitcher of Bud Light.

Weaving home yesterday I noticed protesters gathering around the spritual Costco known as Saddleback Church.  Senators Obama and McCain were due to arrive in the late afternoon for a meet and greet with God.  Despite my groundbreaking work for ObamaFest.com, I was unable to get tickets. 

So I took a nap.  Later, I donned running shoes, grabbed my Flip camera and jogged by the church.  I wanted to feel the pulse of the people.  I found it to be rapid and irregular. 



I know, much like my life, this video starts off promising but peters out in a sea of sun splashed suburban ennui.

Epiphany - Elections are important but not that important.  They're a handy diversion for people who are afraid to look inward.  Those folks need to put down the pickets for a spell and work on improving their souls.  That would be change we can believe in. 

        

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I’ve been seeing the Grim Reaper around town, in glances so tiny they border on subliminal.  At the gym a fallowed face bobbed up from the bank of stairmasters.  In a black Suburban I spotted a cloaked passenger in the back row watching a DVD, something in black and white - with subtitles.  And a customer at Starbucks hid behind his New York Times, showing nothing of himself to the world but the boney fingers that clutched the Theater page. 

The lanky bastard is ubiquitous.  He always has been, I guess, but I’m just starting to notice and it’s wigging me out.  He's the brooding bartender who only perks up to announce “last call.”  What’s the point of one more round if the fun is shutting down?   

Dude, don’t take me out of the game just yet.  I know I haven’t gotten any hits – hardly made contact, in fact – and I know I booted most every slow roller that came my way, but I need a shot at redemption.  I don’t need a grand slam, necessarily; I just want to get off of the schnied.

The Reaper shows up and I start thinking about regrets, about every bad decision I ever made.  As if I need reminding – those blunders follow me around like the mob in those Verizon commercials.

But I came up with a way to stop dwelling on my missteps.  I’m chronicling all of the mistakes that I didn’t make.  I'll focus on those.  I am, after all, a human being with free will.  I've been around a long time.  I could have made every one of these boners but I didn’t and that must mean something.  Surely The Reaper has bigger fish to fry than somebody who never:

1.  Pulled a fire alarm.
2.  Spit in somebody’s food.
3.  Worn a t-shirt that said “free mustache rides.”
4.  Keyed a car.
5.  Toilet papered a house. 
6.  Married the wrong person.
7.  Lit a fart.
8.  Mooned a nun.
9.  Spoke pig latin.
10.  Steamed open an envelope.
11.  Left an “upper decker."

I was hoping to come up with a longer list, actually, given the billions of blunders that man is heir to.  The above seems a little thin.  Downright wispy. 

But maybe I've got the reaper all wrong.  Maybe he doesn't care how many successes you've had, he just tallies the mistakes and when you hit a certain number - bang!  Three million strikes and you're out.  That's why he's lurking.  I'm thinking now that if I put on a "mustache ride" t-shirt a Cessna will fall on my head.  T

Epiphany - There's no payoff in trying to get inside the Grim Reaper's head.  He's got work to do, a steady gig, no small thing in today's economy.  His job description and where he sees himself in five years are no concern of mine. Since I can't predict the day my name hits his "to do" list, I'll keep on doing what I do best, tackling life's philosophical cold cases, unraveling the mysteries that others gave up on and enjoying jerky along the way.

 

        

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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 drank.  As my buddies went off for the drinks I went into the theater to find our seats. 

We were on the side, a little more than half-way up.  Not bad since it was an intimate, 800 seat theater.  I took classes in bigger lecture halls at UCSB.  I grabbed the third seat in from the side and left the outer two for my friends. 

I soaked up the atmosphere, watched the crowd file in.  Some veteran performers, like Tony Bennett, manage to click with a young, hipster demographic.  Not Rickles, apparently.  Tom Brokaw should have been there, because the Greatest Generation was painting the town red.   And it felt right.  I was glad I was there and looking forward to my cocktail. 

Then I saw a couple of kids bounding down my row towards me -- I'm guessing an eight year old and a ten year old.   C'mon people, it's Vegas!  Rickles!  They're trailing  a woman who is clearly not related -- clearly hired help.  And behind them is an ancient looking man, hunched, with an ashen complexion and lifeless eyes.  And I think, that's what Larry King will look like when he is dead.   And as I stare I realize it is Larry King, but he's not dead - technically.

It wasn't a complete surprise to see him, since his wife, Shawn King, was opening for Rickles.  I would have guessed, however, that Larry would get better seats than me and my crew. 

I was pleased when my buddies finally brought me my drink. 

Trey got himself a beer and a tub of popcorn.  He offered me some.  Like, no thanks.  I'm in Vegas, sipping bourbon and I'm waiting to see Don Rickles, not The Last Mimzy.  Even Larry's kids aren't eating popcorn.  

People around us started taking pictures of Larry with their cellphones.  Trey realized he had a camera phone, but he had  never used it before.  After a taking a couple of blurry pictures of my ear, he put the phone away and went back to pawing at his popcorn. 

Finally, Shawn King took the stage.  With a cool big band behind her, she started off strong with a couple of hip, bossa-nova numbers that would sound good at the start of an Austin Powers movie.  Then it all went to shit.  She did a Motown medley.  What is the point of a medley?  Who wants to hear sputtering haphazard song morsels?  Not me. 

Later she did a song she referred to as "her latest single."  What does that mean these days?  Can I go to the record store and ask for the new Shawn King single?  The "single" is a duet with Willie Nelson, so a video of Willie popped up on the monitors on either side of the stage.  Willie starts in on the song and Shawn sings along to the tape.  It was all kind of klunky and creepy.

She finally bailed the stage and after just a minute or two the band fired up some matador-type music--just like Doc used to play when Rickles came on the Tonight Show--and out came a tuxedoed Mr. Rickles.   Vegas, baby!

He started right in on the crowd, noting the age of the people in the front row and asking, "Where am I playing, a retirement home?"   It was funny.  You had to be there.

In fact, that sums up the whole show: you had to be there.  I could recount his act here, but it won't be funny on paper (or on a monitor).  It's the angry persona that's funny, the uncensored id skewering the defenseless ego.  I could tell you how he pulled a man of Asian descent out of the crowd and got him to talk like the evil Jap soldier in WWII films, even getting him to make a bucked tooth face as he strung together Japanese sounding words, "hokoshino tanaka chungchoo...."  Or how he picked on the only black man in his band, "Look at Leroy.  He's laughing because his partner is up in my suite right now stealing my jewelry."  None of this reads funny, and it would be ill-advised for anybody to commit such language to paper.  But for about thirty minutes it was a hoot.

The problem was that his act went on for over an hour.  He started repeating himself.  It was like seeing the same show twice.  And there was nothing topical about the act--he probably did the same show verbatim in 1974.  Except at the very end when he told us we better support those troops, goddammit, over there fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan.  Then he launched into a James Cagney impression, which included a rousing version of "Yankee Doodle Dandy."  Rickles has a booming singing voice, and he was dancing and high-stepping back and forth across the stage and I was thinking, "I'm going to be able to tell people that I was there the night Don Rickles had a heart attack and died on stage while doing a spot-on Jimmy Cagney impersonation."  He didn't die, of course, but as the song wound down Don looked up to heaven and, riffing on Jimmy's famous line from White Heat said, "Made it Jimmy.  Top of the world!  I'm playing the Golden Nugget."  It was spooky.  In a good way.

Before leaving, Don talked about his soon-to-be-published autobiography.  And he acknowledged Larry King, on whose show he will appear next month when the book hits the stores.  Don shielded his eyes from the stage lights and tried to find Larry in the crowd.  Don started by scanning the front rows, gradually working his sights all the way back to our row, where Larry had been helped to his feet by those around him.  "There he is, ladies and gentlemen, Larry King" Don announced, and after the crowd gave Larry a hearty round of applause, Don added, "Jesus Christ.  Nice fucking seats."  Despite the sarcasm, they were nice seats and I'm glad we went. 

        

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I'll be in Vegas tomorrow (3/22/07). 

Rickles is a go.  We'll be at the Golden Nugget  for the Thursday night show at 9:00pm.  Three of us are in.  The rest didn't want to commit as the UCLA-Pittsburgh game might not be over (scheduled 6:30 start, but the game could start late and will probably run long thanks to CBS's liberal commercial policy).

Rhino finally posted my review of the film Dead Silence.  Suppose ventriloquism makes a comeback--will Borders start stocking Dummies for Dummies?

I examine the new McDonald's Angus Third Pounder for a reader at HelloRocky.com.  Check it out, carnivores.

The L.A. Times still blows.  And they still have it in for Obama.  They ran an op-ed yesterday that says whitey likes Obama because Obama is the new "magic negro," a character epitomized in film by Morgan Freeman, Will Smith and Scatman Crothers.  Honest to God, David Ehrenstien wrote that people like Obama because they imagine him saving us the way Scatman saved the family in "The Shining."  I did a blurb about it for ObamaFest, which you don't have to read because you know already how I feel.





"...Im gonna keep on the run
Im gonna have me some fun
If it costs me my very last dime
If I wind up broke up well
Ill always remember that I had a swingin time
Im gonna give it evrything Ive got
Lady luck please let the dice stay hot
Let me shout a seven with evry shot
Viva las vegas, viva las vegas,
Viva, viva las vegas"

        

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Geez, forty years ago I thought Don Rickles was in his sixties.  Guess I had that wrong.  And all those pretty faces he used to hang with, the Rat Pack, they're all long dead.  Compost.

Don Rickles will be performing at the Golden Nugget while we're in Vegas. 

Seems like a no-brainer.  I'd love to see Rickles.  The fact that he's still out there makes him The Rolling Stones of comedians.  I want to see him based on historical significance alone - the laughter is the icing on the cake.

When I was a kid there was something special about being able to stay up for the Tonight Show, and the nights when Rickles came on were the best of all.  Don't tell me about Bob Hope - he never did it for me.  Those nights when Hope would stroll over, from whatever set he was filming one of his specials on, always left me cold.  Hope would usually carry a golf club, plop down next to Johnny and tell six or seven one-liners and then bail.  Big whoop.

But Rickles brought his A-game.  He'd be in a sweat from the get go, taking on Johnny, Ed (and his drinking), Doc (and his outfits) and whoever else was within earshot. 

So the decision to seem him would be easy if made in a vacuum.  But Vegas is no vacuum.  Once you're there you're dealing with a lot of shit.  Basketball games, casino action, meals, showers and naps - it keeps you busy.  Working your schedule around a show that starts at 9:00 pm on the other side of town is problematic.  Vegas is a lot like Los Angeles now in that trying to get someplace on time is pretty much impossible. 

So I probably won't see Rickles this time.  Call me a hockey puck.

        

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So they blew up the Stardust Hotel and Casino.  I think it was shortsighted of them not to blow up the neighboring Circus Circus at the same time. 


Sure, I've stayed at the Stardust, both in the main tower and in one of the crappy motel rooms out back.  The tower rooms were cheesy and the motel rooms featured hot and cold running cockroaches.  Nobody cared - it was cheap and we were in Vegas.  It was a long time ago.  About all I remember is my friend Craig sitting on the end of the bed looking despondent.  He opened a tiny liquor bottle and started to chug it.  But this little bottle made a surprisingly loud "glug glug glug" sound as the booze fought its way out of the small opening.  The gang all turned to stare at this phenomenon which made Craig do an honest to god spit-take.  You don't see many of those in adulthood.

Vegas Hotels that I have stayed at that no longer exist:
Stardust
Hacienda
The Landmark
Dunes
The Desert Inn
Bob Stupak's Vegas World

So far.  Check out this link to the Vegas Hotel death watch.   I was not surprised to see the vultures are circling Hooters.

I will be in Vegas in:  9 days.

        

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Since people have been asking, yes, I will be going to Vegas this year for March Madness. 

For me and my people, being in Las Vegas for the "Sweet Sixteen" weekend of the NCAA Basketball Tourney is a tradition that goes back twenty years.  Back then, it wasn't so much "madness" -- more like "healthy enthusiasm."  But times change and our cultural propensity for excess finds us treating the next three weeks like a gladitorial round-robin, seasoned with all the glory and pathos of ancient Rome. 

Which is kind of cool.  Heaping all this pressure on a bunch of teenage kids and watching how they handle it is a hoot.  The only thing in sports that exceeds the ecstasy of a winning team in one of these games is the sorrow felt by the losers.  These kids bawl real tears into balled up towels or jerseys pulled snug over their faces.  Or they simply lie crying face down on the court until a sympathetic foe helps them up:



And if you bet $100 on these guys you're right there with them:

Dr. Caramelli bet Gonzaga straight-up.

When was the last time you saw an Olympic athlete cry?  I'm pretty sure it hasn't happened since Tonya Harding went all blubbery over a broken shoelace back in the Gillooly era.

We'll be there March 22-25.  Some will be staying at the Venetian.  I'll be staying, for reasons that are partly economic and partly...well, for reasons that are completely economic, at the Imperial Palace Hotel (The Venetian was running about $390/night, we got three nights at the Imperial for less).

And yes, I will blog from Vegas.  There are a lot of life lessons to be had in Las Vegas, but they tend to be forgotten, drowned in puddles of boozy sleeplessness and washed away down gulches of indifference.   It's high time these epiphanies were chronicled by somebody with a passion for unraveling the riddles of the Universe.

        

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One of life's great comforts, right up there with donuts, prozac and booze, is self-delusion.   It is a quality that, as the years go by, comes in more and more handy.

I go for a five mile run at least four times a week.  I stretch first, then put on the iPod and go.  I'm not in the best shape of my life, but I feel like I'm moving at a pretty good clip.  Usually.  But sometimes I'll round a corner and up ahead I'll see a mom moving in the same direction.  And she's pushing a stroller.  I'll tell myself to make loud footsteps as I approach, so as not to startle her when I zoom past.  I'm considerate that way. 

The disheartening part is how long it takes me to catch her.  I'm running and this woman is pushing a stroller with blankets and diapers hanging over the sides.  Why is it so hard for a harrier like me to reel her in?  What kind of bionic MILFs is America turning out? 

The truth?  I am Bavetta.

You probably saw it.  During an NBA  game on TNT, Charles Barkley poked fun at how slow 67-year-old referee Dick Bavetta moved.  When Bavetta learned about Barkley's comments, a war of words began that lead to a match race in Las Vegas during All-Star weekend. 

Bavetta is lean and toned and he runs six miles every day in addition to his grueling work as an NBA referee.  Charles is rotund 44-year-old, several years removed from his playing days.  Most people were picking Bavetta.  But you can't negotiate with age, it renders its decisions with the iron fist of a pre-menstrual Judge Judy.


The race, three and half basketball court lengths, belonged to Barkley.

You would think that the outcome of the race would force Dick Bavetta to confront the reality of his years.  And it probably did.  For a while.  But after some thought he had to realize that Charles Barkley was voted one of the Fifty Greatest NBA players ever.  And he's not that far removed from his playing days.  Plus, Charles most certainly continues to play recreational hoops.  He still has strong legs, with the kind of musculature that you need for sprints.  Bavetta must be thinking that in another format, at another time, he would thrash Charles Barkley. 

That's how I would be thinking.

I am Bavetta.

        

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In yesterday's post I forgot to mention an ugly incident at the Barack Obama rally in Los Angeles:

Just before Obama arrived, a bunch of L.A. City Councilpersons squeezed into a little holding pen next to the stage.  So Obama comes out, thanks the former-homeless-guy who introduced him, and then acknowledged the area Congresswoman, Diane Watson, who was standing near the Councilpersons.  Then he starts his speech, but the Councilpeople begin waving their arms and yelling "City Council" and pointing at themselves.  They want to be acknowledged.  Obama says something diplomatic like "A whole lot of nice people, I can't acknowledge everybody, but I love you all."  And he goes back to his story.  But they continue waving and yelling.  And they've all got staff members who amplify what their bosses are doing.  I was embarrassed for them, not just for the way they were acting, but for the fact that Obama had no idea who these jackasses were.  And they seemed to figure that out, because one of them (I couldn't see who) rounded up all of their business cards and put them on the stage - didn't even have the courtesy to hand them directly to Obama.  And now they all start yelling "business cards, business cards!"  So finally, an exasperated Obama goes over, knells down to the cards and reads the names.  And a nice touch was he didn't give them the courtesy of standing back up to read the cards.  From a crouching position he monotones "Jan Perry, Janice Hahn, Bill Rosendahl, Ed Reyes..." and they all cheered themselves while the rest of the city blushed in shame. 

Finally, it looked like Obama could continue, but Councilman Bernard Parks wisely choose to stand apart from his colleagues.  However, he unwisely choose to ape them, and as Obama starts speaking again, a Parks lackey starts yelling "Bernard Parks, Bernard Parks" while raising his boss's arm and pointing to him.  And so Obama says "Bernard Parks" so we can all go on with our day, for fuck's sake.


City Councilman Bill Rosendahl's search for existential
reaffirmation of self continues.

  

        

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It's Fat Tuesday and I've got the thighs to prove it.  So I figured I better get out and do something. 

Barack Obama was in L.A. today and I got off the couch and checked him out.  As a contributing writer to the Obamafest blog, I felt it was my duty.  I skipped David Geffen's party, since he's a douche, and I popped over to a daytime rally at the little park next to Dorsey High. 

I got there early and parked myself near the stage.  These young people came out and did a few songs acapella:
 They reminded me of Up With People (Up! Up! Up with people/You meet 'em wherever you go!/ Up! Up! Up with people/They're the best kind of folks we know).   They call themselves the Snickerdoodles, or something like that. 

Then John Densmore and his TribalJazz group played a few songs.  Good stuff if you like percussion.  I couldn't take a picture because my camera's batteries were crapping out.  Go to their site if you're curious. 

I figured Obama would be late since this is L.A. and every freeway and street is meshugine.  But right at his projected arrival time of 3:15 he popped up on stage.   Pretty impressive.

He gave a rousing speech, peeling off his jacket half-way through and basking in the sun.



I didn't notice any Secret Service.  Maybe they were undercover.  I worry that I might come across as a Travis Bickle type and some SS Agent will look at me and go, "THAT GUY!" and I'll get gang-tackled and thrown into the back of an unmarked Ford Crown Victoria and taken to some basement where I'm tasered until I name names.

None of that happened today. 

What did happen was Senator Obama gave a nice speech.  I'm into this whole Presidential campaign thing.  Sure, it's a year until people start voting, but if we can spend the next year arguing about the father of Anna Nicole's baby, and if we can spend the next year watching Brittney's hair grow back, then we can certainly spend the next year figuring out who would make a good President.  It's important that we get this right, because I've got a feeling that it's going to fall on our next President to figure out a way to bury James Brown.

        

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I reviewed the new Hugh Grant/Drew Barrymore film Music and Lyrics for the Rhino website.  The review is worth checking out if only for the bad photoshop, which is very good (I explain the importance of good bad photoshop in an early HelloRocky article).  I also used the word "insouciance" in the review, in the hopes of earning an invite to  some literary round table.

The Rocky Cup remains in Japan.  I've been monitoring the wire services all month, and as far as I can tell, Yone Minagawa is still alive (and still a woman, despite what an earlier post may have intimated).  And still the oldest living human.  Once you win that title you keep it for life, like being Pope or the football coach at Penn State. 

HelloRocky.com continues to generate heavy traffic.  Our three-part summary of the Best Picture Oscar nominees was especially well received. 

The popular political blog ObamaFest picked up on my angry letter to the L.A. Times.  This in turn generated heavy traffic to this blog.  Which is nice.  Just because you're focused on Senator Obama's campaign for the White House doesn't mean you don't care about how Rocky Petralia's day at Costco went. 

February is a chippy little month, the calm before the storm known as March Madness.   Savor it.

        

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Emma Faust Tillman died.  She was the oldest person on Earth, though she only held that title for four days.  115-year-old Emiliano Mercado del Toro of Puerto Rico died on January 24. 

I realize it's a tough title to hang on to for very long, but four days seems unusually brief.  Sure enough, the Guinness people say it's the shortest reign on record.  The prior record was 13 days by Mitoyo Kawate, who was 114 when she died Nov. 13, 2003, in Hiroshima, Japan.

So Emma goes down as the longevity version of Pope John Paul I. 

As long as somebody is tracking all these oldsters, it seems like there should be a perpetual trophy that the current champ gets to possess.  Or a big diamond encrusted belt, like you get when you hold a boxing title.  Seniors love bling.  Of course, when you live in a nursing home your shit is always getting ripped off, so maybe a trophy is a better idea - a big honker like the Stanley Cup that can't easily be swiped. 

Once I set up my charitable foundation, I've decided I will sponsor just such a trophy.  We'll call it the Tillman Cup. Better still, I'll name it after myself: The Rocky Cup.  I'll never be the longest-living human, but I am the Champion of Savoring Every Day.  And that's what the Rocky Cup would remind people to do. 

Anyway, with Emma Tillman's death, the new holder of the yet to be designed Rocky Cup is Yone Minagawa of Fukuoka, Japan, who is 114, born Jan. 4, 1893.   Carpe diem, Mr. Minagawa. 






  

        

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I'm not a good complainer.  For me to send food back at a restaurant, for example, there needs to be movement on the plate.  Or something fecal. 

So I only wrote a letter to the L.A. Times because, as I'm eating my bowl of Kellogg's Yogos,  their editorial was laying on my table like a big crusty turd.  They applauded Senator Clinton for morphing into an anti-war candidate, "For Democrats, Clinton's dialing-up of her opposition to the war may mean that they will have to choose between her and other would-be nominees - Obama included - on other grounds.  That could be a positive development."

We've got this fiasco in Iraq, which Clinton supported, and the Times thinks it would be a shame if her poor judgment worked against her in a Presidential campaign.  Let her reinvent herself, and then let's choose a candidate based on issues more pressing than THE WAR.  What those might be, I don't know, but on her website Senator Clinton boasts that, "In the 109th Congress, I became the senior Democrat on the Fisheries, Wildlife and Water subcommittee."  So the Times wants us to turn a blind eye to the clusterfuck in IRAQ and let Senator Clinton ride the resurgence of the walleye trout all the way to the White House. 

Why would the newspaper embarrass itself like this?  In a roundabout way, they are staking out an anti-Obama position.  They point out that Obama is "exploiting" his comments from 2002 that the war to topple Saddam was "dumb and rash."  The Times snidely points out that Obama "has the luxury of not having been in the Senate in 2002."  WTF?  A Senator has the power and the platform to combat an errant and incompetent Executive Branch.  That is the luxury that most Americans envy.   Twenty three Senators had the moxie to vote against the use of force in Iraq.  This wasn't Pearl Harbor, Senator Clinton had a choice.

Anyway, I wrote the letter and they printed it and I know it makes me look like a cranky guy with too much time on his hands but that's what I am so there.

For the record, I wrote:

The Times sees Senator Clinton's newfound opposition to the Iraq War as
"a positive development" since voters would have to choose between her
and Senator Obama "on other grounds."  This assumes that voters will
forget that during the rush to war, when history was calling for bold
voices of opposition, Senator Clinton strongly endorsed one of the
greatest follies in this country's history.  Her vote was clearly made
with future political ambitions in mind.  Well, the future is now, and
her "scrambling to get on what her party's primary voters deem the
right side of history" is as unseemly and offensive as the daily
headlines coming out of Iraq.

Rocky Petralia
Westwood, CA

"Man, I wish I had the luxury of not being here."

Epiphany - Everybody calls the Times a "liberal" paper.  But it's really an "establishment" paper.   They hate the outsider above all else.  They love the politician that's been around, has a lot of political IOUs and can't rock the boat.  Look how terrified the were when Arnold first ran for governor.  They ran front page stories about sexual improprieties, just days before the election, that made a typical Hollywood jerk sound like a serial rapist.  They defended their much criticized series claiming it proved him unfit for public office.  Fine.  But two years later, two years of Arnold taking in more special interest money than anybody in state history, THEY ENDORSED the clod, against a mainstream, competent Democrat.  What the hell?  In those two years did he UNMOLEST all those secretaries?  Nope, the Times just likes a guy who has sold out to the system.  Apparently, Obama is not there yet.  Now the paper is going after him. 

        

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My review of Miss Potter is now up at Rhino.com.  Wonderful film.  Wonderful review.  Wonderful life.

Speaking of Rhino.com, read some of Bob Lefsetz' columns while you're there.  They are terrific examinations of music as commerce and music as part of our lives.  And the writing style is unique and infectious, to the point that you'll find yourself lamenting the music executives who DON'T GET IT and simply want the CASH TODAY and seem to have forgotten that it is THE MUSIC THAT MATTERS!

Speaking of It's a Wonderful Life, I was reading a Richard Schickel essay on Humphrey Bogart in the L.A. Times.  He mentions all of the iconic Bogie films, then adds,

Between those films he created his masterpiece, Dix Steele, the near murderously angry screenwriter of "In a Lonely Place." In a sense, the 1950 film was his farewell to the Hollywood he had known earlier -- that place where small-timers nourished their sad little dreams in marginal bars and bungalows. 

Call me a dope, but I'd never seen In A Lonely Place.  So I Netflixed it.  I wasn't going to wait since I was going on hiatus and since the movie had five things I love:

1) Bogie
2) small-timers
3) sad little dreams
4) marginal bars
5) bungalows

I watched it last night.  Great movie, kind of like Sunset Boulevard without the monkey.  And there's a dame, of course, Laurel, a sultry blond with a round, optimistic face.  A familiar face.  It was so familiar that I had to stop the film and IMDB her.  Her name is Gloria Grahame and she looked familiar because she played young temptress Violet Bick in It's a Wonderful Life.  Seeing her flushed and aroused in this movie made me feel sorry for George Bailey and his missed opportunity.

Epiphany - When faces from movies you love pop up it can be like seeing old friends.  It happened again last night when I passed through the room where my people were watching "Grey's Anatomy."  This family was being told that it was time to pull the plug on dad.  Mom is in tears, brother #1 is in tears, brother #2 is in tears and then they pan to brother #3.  And it's the blond guy from the movie Office Space who brags in that film that he's going to show some chick his "O" face and then starts making orgasmic "Ooh" sounds.  "Grey's Anatomy" is gradually turning up the plaintive music, trying to get me to cry, which isn't that hard, usually, but now I'm laughing thinking about this guy telling Peter to use a condom because Lumbergh boinked his girlfriend.  And in thinking of all this I realized that what makes movies memorable, above all else, are THE CHARACTERS.  You can make a completely original film like Idiocracy but if the characters are flat the movie stinks.  And you can take a well-worn idea like "a guy hates his job" but if you infuse it with INTERESTING CHARACTERS it becomes watchable and even re-watchable.  I think that Mr. Lefsetz would argue that the suits don't realize that you can't have a GREAT ALBUM IF YOU DON'T HAVE GREAT SONGS, and the corollary in filmdom is that you can't make a GREAT MOVIE IF YOU DON'T HAVE GREAT CHARACTERS.  Witness Ben Affleck's CRAPPY CAREER. 

        

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The best kept secret in Los Angeles is the Armand Hammer Golf Course in Holmby Hills Park.  The well manicured, 18-hole layout features small greens and kikuyu grass, not unlike the better known Riviera Country Club.  Unlike Riviera, however, Armand Hammer is uncrowded, open to the public and charges a green fee of just $2 ($3 on weekends). 

Since Doug was in town for a couple of days, we got a foursome together and set out to tame "The Mini-Monster."  I arrived early to work on my putting.  As I was grooving my stroke, Beach Boy Brian Wilson pulled up and hopped out of his Benz.  I've seen him here before.  He likes to walk the 5/8 mile path around the park.  He's usually good for five or six laps, but because of the cold wind, I'm guessing, he only went around twice before peeling out.  Although it wasn't that cold.  Hodad. 

Once Doug and Craig arrived, we teed off.  This time of year, with the sun setting at 4:30, you can only wait so long for Wes.  Craig played the best, getting the only birdie of the day and not hitting any cars (although he did hit one ball across Club View Drive that settled in the gutter on a pile of leaves). 


Doug is the least experienced golfer, but looking at his unorthodox setup and swing you can see traces of the great Moe Norman. 


Wes arrived, finished reading his paper, and joined the rest of us at the Westwood Brewing Company for some cold beer and warm conversation. 

Epiphany - Directly over the wall that Doug is aiming at lies the Spelling Estate.  It's 56,000 square feet and contains 123 rooms.  Even if you can afford it, we recently learned, you're still going to die.  That's just the way  things work.  So the question should never be "Why are you playing golf with your buddies on a weekday?"  It should be "Why aren't you?" 

        

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This is my first post in December.  Either I suck or Orange County sucks.  Maybe a little of both.

I reviewed Blood Diamond for Rhino.com.  It's an important movie about an important topic.  All diamonds are conflict diamonds.  Fling the bling, people. 

We've also been getting heavy traffic at HelloRocky.com.  Check out our latest query from a young man looking for Vegas advice.  He came to the right place.

It's getting cold and the brutal summer heat of Sedona seems like a lifetime ago.  I'm going to put on a sweater, make some lasagna and then try to find Venus in the slippery night sky.

        

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"Woman at the Window" - Angelo Petralia, 2002

I’m often asked why I don’t rest on my laurels.  I respond with the old chestnut, “My laurels are prickly.” 

Then I get serious.  I reveal the things that motivate me.  Near the top of the list is the fact that I have an uncommon surname.  Any infamy on my part would hurt the small Petralia tribe.  As steward of the Petralia.com domain, I feel extra inspiration to "represent."

Think about Tonya Harding’s ex-husband, Jeff Gillooly.  When he was nabbed helping to break Nancy Kerrigan’s leg, he introduced most of the world to the “Gillooly” name.  God forbid if you were one of the few Gilloolys in America.  Everybody would be asking you if you were related to Jeff.  Gillooly himself was so embarrassed that he changed his name to Jeff Stone. 

Or suppose you were a fine, upstanding citizen who happened to be named “Manson.”  If your kids want to host a sleepover, forget it.  Imagine their friends asking for permission to spend the night with the Manson Family.

Other uncommon names that carry some ugly baggage:  Arbuckle, Capone, Ceaucescu, Delay, Dillinger, Dhamer, Dracula, Falwell, Farrakhan, Frist, Guckert, Hilfiger, Hitler, Hoffa, Kevorkian, Limbaugh, Oswald, Sharpton, Stalin, Winfrey and Vanilli.

It's different with common names.  If you meet a Ramirez, you don't automatically think of "Night Stalker" Richard Ramirez.  The name is too widespread.  Other names common enough to endure the shame of individual members include Jackson (little boys), Robertson (asked God to kill Supreme Court justices) and Brown (Hurricane Katrina).  If the FEMA head who bumbled around in his new Nordstrom suit while a city perished was named Mike Petralia, Petralias everywhere would be screwed.

So we are achievers.  I compiled a list of other notable Petralias.   Their only relation to me, as far as I know, is their desire to be the best at what they do, and to make the world a more enjoyable place for all:

Fanny Palli - Petralia  Greek Minister of Tourism - Organized the 2004 Athens Summer Olympics.
Eliano Mattiozzi Petralia - Conductor - Musical Director of the South Pacific Symphony in New Zealand.  A grandson of the renowned Italian conductor Tito Petralia.
Joseph F. Petralia - Wrote the definitive book on how to prospect for gold.
Mickey Petralia - Noted record producer and engineer.
Jason Petralia - Talented photographer.
Angelo Petralia - Based in Milan, he is an Italian painter who describes his work as somewhere "between metaphysics and surrealism."  Which, coincidentally, is how I describe my love life.
Peter S. Petralia - "Peter S Petralia is a producer, director, writer, curator and designer who works in performance, theater, circus and installation arts. Peter is Artistic Director and founder of Proto-type Theater in New York for which he has written and directed numerous acclaimed works. In 2004 he was named a nytheater.com person of the year."
Marco Petralia - The top D.J. in Germany.  Check out his sound.
Jim Petralia - PGA Golf instructor.  Won the California State Open in 1979.  Points out on his website, "You have to change behavior to achieve growth."   Word.
Ray and Michele Petralia - Philadelphia's top Real Estate team.  Which reminds me, I just saw the trailer for Rocky Balboa.  "I think there's still some stuff in the basement."  Goosebumps. 

Epiphany - I just realized that I also represent the "Rocky" name.  It's a smaller club, but no less noble than the Petralia moniker.  Maybe I'll put together a list of notable Rocky's.  But not now.  My basement is telling me it's time for a sandwich.

        

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William Blake said that you will never know what is enough until you find out what is more than enough.  Welcome to Costco, Mr. Blake.

The store gives me the willies.  It seems like a chunk of society is hunkering down, getting supplies for bomb shelters that they don't want me to know about.  They buy twenty five pound bags of sugar with these innocent looks meant to convey, "Oh, we just go through a lot of sugar."  Like hell!  What do you people know that I don't? 

But my mom likes Costco, so I took her.  Costco is very popular with retired people.   On weekdays the stores open at 10:00 a.m.  We got there at 10:20 and all of the handicapped parking spots were taken.   It's perplexing.  You need to be at full strength to shop at Costco.  My job was to hoist huge items into my mom's cart.

I'm not even a member, so I have to stand next to my mom as we enter the store and she flashes her membership card.  The whole thing makes me feel like an eight year old with special needs.  But I'm not paying $50 for the right to shop at a store.  Kudos to the guy who convinced his colleagues that people would pay money just to get in the door.  It must have been like James Earl Jones speech in Field of Dreams, when he tells Ray that people will pay money to visit his farm, "They'll arrive at your door as innocent as children, longing for the past. Of course, we won't mind if you look around, you'll say. It's only $20 per person. They'll pass over the money without even thinking about it: for it is money they have and peace they lack."  


Somebody should tell this guy to go the distance.  He's always here, driving his zamboni machine around the food department.  Great idea.  You've got a store full of elderly, handicapped people.  Why not put some moisture on the slick cement floor, just for kicks?

On a positive note, if you fight your way past the electronics, appliances, clothing, and Christmas crap, you are rewarded with these huge bottles of top-notch spirits. 
This is what I want in my bomb shelter.  We better grab a generator, because I'm going to need ice.

Epiphany - My attitude softened after spending a few minutes in Costco's Cathedral of Booze.  This is November, after all, one of the best months of the year.  It's the time when we celebrate the abundance of America.  We remember to stop whining and to be grateful for the bounty we all enjoy.  I have no right to question somebody's purchase of twenty five pounds of sugar, just as that person shouldn't mock the guy wandering the aisles with a two gallon bottle of Maker's Mark, desperately looking for his mom's shopping cart.   

        

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I've radically altered the way I dress myself.  

My whole life it's been the same.  I flop out of bed.  Then I shave, shower and get dressed.   Here's how I used to dress: underwear first, then pants, then a shirt and finally I'd put on shoes and socks.  But dig this: now I put the shirt on last.  That's right, the shoes and socks go on and then I stand up and choose just the right shirt for the day ahead.  It's great.  I feel energized being all laced up with no shirt on.  I'm like a boxer answering the bell.  I'll punch the air a couple of times as I stand at the closet.  And I think it's helping me make better shirt choices.

Before, the shirt would go on, then I would fish out some clean socks, find my shoes and sit down.  Once I had the shoes and socks on my momentum was gone.  I didn't feel like getting back up and facing the day. 

Epiphany - There are two lessons, really.  The first is that just because a man's been doing something his whole life, it doesn't mean he's been doing it right.  The married women know what I'm talking about.  The second lesson is that there is a geometric element to a life properly lived.  There are right ways and wrong ways for things to take shape, and the right way is usually from the bottom up.  Build the foundation and add to it.  It's funny, but if I were going to wear a cap I would never think to put the cap on before my shoes and socks.  How could I have been so dopey when it came to the shirt?  I guess there's a third lesson - it's never too late to make a change for the better. 

       

        

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The launch in June of Petralia.com provided America with a portal into the mind of Rocky Petralia.  By sharing his epiphanies and insights into the human condition, Rocky has gained a large and loyal audience. 

The secret is out, and America has come to realize that Rocky Petralia has one of the most agile minds of our time.  He now receives bags of emails with questions on a variety of subjects.  Rocky is all about sharing, and he has therefore launched a sister sight, HelloRocky.com, where he will answer selected emails for the benefit of all. 

Petralia.com will continue to follow Rocky and his experiences as he chases down the American Dream.  As Rocky wrote in Sedona this summer, "The town is ringed by red buttes and mesas (I don't know the difference, though I should since my life hit a plateau years ago)."  Rocky is dedicated to leaving that plateau, even if the only way off proves to be straight down. 

Visit HelloRocky.com to see Rocky tackle the tough questions of our day.  And if you have something to ask Rocky, email him at rocky@HelloRocky.com 

        

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People think I’m all business, but I’m not.  Saturday I stopped filling out TPS reports and drove up to Santa Monica for some poker.  It’s a longstanding game, not some ESPN inspired No-Limit Hold-Em affair.  This group goes back more than ten years.  In that time there have been marriages, babies, mid-life crises and one suicide.  But we keep playing since spending a few hours with friends makes everybody a winner.

Dave hosted.  Because he can, he is building a new house on the beach.  It’s not quite ready for move-in, so we
played in his old house next door.

 
New house on left.  Old house on right.  Jogger in between.

Dave is not sure whether the beach is his frontyard or backyard.

I got a tour of the new house.  As you can see, the Santa Monica Pier is nearby.  Dave doesn’t trust the rollercoaster, but he appreciates being a short skate away from the corn dogs and cotton candy. 

The game was supposed to start at six but it was closer to seven by the time we got going.  Drew couldn’t follow directions and called from a few miles inland.  Somebody pointed out that he shouldn’t need a map to find his way to the world’s largest ocean. 

It’s always Dealer’s choice, so we ended up playing a variety of games that you won’t see on ESPN.  And that’s a shame.  I’d like to see Doyle Brunson and Johnny Chan handle action like Pass The Trash, Follow the Queens, Night Baseball (a variation of Seven Card No-Peek), or Hollywood Squares.  I went with Chihuahua Stud my first two deals.  It is an exciting six card stud game (one down, four up, one down).  Later on I dealt it “Cinco de Mayo” style, meaning that if you got a five up, everybody in the game had to toss you a quarter.  I dealt Mark a five and he was so thrilled that he warbled a song, kind of a cross between “La Bamba” and “Werewolves of London.” 

Epiphany - Stamina is always a concern with this group, but we played well past eleven.  The fresh ocean air combined with exciting table action invigorated the players.  More importantly, just being among buddies is a tonic.  Life deals everybody a lot of hands.   Fold the bad ones and hang onto a full house of friends.

That barking sound means it's time for a little Chihuahua.

        

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My pumpkin crop was a bust.  I planted some seeds at the end of spring.  Early on there were promising signs: some plants thrived and I had to cull the crop where I had planted seeds too close together.  But as the summer wore on the vines withered.  Promising yellow flowers gave way to limp brown leaves.  Sure, I watered them.  I may have over-watered some as their leaves seemed to mildew away.  The bottom line is that if I want pumpkins I’ll have to go to the grocery store or to some lot where they toss around hay and give pony rides. 

With the Harvest Moon upon us and nothing to harvest I drove out to Oak Glen to pick apples.  Oak Glen is off of Interstate 10 on the way to Palm Springs.  Exit in Yucaipa or Beaumont and head up towards the mountains.  Oak Glen is located at an elevation of 5,000 feet, where the climate is ideal for growing apples and selling knick-knacks.

The road through the Oak Glen area is dotted with little villages where shops sell produce, baked goods and freshly pressed cider.  There are also plenty of curio shops and galleries featuring the works of local artists.  And there is some sort of animal farm that kids might like.  I saw an ostrich sticking his sad head through the fence.  I didn’t want to know what else was locked up there and I kept moving.  To an ostrich, my attitude might have seemed ironic.

It was a weekday and not too crowded, but I saw some huge parking lots and parking fields that suggest that the weekends are chaotic.  Some of the ranches have hayrides and historical reenactments.  Riley’s Farm has turned its Revolutionary and Civil War reenactments into big business.  On their website they rail about their neighbors who have filed complaints.  What’s the big deal, they wonder, about brass bands and thousands of men firing muskets?  The best part is that the complaining neighbors are family members.  Oak Glen may need a bigger gene pool.

Instead of picking my own apples I went to Mom’s Country Orchards. 
Mom was dipping apples in caramel when I entered, but she stopped long enough to slice some apples for me to taste.  I decided on one bag of Spartans and one bag of Red-Golds.  I petted Mom’s dog on the way out, breathed in the cool mountain air, and headed home.

Epiphany – They say that you reap what you sow, but the truth is that what you reap may have nothing to do with what you have sown.  I’m not happy that this year came and went without a pumpkin crop.  But I’m not sad either.  I’ll try again in ’07.  In the meantime, the world remains a bountiful place, and a sweet crisp apple on a fall day is a lot to be thankful for.     

        

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My review of the new Jackass movie is now available at Rhino.com.   The good news: I was able to use the word bourgeois.

 
"The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom." - William Blake

        

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I didn’t even know that there was a Match.com in Italy until the emails started rolling in.  The subject line read “Nuove persone ti stanno cercando” (New people are seeking you).  I thought I was getting Italian spam (which made me think of canned prosciutto) but I finally opened one of the emails.  I liked the idea of new people seeking me.  All the old people are tired of my act.  What I found was a group of twenty-something Italian men staring back at me.  They had these poses that said, “Come with me in my Alfa Romeo, donna bella.”  Here's a sample:

 
I couldn’t figure it out until I noticed that these emails were addressed to Silvana@petralia.com.  Some girl signed up for Match.com with the wrong email address.  There is no Silvana here at petralia.com.  Who is this gal?  I wanted to see her profile, but I needed her password so I clicked “Dimenticato i dati di accesso?” (Forget your password?) and they emailed her password to me.  Her profile was blank except for a birthdate (9/20/86).  That’s it.  No photo, no interests, no location.  I guess that to be popular in Italy one only needs to be born.  And be a woman.  And I guess being twenty doesn't hurt. 

If you’re out there, Silvana, be aware that nuove persone ti stanno cercando.  I hope that by now you have opened a new account with your real email address.  And I hope that true amore comes your way.  Come back to petralia.com often for epiphanies and other life lessons.  To get things started, I have crafted this nugget of wisdom just for you: Stay away from the guy in the fedora. 

Buona fortuna! 

        

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Since Mac was still alive we went ahead with Saturday’s potluck.  He had just spent eight days in the hospital enduring the mayhem of a ruptured appendix.  Although he didn’t feel the actual cold breath of the Grim Reaper on the back of his neck, he did hear heavy footsteps outside of his door.  The nurse, however, pointed out that the icy Formica hallways are often trod on by lumbering attorneys searching for victims of well-insured motorists. 
Mac - Recuperating with a cold Newcastle.

The appendix is its own little epiphany.  Most scientists agree that it has no function.  That’s all you need to know about why it causes such trouble.  People are the same way.  The man who awakes without purpose is the one most likely to disrupt order.  Consider Klansmen.  These are not people who labor at two jobs while working on college degrees.  They are our cultures inactive appendages, easily inflamed, and given to ruptures which further  spread their toxic karma.

 
Klansmen -  In the spirit of the appendix.

I brought pies.  Since my people deserve it, I picked up two organic pies at Whole Foods – a cherry and a honey apple.  They were delicious and followed nicely the grilled burgers, shrimp cocktail, fresh salad, and the chip and vegetable medleys.  I also brought organic frozen chocolate bars, for the kids, who also enjoyed brightly colored cupcakes. 

Since every day is a gift, I was up before dawn on Sunday morning, headed to Malibu where my friend Wes was entered in a triathlon.  The sky was blue and warm by the time the race started.  A shotgun blast sent the participants scrambling into the sea.  Thousands participated.  For the many celebrities who raced, it had to be the most real part of their summers.  They couldn’t leave it to their hired flacks to feel the cold sting of the Pacific Ocean, to endure the muscle burn of a bike ride up the steep hills of PCH, or to absorb the pounding of a long run on the hard strand concrete. Among the many notables to finish after Wes were Jon Cryer, David Duchovny, and  William H. Macy.

 

Malibu Wes - "What are you looking at, Sugar tits?"

Watching so many people glide into the water left me in awe of the human organism.  At some point millions of years ago, evolution explains, our ancestors were creatures of the sea.  Then they flopped ashore, liked what they saw and never looked back.  But I was looking back.  This triathlon was a microcosm of the evolutionary cycle: the participants swam like Jurassic guppies, ran like upright Neanderthals being chased by saber tooth tigers, and biked like French winemakers fleeing belching Panzer tanks. 

This brought me back to the appendix.  Scientists claim that vestigial organs like the appendix are supporting evidence for evolution.  While the appendix does us no good, it is homologous to organs that function normally in other species.  It must have served a purpose to some members of our ancestral past, but changes in our behavior patterns and environment rendered it useless. 

So maybe this whole weekend was God’s way of telling me that there is no God.  I was rattled.  I walked across PCH while Wes was on the biking leg of his race and I got a coffee at the Starbucks next to Trancas Market.  A tall drip.  They filled it to the top, so when I got to the cream/sugar bar I dumped some of my coffee to make room for half and half.  It was a hearty brew and I realized after one sip that sugar was in order.  I added a pack of Sugar in the Raw and it was almost perfect – another pack and I was right where I wanted to be.   

Then it struck me: God tinkers.  He created us in his image, and we tinker all the time.  It makes perfect sense that at one point God’s top creation was a walleyed trout.  And he was proud of it.  But after a while he realized that he could do better.  And he tinkered.  And after a while he tinkered again, and so on until he got to me and you.  And he still might not be done – I’m hoping that down the road we see less body hair and smaller ears.  But the important thing is that he’s doing the best he can and that made me feel better.  I got back in the Starbucks line and treated myself to an apple fritter. 

 

        

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About once a month I sneak out to see a movie.  I’ll leave my coat draped over my chair and a hot cup of joe on my desk.  I also tuck a pencil behind my ear and tote along the Mulcahy file to confuse the office gadabouts. 

 I’m a big fan of “Office Space,” so I was pleased to hear writer/director Mike Judge had a new film out.  “Idiocracy” stars Luke Wilson as a soldier who gets put in a hibernation pod and wakes up 500 years hence to find he is the smartest man in America.  The notion is that there is no longer any Darwinian advantage to being intelligent – smart people, in fact, are having fewer kids while the Jerry Springer audience continues to multiply like yeast in damp panties – thus our median I.Q. is spiraling downward.

(The guy driving is the President of the United States)

“Idiocracy” is not playing in a lot of theaters.  According to Wikipedia, “The film was shown to test audiences around March, 2005.  There were unofficial reports of very poor ratings from that viewing. Some re-filming purportedly took place in the summer of 2005. Release was even further stalled, possibly relating to a civil suit in which several companies (Costco, Starbucks and Fuddruckers) were unhappy with the way they were satirized in the film.  The film's distributor has done nothing to promote the movie -- no trailers, posters, television spots or even press kits for media outlets are being provided. There is speculation in some quarters that 20th Century Fox may be intentionally trying to keep the film from being seen on a large scale, or that they may be reluctantly fulfilling a contractual obligation to release the film in theaters before releasing it on DVD.”

In the film, Starbucks has become a place where men go for handjobs (called “lattes”), Costco is a mile long building where the greeters chirp, “Welcome to Costco, I love you,” and Fuddruckers has evolved into “Buttfuckers” (though I think it still serves burgers).  So I guess the movie doesn’t flatter these companies, but I thought that satire was protected free speech.  How can they sue?  And who previewed the film for them, anyway?  “Have a seat, Mr. Fuddrucker, We’d like to show you one of our upcoming films and get a little feedback.” 

My review?  It’s either the crappiest movie ever or it’s so brilliant that its genius flew over my head.  It sure seemed crappy at the time.  Too over the top.  I didn’t laugh much, and when I did it caused existential angst.  For example, in the future the most popular TV show is “Ow, My Balls” that concerns a man who constantly takes blows to his genitals.  In one scene he is walking across a construction sight and a wrecking ball hits him in the nuts and he yells “Ow, my balls!”  The audience of the future is laughing and I laughed, too.  But am I laughing at them for being so stupid, or am I laughing at the well crafted scene of a wrecking ball hitting a man in the groin - and wouldn’t that  make me just as stupid?  The movie made me lose track of who I was.  Reality and fiction swirled and folded over each other like the gooey elements of a Cinnabon.

But in one of my mind’s dark cubby holes is this gnawing feeling that “Idiocracy” is genius.  I recall how people blew off “Citizen Kane” when it first came out.  Too over the top - a megalomaniacal media tycoon trying to rule the world – it was hard to fathom.  Not anymore.  We only need to look as far as Rupert Murdoch and his News Corp dictating public opinion and influencing public policy via a vast network of newspapers, magazines, TV stations (including Fox News) and the internet (including MySpace).  He even owns 20th Century Fox Studios, the same people who are quashing “Idiocracy,” which brings us full circle so quickly that I'm dizzy.  I’m draping my coat over my chair and stepping back out for a Cinnabon.             

        

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The Greek hero Odysseus spent ten years fighting the Trojan War.  After the conquest of Troy, it took him ten more years to get home to Ithaca.  The Gods of Ancient Greece, like today’s Jet Blue Airlines, knew how to make a simple journey complicated.  They threw challenges and roadblocks in Odysseus’ path, and though the translation is a little murky, may even have rerouted him through Phoenix. 

Yet nowhere in Homer’s epic poem does Odysseus complain.  Much like Bubbles and I, Odysseus knew that the journey was the destination.  The idea of returning home gives a man purpose, but his life is forged on the road. 

Visions of Grecian heroes invaded my mind today as I attended a cross country meet: The Laguna Hills Invitational.  Much like the Spartans of yore, cross country runners are sent on a journey.  Friends and family are left behind as the young harriers embark on a quest for glory.  Like Odysseus, the runners end up where they began, but the challenges and adventures along they way expose their souls and harden their spirits. 

Epiphany - Odysseus’ noble efforts to get back to Ithaca were not in vain.  His lovely wife, Penelope, waited faithfully for his return.  It is important to note, however, that while it took him ten years to travel home, seven of those years were spent on an island with the beautiful nymph Calypso.  Consider this an ancient reminder that, on even the most daunting of journeys, a man can experience wondrous things. 

        

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Each day presents its own choices.  Today, for example,  I realized that I could visit a Vedanta Monastery where the monks are taught to see intuitively that the distinction between the self and the universe is a false dichotomy.  Or I could work on my putting.  I chose the Monastery.  I figure I can fine tune my new cross-handed grip over the long weekend.

The Ramakrishna Monastery in Trabuco Canyon got its start in 1942.  Aldous Huxley and other British writers living in Hollywood built a retreat where Eastern and Western mysticism could be studied, presumably with the assistance of large amounts of drugs.  Eventually, they turned the property over to Swami Prabhavananda and the Vedanta Society.  The Italian style buildings are still surrounded by hundreds of unspoiled acres in this rugged part of Orange County.



Visiting hours are from 9-11 a.m.  The courtyard was empty as I strolled in around 9:30.  A sign instructed visitors to announce themselves by ringing the bell, which I did.  Moments later, a man who looks like Eric Clapton emerged from the shrubs.  He didn’t say anything as he walked towards me, so I got things started with a friendly “Hello!”  Still silence.  Maybe he took a  vow.  “I’m just visiting,” I continued, “It’s my first time.”  He nodded and walked past me, towards the main building.  I assumed he wanted me to follow, so I did. 

We passed under the archway (above) and found ourselves standing next to the statue.  I guess it was still my move, since he just stared at me.  “I read that you have a bookstore.”  This seemed to snap him out of it.  “Sure,” he said, “It’s right up here.”  We went up some stairs and entered the building.  He unlocked a thick wooden door and took me into a musty little room full of titles like “Sixteen Facets of Self-Realization” and “Reincarnation: The Karmic Cycle” (I recall those two titles because I bought them both.  I’ll let you know how they work out).  Then my friend seemed to loosen up and he gave me a tour of the different buildings.

He showed me a large lecture hall, a chapel, a meditation room, living quarters and the Monastery dog, Kalu.  I asked the age of Kalu, and was told some monks found him wandering a nearby road about eleven years ago, so “he is eleven and change.”  The way that dog was lumbering, I would guess a lot of change–and not pennies.

Finally my host showed me where a hiking trail began and suggested I make the loop.  I asked about mountain lions and he said there have been a lot of sightings, but nobody has been eaten since those two bikers a couple of years back.  So off I went. 

The trail is called “The Shrine Trail,” and it honors all the major religions of the world.   I tried to get into the spirituality of it all, but I was thwarted by the oppressive heat.  And I must have been the first to walk that trail today because I was constantly plowing through jumbo spider webs.  Which made me realize that if there was a hungry lion out there, I was his first chance of the day to have breakfast.  I stopped just long enough at each shrine to snap the following photos.




Epiphany - Huxley wrote a book about his experiments with mescaline called “The Doors of Perception” which became the inspiration for the naming of the band The Doors.  He also tripped  on LSD long before the Beatles, and they included his face on the cover of the Sgt. Peppers album.  This got me to thinking about how John Lennon would go on to ask us to imagine a world with no religion, yet Huxley made room for every religion, seeking to find the common philosophy that underlies them all.  Two separate paths, both of which run counter to a) most people’s view that the one true religion is the one they were born into and b) their continued insistence on rooting for the home team.  These were some heavy issues I was wrestling with as I emerged from the wilderness of The Shrine Trail, sweaty and disoriented.  The only one there to greet me was Kalu.  I wondered if in his eleven years at the Monastery he had a chance to figure these things out.  He seemed like a smart dog.  I stroked his large head for a few moments until a lizard ran by and Kalu gave chase, sticking his head in a shrub and rooting around for the small reptile.  Then I realized: if a dog doesn’t have to stress over these weighty questions then neither do I.  The message, clearly from a higher source, was to return to my pursuit of the perfect putting stroke.  It is in the quest for an ideal that one experiences total consciousness.  Which is nice.  

        

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My review of the Oliver Stone pic World Trade Center is finally live at the Rhino site.  Read the review.  See the movie.  And dance while you still can.  Every day is a gift. 

        

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A hole opened up in my schedule this afternoon so I drove down to Del Mar to bet on the horses.  First post was at 2:00 p.m.  I didn’t have time to handicap the races, so I went to the tout booth.  Everybody was buying Duke’s sheet, but with pari-mutual wagering you can’t make any money running with the herd.  I went with Bob.  As I handed him my three dollars he gave me a knowing wink that bolstered my confidence. 

The track was fast and I was thirsty.  The warm ocean breeze and bright sun invited moderation, so I got a light beer and sat in the shade of a pepper tree near the paddock.  While the owners looked on, the horses for the first race were being paraded around as the jockeys received last minute instructions from the trainers.  The pageantry combined with the light beer inspired me to add one more item to my list of things to do: buy a racehorse.  I shall name him Rocky’s Rooster, and the jockey’s silks will bear the colorful plumage of that noble barnyard bird.

Back in the real world it was time to bet the first race.  Bob recommended Easy Obsession followed by Mandalay Trick and Veneda Lucy, along with an exacta wheel on the three horses.  Mandalay won the race, followed by Easy Obsession with Veneda in third.  Not bad picking by Bob.  The thing with touts, however, is that you shouldn’t do everything they say.  So my $2 across the board on fifth place finisher Discrete meant that I would go into the second race down $6. 

I paid more attention to Bob’s picks after that, but it turns out he shot his wad in that first race.  My high point, money wise, came in the fourth race.  Standing in line to bet the 8-horse, Idle Opinion, I was watching the post parade on TV.  I saw the 5-horse, Signoretto Sig, high-stepping towards the gate.  The jockey wore dark green silks.  My favorite number, 5, and my favorite color, green, inspired me to change my pick and lay $2 across on Sig.  He came out of nowhere on the backstretch to finish second by a nose to #3, Island Launch.  I won $14.80 place money and $9.80 show dough for a net profit of $18.60 on that race.  Not a fortune, but enough for a beer and a bratwurst, with enough left over to bet the next race.

After the track, I visited my friend Pooh in Encinitas.  We grabbed some Margaritas and tacos at a little Mexican place on Pacific Coast Highway.  Afterwards, we stopped by her friend Kim’s house for some ice-cold Dos Equis in the backyard under the stars.  Later, motoring back up the coast, I opened the sun-roof so that I could continue to enjoy the lights of the Milky Way, my favorite galaxy.  I thought about recent losses: Bruno Kirby, Maynard Ferguson and Pluto’s standing as a planet.  But I also thought about Signoretto Sig sprinting past fancier horses with better pedigrees.  And I thought about having tacos and Margaritas and Dos Equis with friends.  Things have a way of evening out. 

 

        

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The art world is full of cowboys who like to corral all the bad stuff into big pens called “Festivals.” Today I followed the herd into the Sawdust Festival in Laguna Beach.  It’s a treat to walk around and see what kind of artistic achievement it takes to separate a tourist from his money.  Plus, Bubbles has another birthday coming up, and I was considering taking one more stab at inspirational rooster-art.

I hadn't been to the Sawdust in over twenty years.  Not much has changed, including the merchandise.  I don’t know if the world is still looking for crocheted hats and huge ceramic rabbits, but they’re here.  Along with all sorts of paintings and carvings and handmade jewelry (one gal set up her toe-ring booth with a couple of shoe shine chairs, and women were lining up for their chance to sit there and have somebody slide rings on and off of their toes).  This painting of the naked woman with doves captures the spirit of the bulk of what I saw:


It reminds me of the hippie-nature art on the old Herbal Essence shampoo bottle (a very pleasant smelling, underrated shampoo).

My niece, Gina, bought a print of a languid beach scene to take back to her Boston apartment. 

My nephew Jake found beauty in the sawdust. 


Epiphany - I tried to wrap my head around the whole point of art.  For a piece to work, it doesn't need to make me feel happy, but it must make me feel something.  Like going to the movies, sometimes I want a good laugh, but I also enjoy taut thrillers and well-crafted dramas.  As long as some emotion is stimulated, I achieve a heightened awareness of myself as a living organism, an animate being in an inanimate world.   It made me concede that a person should lug home something from the Sawdust if they anticipate the work having an ongoing emotional impact (beyond a sour feeling of regret).  Thinking in those terms, maybe I ought to buy the big ceramic rabbit after all.  Because it depresses the hell out of me.

        

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Orange County is more than just Richard Nixon.  Today I felt like kicking it old school, so I dropped by the Mission San Juan Capistrano.  It’s my first visit since the 4th grade, when I learned all about California’s Missions by constructing a small one out of sugar cubes. 

Mission SJC was founded in 1776 by Father Junipero Serra.  As these nifty dioramas show, the Mission served as a base of operations from which the Spaniards introduced the Juaneno Indians to Catholicism.  The Indians spent their days laying bricks, and in return the Padre would sprinkle water on their babies.

The Missionaries introduced grapes to area and made a palatable wine.  It probably helped their recruiting drives.  Today you need to cross the street to the Swallows Inn for a sip of God’s nectar.  They open early and serve a tasty mojito. 

These are the ruins of the Great Stone Church:
Begun in 1797, it took nine years to build.  In 1812, a massive earthquake struck during morning mass.  The walls crumbled and the domed roof caved in, killing 42 Indian worshipers.  The locals try to put a spin on this fiasco by calling the ruins “The American Acropolis.”  Right.  And I am “The American Socrates.”

Epiphany - I sat on a stone bench and contemplated these bells:
The guidebook says that they date back to 1796 and were, “important to early Mission life, functioning as clocks.  They called the community to meals, religious services, work, funerals...”  It seems like a man could grow to hate those bells.  But I realized that’s what civilization is all about: being on the clock.  There may still be places on this planet where people don’t worry about time, but those are people with twelve-inch nose rings who pray to Coke bottles.  For better or worse, the clock is a necessary cog in the machinery that drives progress.

Still, I was bummed.  I had gone to the opposite end of the county from the Nixon Library and I had gone back two hundred years in time.  Yet I was finding more similarities than differences between the two places.  Father Serra and President Nixon were a couple of strong-willed men trying to force their ideas on a reluctant world.  At least Father Serra offered wine.  Before leaving, I checked out the plaque that defaces an otherwise beautiful brick wall:


There are signs all over the place that say "Please don't ring the bells."  But Nixon makes one visit and they not
only turn him loose like a modern-day Quasimodo, they also honor him with a plaque.  Maybe this is Nixon country after all.

        

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Things have gotten out of whack.  I feel like I know more about the people of Salina, Kansas than I do about the folks here in Orange County.  That’s not right.  After all, you can’t even spell ROCKY without the OC.  I need to get inside my neighbor’s heads and rummage around a bit.  Step 1: Today I went to the Richard M. Nixon Presidential Library and Museum.

Just east of Angel Stadium, where the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim play, lies Yorba Linda, birthplace of President Nixon.  The bungalow he was born in is still there.  The Foundation bought all the land around it and added the museum and gardens.  When Dick and Pat died they were buried in the backyard.   For a couple of Republicans, it is all surprisingly organic.     
                       
It was such a slow day that I got a private tour of the house from Charles, one of the many elderly docents.  The small dwelling had one downstairs bedroom.  When Charles and I peeked over the velvet rope at the bed he lowered his voice and said, “That’s where it happened.”  He paused before adding, “That’s where he was born.”  I was thinking that’s where he was conceived (which is probably true) and I think Charles sensed my tawdry thoughts.  So he quickly elaborates, “He was eleven pounds, which is huge for a baby, with the thickest dark hair you’ve ever seen, and they say he never stopped crying, just the loudest baby you could imagine.” 

Now I’ve got competing unpleasant images in my head.  First, I’m picturing Nixon’s parents engaged in awkward , turn-of-the-century sex, and then I’m wrestling with the image of a gargantuan man-child emerging from Mrs. Nixon’s sweaty loins, and I imagine him screaming like one of the many civilians he napalmed in ‘Nam and Cambodia.  

Then Charles showed me the piano.  I knew Nixon played because I just watched a video in the museum.  He had Duke Ellington over to the White House to celebrate Duke’s 80th birthday, and Nixon was playing the piano for Ellington.  Which makes no sense, except that this was the 60's, when the whole world had gone through the looking-glass.
                                       
Nobody else was around when we exited the house.  Charles looked about mischievously and said,
“There’s nobody here.  I’m going to go look at the helicopter.  I’ve never done that before.”  He was talking about the President’s helicopter, which was parked all of 40 yards away. 

I visited the gift shop.  Lots of interesting books full of challenging political discourse.  But the big selling items are anything with Nixon and Elvis together.  They’ve put that picture on t-shirts, mouse pads, posters, magnets...you name it.  There is a campy charm to the juxtoposition of these two megalomaniacs.  Expect to someday see high-volume sales of merchandise featuring George W. shaking hands with Bono.             

I bought a blue cap that reads simply “Nixon.”   

Epiphany - Nixon’s daughter’s were hot.  Wait, that’s not so much an epiphany as a belated observation.  I guess my real epiphany occurred after reading Nixon’s 1969 “Silent Majority” speech.  They have various drafts tacked up on the wall to illustrate the evolution of a speech.  At a time of protests in the streets and a growing counter-culture movement, Nixon appealed to those who shared his conservative principles, the “Silent Majority” of Americans, to voice their support.  I was still digesting those words when I got to the gift store and saw the Elvis merch flying off the shelves.  I realized that what we really have in America is a Goofy Majority.  We don’t want to read about Nixon exploiting growing tensions between the U.S.S.R. and the Peoples Republic of China.  We want the Elvis playing cards.  We want to tour the helicopter and play with the red phone.  We want the t-shirt that shows Nixon bowling.  I thought about our recent Presidential elections.  The bigger goofball always wins:

George W. Bush -  John Kerry.  Kerry found the only possible way to lose this election - acting pompous and demonstrating to the American People that he has no goofy side.
George W. Bush - Al Gore.  Gore blew an election that was his for the taking by putting his goofiness in a lockbox.
Clinton - Dole.  Bob Dole didn’t get goofy until after he lost.  Now America loves him.  Back then we all thought he was a dick.
Clinton - Bush.  Bush  played golf.  With a frown.  Clinton goofed around with Arsenio. 

And there was nobody goofier or more beloved than Dutch Reagan.

I guess if a man keeps an open mind he can learn a lot, even in Orange County.

        

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My friend Bubbles used her move to Jersey as an excuse to return the rooster-art I gave her for her birthday.  She never liked it.  She told me so.  She wanted me to take it home on her birthday, but I left it with her.  I refrained from getting into a big thing, as I could have pointed out that when only one person comes to your birthday party you shouldn’t bark about the gift.  I let it go.  It was, after all, her day.  The thing is, the rooster is more than just a challenging piece of art.  It came with a built-in epiphany, which I spelled out for her, though she never opened up to it. 

The epiphany was revealed to me a few years ago, while on holiday in Italy.  A group of us rented a large castle in Tuscany.  It wasn’t plush.  The bedroom decor was monastical, spare and simple, with large unscreened windows that let in the crisp country air.  We slept like angels.  And every morning, after the stars faded but before sunrise, the windows let in the dutiful cries of the caretaker’s gallo (rooster).  We loved that sound.  It was so perfect that somebody theorized it was being piped in.  But the bird was as real as the red wine flowing through our veins. 

My friend Pooh was the first to point out that, as much as we amore il gallo, if a neighbor back home had one we’d have a different attitude.  “Man, that ****ing rooster.  Every ****ing morning with the cock-a-doodle-do.”  The rooster owner would be hauled before the homeowners board.  Once we were aware of this dichotomy, we found other examples.  Walking through the village, for instance, we saw laundry hanging from windows.  How charming!  But string up your Hilfigers in America and your neighbors will act like you’ve strung up a dead cat.   

So I explained to Bubbles the lesson of the rooster: you can’t control the world around you, but you can control how you react to it.  It’s your choice.  Life is full of cock-a-doodle-do’s.  You can smile and go back to sleep or you can hurl a shoe out the window towards the hapless bird.  Therefore, a handsome piece of rooster-art can be a calming influence in anybody’s world, reminding one of how peace of mind is there for the taking.  Such was the thought I put into Bubbles birthday present.  Such was the irony as it was hurled back at me like an old shoe.   

The rooster is mine now.  But I share his message with everyone. 

        

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A couple of things still bother me about our stay in Salina, Kansas.  I mentioned how we checked into lobby of one motel, The 1st Inn Gold.  On the drive around back it felt like we had crossed into a third world ghetto.  As we slowly motored to our room, pale gaunt faces followed us the way cats follow goldfish.  We got our money back and moved on to the palatial Country Inn and Suites.   

What disturbed me more than the crack heads was the name: The 1st Inn Gold.  It’s awkward.  Unnerving.  It clanged off of the back of my brain just like Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse.  Do you put the accent on 1st, Inn or Gold?  Maybe they put it on “The,” as in, “There are a lot of 1st Inn Gold imitators out there, but this is The 1st Inn Gold.”  But if that were the case they probably would expand the title to “The Original 1st Inn Gold.”  In any case, my theory is that someday they will find a link between clunky grammar and brain tumors.  “Oh, he was always going on about how much he loved Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse, then they found that tumor and three months later he passed--while watching an ad for Carl’s Jr.” 

Also in Salina we had some great Chinese takeout from Hong Kong Buffet.  After several days of hearty American fare, it was a brilliant choice.  We had an order of kung pao chicken, some vegetable dish that I don’t know the name of (Bubbles phoned in the order and simply described what she wanted), egg rolls, and of course, steamed rice.    It tasted great and made us feel spunky. 

As always happens when I’m enjoying good Chinese food, I thought to myself, “Chinese food.  Not only good, it’s good for you.  I will eat it more often.”  But then I never do.  There’s a whole list of things like that, things that I enjoy and that are good for me that I don’t do as much as I could.  Like going for a hike.  Or stretching.  Or eating melon.  I’d love to be able to wrap my head around this phenomenon because I think it afflicts most of humanity.  But the epiphany eludes me.   Feel free to weigh in if you have insight into this.  Or if you're also befuddled.

        

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I still haven’t made sense of everything that happened on our trip across America.  Perhaps I never will.  Last night, as I sought slumber, one particular memory started gnawing on the crown of my skull.

I mentioned earlier how, as my Amtrak odyssey from Newark to Boston neared its conclusion, the train stopped in Providence and filled up with commuters heading to Beantown.  What I omitted was how I felt as I watched these freshly scrubbed Rhode Islanders file on to the train.  

I was jealous of the whole lot of ‘em.  “How lucky you are,” I thought, “You slept in your own beds last night.  You took warm showers this morning.  And then you made little breakfasts, toasting your favorite bread, or a bagel, or a PopTart.  Some of you even had eggs or waffles.  And in the quiet privacy of your own bathrooms, you pooped.  Now you’re all dressed up and headed to clean offices where you will sit in swivel chairs and accomplish good things.”

Envy.  The worst of emotions.  I’ve tried to keep Envy at bay, and I’ve been pretty successful.  In fact, I would be proud of myself, but I’m also trying to avoid Pride.  

Yet envy was washing over me the way a tsunami washes over German tourists.  And of all the things to be jealous of - Mr. And Mrs. Commuter.  This made no sense.  It also made perfect sense.  I just spent a sleepless night in Penn Station.  The night before I was in an un-air-conditioned house in Philadelphia, drenched in sweat and spooked by visions of Larry Bird.  It was as if the entire Northeast Corridor had set out to torture me with complete disregard for the Geneva Convention.  Add Pfc. Lindsey Englund pointing at my genitals and I could have been at Abu Ghraib.       These were the extenuating circumstances that disoriented me, leaving me envious of those coffee-toting travelers rushing towards their jobs and away from their souls.  

That night still haunts me.  It’s scary to recall how those events had broken me.   For a few moments, I turned my back on all that I stand for.  I was naked before the Universe.  I suppose I left this out of my original post because I couldn’t find the epiphany.  Maybe it’s a simple one: there’s good naked and bad naked, and being naked before the Universe is bad.        

        

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The articles are now sorted with the most recent entries on top.  I originally sorted from first-to-last to encourage people to follow the trip in the order that it occured.  But now I am bowing to the requests of my loyal readers who want to see what's new as soon as they visit petralia.com. 

New readers are still encouraged to start with the first post, "The Plan," and continue chronologically.  Sorry to all you Neo-Gumpians, but a narrative like this is not a box of chocolates to be picked over.   My approach is Pringalian, with my articles stacked in the cannister in the order that they should be consumed.

        

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It’s interesting how a five hour flight can undo two weeks of hard motoring.  I was expecting a pleasant travel day, but the Universe once again treated me the way Tom Cruise treated Oprah’s couch. 

The first obstacle to overcome was “The Big Dig,” the most expensive highway project  in the history of mankind.  Bostonians rerouted I-93 into a 3.5 mile tunnel under the city, replacing a previously elevated roadway.  They also built the Ted Williams Tunnel, which goes to Logan Airport.  Since the project was completed in 2003 there have been leaks and other signs of poor execution and shoddy materials.  But it wasn’t until July 10th, when four separate three-ton sections of ceiling collapsed, that most locals conceded the tunnel was “wicked bad.”  One of the sections fell on a car traveling through the tunnel, killing a newlywed bride and injuring her husband.  Inspectors have since discovered that you could go around New England and find basketball hoops nailed to trees with more skill than was used on these ceiling panels.

So the tunnels were closed.  Fingers were pointed.  Massachusettes’ Senators came to town and held a press conference.  Sen. Kennedy said the important thing now was not to lay blame but to focus on the human tragedy, the death of Malena del Valle.  It had a sad ring of familiarity to it, a young woman dead at the bottom of a river and Mr. Kennedy focusing us on mourning rather than blaming.  Sen. Kerry stepped up and said that the money for the project came from Washington, but they trusted to locals in charge to spend it properly, so don’t blame him.  He might have added that he voted against the tunnel before he voted for it, but I couldn’t keep listening.  I had to pack.

Getting to Logan Airport from the South Shore seemed problematic, until my people told me about the Water Shuttle, a boat ride from the town of Quincy to the airport.  I loved that idea.  It rounded out the day - Land, Sea and Air.  We left the house at noon and got to the dock in Quincy around 12:30, leaving plenty of time to catch the 1:10 boat to Logan.  The boat was on time, and it provided a smooth, scenic, air-conditioned ride to the airport.  By 2 o’clock I was checked-in for my 3:55 flight on JetBlue.  I bought some magazines.  I also bought a sandwich, smoked turkey on foccacio bread, to eat on the plane.

We boarded on time and we were locked up and ready to go at 3:55.  I had an aisle seat and TWO empty seats next to me.  I tried to figure out where I picked up all the good karma.  I tipped the maids a couple of bucks at every motel.  Maybe that was it.

One of the flight attendants came strolling down the aisle closing overhead bins.  He stopped short and asked me if those two seats were taken.  Well, no, I guess not.  So he went up a few rows and found a petite young woman stuck between two strangers and offered her a seat in my row.  She came back a few minutes later, perky and apologetic.  I offered her half of my sandwich.

Then we got our first delay.  The pilot announced that we were being rerouted.  Traffic was too heavy on the Southern Route, so we would have to take a Northern path.  Trucks pulled up to the plane to give us the additional fuel that we would need.  And they opened the door up because somebody from JetBlue would be bringing the pilot some new paperwork.  A full hour later we were taking off.

The first part of the flight was a treat.  On my personal JetBlue video screen, I found a great show on ESPN Classic, Chick Hearn re-telling the story of the 1986-87 Laker Season.  It starts with L.A. getting knocked out of the playoffs the year before by the Twin Towers (Olajuwan and Sampson) and being written off as over-the-hill, a team of the past.  It ends with a championship over the Celtics.  Those Lakers - not just great players, but a great TEAM.  Magic being Magic, Cooper shutting down Larry Bird, Worthy and Scott running the break, Rambis agreeing to come off the bench so that the kid, A.C. Green, could start, Mychal and Billy Thompson chasing down balls, and Kareem hitting sky hooks while going bald.  Sweet.       

Next I flipped over to Comedy Central for a  Daily Show/Colbert Report combo.  I ordered a beer and took out my sandwich.  Since my seatmate declined my offer, I had the whole sandwich to carry me through the hour.  Needed and got a second beer.

We kept the vacant middle tv tuned to the map showing were our plane was and where it was headed.  We passed directly over Montrose, Colorado, the terminus for Bubbles and my scenic drive through the Rockies and the place where we first enjoyed Highway 50 heading East.  Our plane turned and headed directly south, towards Durango, where our scenic drive began.  Even at 34,000 feet, retracing our route brought back memories.  Of course, this flight pattern made no sense for a plane headed to Long Beach.  I figured we must be going around a cloud. 

But we kept heading south, crossing into New Mexico somewhere near Shiprock, where Bubbles first took the wheel and promptly made a wrong turn.  Then our pilot made a left, so we were headed east.  Finally, he explained over the intercom.  No flights were being allowed into California.  Something was wrong and we were going to have to land in Phoenix.  Of course, in this post 9/11 world, everybody got the queasy feeling that Abdul and Akbar have pulled something off.  But the pilot quickly added, “This has nothing to do with security problems.” 

We flew in a holding pattern over northwest New Mexico for about an hour before moving on towards Phoenix.  Man, if I wanted to go through Phoenix I would have flown with those clowns at America West and saved a few bucks.  As we neared the city, the sun was going down but it was still 110 degrees and steamy, so the whole descent was bumpy and it killed my beer-buzz. 

We landed to find hundreds of jets of all shapes and sizes squeezed about the tarmac.  After we parked the pilot came out of the cockpit and took the mic.  He was overly jovial.  “Hi, it’s me.  I know you hear me all the time and wonder if I really existed.”  Not really.  But this was becoming so surreal I wondered if I really existed.  He explained that there was a blackout at a radar station in Palmdale that needed to be fixed.  He promised to keep us posted.  A couple of guys near the front started chanting, “Free drinks, free drinks” but nobody joined in and they quickly clammed up. 

Everybody got on their cell phones.  There was a fair amount of whining going on.  Not from me. Compared to a night in Penn Station, this was paradise.  The plane was air-conditioned and I was in a cushy leather seat with my own color TV just 8 inches from my face.  I called my ride, who had just pulled into Long Beach Airport, and gave her the news.  She barked at me, like I was driving the plane.  She decided to go home and follow on the internet. 

After about 90 minutes the pilot announced that the problem was fixed.  I guess somebody in Palmdale drove over to Home Depot and picked up a generator.  Soon thereafter we pulled out and queued up to take off.  Our pilot estimated that we were about thirtieth in line.  The planes were taking off in close succession.  I was hoping we weren’t behind a 747 because I know that they leave a big wake, and planes behind them can lose control and crash, like that one in Queens a few weeks after 9/11.  I looked around and resented the fact that I was the only one worried about this.  

The flight went fine.  I was picked up curbside a little after 11 p.m. and made it home around midnight.  Travel time, door-to-door, was about fifteen hours. 

Epiphany- Things have a way of coming full circle.  On the first night of our trip we drove through Phoenix on our way to a late arrival in Jerome.  Now, on the last night, I was back.  Had I changed in the interim?  Was I any wiser?  The words of the poet started going through my head, “Yes, I am wise, but it’s wisdom born of pain/Yes I’ve paid the price, but look how much I gained/If I have to, I can do anything...”  Then I realized.  Wisdom isn’t something you can buy off the shelf.  It doesn’t come because you read a book or attend a lecture.  Wisdom is a garden that needs tending to, and our life experiences provide the fertilizer.  These last two weeks have been a fertilizer festival, but going forward I will still need to mulch and weed and water my little plot of awareness.  Nobody else can take care of my garden.  Daryl Hannah will not sit in a tree on behalf of my personal growth.  It may have taken two visits to this God-forsaken city to figure this out, but it was worth it.  As the poet added, “I am strong (strong), I am invincible (invincible)...”           

        

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Nantucket Island - I stood on this pier and looked back across America.  I could see it all - maybe not with my eyes, but with my heart - and I wanted to make sense of it.  I was like a detective as I tried to unravel a universal truth,  sifting through clues in an attempt to link together all the little epiphanies.  Did I have enough evidence, or was this case going to go as cold as the Sam Adams Summer Ale that was keeping me hydrated?

I sifted through the facts again and again.  I reflected on the faces and places.  My gumshoe instincts keep bringing me back to one scene in particular.  It happened on the shores of that great divide: The Mississippi River.  The Mighty Miss.  That old man river, I realized, he must know something.

It was our cab ride in St. Louis.  Our driver looked like Morgan Freeman.  We were in a scene from "Driving Miss Bubbles."  We knew right away he was a sage.  He told us St. Louis had two "must sees."  The first was The Hill, the Italian district of St. Louis.  One of the great Little Italies in America, the Hill is a snug concentration of restaurants, bakeries, grocery stores and bocce gardens.  And on Elizabeth Avenue you can see the boyhood homes of baseball greats Joe Garagiola and Yogi Berra, the same Yogi Berra who advised "When you come to a fork in the road, take it."  Eerie how that came up again.  The second must see was The Gateway Arch.  "Go to the top and look east," he said,  "You'll see all of St. Louis and beyond."  What about looking west?  "Aint much for you to see looking west."  It was like God was speaking to Bubbles using a parable (God overuses the parable the way I overuse sunscreen).  Then we asked him if he goes up there much.  "No," he laughed, "I took my kids plenty, now I take their kids.  Done it enough.  I got my little spot on the grass where I wait.  Got to let the kids explore on their own."

Case closed.  That’s your message.  Got to let the kids explore on their own.  Even if we had reached some spiritual vantage point where we could see the answers to longstanding riddles, we couldn't properly convey these answers.  You kids need to explore on your own.  Come to your own fork in the road and take it.  Discover your own special jerky.  Bubbles and I weren't anything special, just a couple of clowns with a set of car keys and a nagging wanderlust.  After sixteen days on the road, a little spot on the grass sounds pretty sweet.  For now.                         

        

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A couple of things missing from my post on NYC's Penn Station:

While having cocktails with my luggage, I took out pen and notebook in order to jot down any stray epiphanies.  What I noted instead was some bits of random dialog I overheard, including a man who sat near me and talked loudly on his cellphone.  He was economical with the letter "s", uttering, "He all right",  "She all right, too" and "They lock him up again he be in ten year."  

Every so often the bartender would put a buck in the jukebox and play a couple of songs.  He picked good songs that I didn't recognize.  Despite working in the music business for a few years, I am a music dope.  I don't know the new bands, don't buy music, don't pay attention to who it is I'm listening to.  But the music was lifting my spirits, so I thought I would try to keep the fire alive and I put a $5 bill in the machine.  This allowed me to put together a really crappy set list, and if I had any honor at all I would have personally apologized to everybody still in the bar by the time it played out.  In order:

1.  Boston - "More Than A Feeling" - Now this one, I don't apologize for.  I think it holds up and it sounded good over the bar's speakers. 

2.  REM - "Everybody Hurts".  How do I explain this dirge?  I was on my heels.   There was so much new music that I didn't recognize that when I came to a disc by someone I knew I latched on to it.  People love REM, right?  I don't, but Boston was already playing and people were looking at me standing over the jukebox and I wanted to sit down so I started pushing buttons. 

3.  Styx - "Miss America" - A bad song by a band I hate.  I really wanted to sit down.

4.  Carole King - "You've Got A Friend" - I don't know.  I needed a friend.

5.  Supertramp - "Logical Song" - Not so bad.  Not so good, either. 

6.  Talking Heads - "Take Me To The River" - Not the good version from "More Songs About Buildings Food".  Lame samba version from "Stop Making Sense".   Didn't know this until it played.

7 and 8.  U2 - "Bloody Sunday" and "Streets Have No Name" - Found this U2 disc and went to the well twice. 

9.  Van Halen - "Jump"  - Now we're talking.  Probably too late.  Imagined the guy who left the bar during "Everybody Hurts" was on a ledge by now.

10.  Hall and Oates - "Rich Girl"  - Early in the set this would have been a smash.  Now just part of a musical train wreck.

11.  Who - "Behind Blue Eyes" - Just pushing buttons.  My least favorite Who song.

12.  Hootie and the Blowfish - "Time"  - Nice finish, with Hootie-guy asking, "Time, why you punish me?"  I never joined the Hootie backlash.  I like their first album.  

Epiphany - I'm borrowing my epiphany from Hootie-guy, who says "Time without courage, time without fear/Is just wasted, wasted, wasted time."  You can't be on the road this long without having some awful times.  And that scares off a lot of people.  But you need to pack up your courage, give fear its own suitcase and hit the highway.          

 

        

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From Philadelphia it's a quick 90 minute drive to Bubbles' final destination, her parents house in Cranford, New Jersey.  Kathy and Vince were delighted to see that their daughter had made the trip unscathed.  I enjoyed one of Vince's iced teas while Bubbles methodically unloaded her stuff out of the Camry.  At one point Vince dragged over a trash can to deal with all the debris that found its way into the car's crannies (Notice how I can use the word "crannie" without putting "nook" in front of it?  It's my super power).  

It was time to say goodbye to Bubbles.  I was happy that she made it home but sad to see her go.  She was a great travel companion and an excellent navigator.  She juggled three books with skill and dexterity, "Road Trip USA", Frommers, and the Rand McNally Road Atlas.  And she knew when to put them all down and go with her instincts.  Thanks to her we saw some beautiful sights and met some terrific people.   Whenever I threatened to miss something interesting, she would throw a Ferris Buellar quote at me to remind me why we were on the road in the first place, "Life moves pretty fast.  If you don't stop to look around once in awhile, you might miss it."  I see only good things for Bubbles as she starts a new chapter in her life.   She's gonna make a brand new start of it, in old New York. 

Recipe for success:  Bubbles, a Camry and Monuments:


I was off to Newark Airport to drop of the Camry.  It  was a rental.  We went with Hertz because they didn't have a penalty for one-way rentals.  We went one very long way, 3,744 miles.  Hertz seemed happy to see me, although the penalty for not remembering to fill up the tank defies logic.  I will have to make some phone calls.   Nonetheless, I will miss that car.  I see only good things for the Camry as it begins a new chapter on the East Coast.

Amtrak has a station that connects to the Newark Airport via a short monorail ride.  I had a ticket for the 4:54 to Boston.  I was ready to go 90 minutes early.  Too bad the first thing I saw at the platform was "Delayed 2 Hours".   I tried to roll with it.  I rode the monorail back to the airport terminal to grab a bite to eat and relax.  But in this bizarro  world we live in, all the airport eateries are past the security checkpoints.  Since I didn't have a plane ticket, I was shut out.  My only option was  a little coffee hut that sold pre-made sandwiches.  I got something soggy, a coffee and a magazine and sat down near where some Continental guys were slinging around suitcases.  I returned to the Amtrak platform, again leaving myself about 90 minutes to kill.  I asked one of the guys at the gate, who worked for NJ Path, not Amtrak, what he thought of the 2 hour delay.  He pointed out that  Amtrak also had a 6:54 to Boston scheduled, and surmised that they might just combine the two trains.  He added, "F**king Amtrak." 
 
Time was moving painfully slow.  Fatigue washed over me.  All those days on the road.  The food, the rough sleep, the lack of exercise.  Now nature had balled  up her fists and she was punching me with heat and humidity as I waited for a train that probably didn't exist.  As 7:00 pm approached I saw a woman who worked for Amtrak wandering the  platform and I asked her if the two trains were being combined.  She seemed befuddled.  I showed her my ticket and she got on her walkie talkie to ask somebody.  It wasn't working, so she picked up an Amtrak phone and dialed.  She stood there silently, phone pressed to her ear, as an Amtrak train rolled up.  F**king Amtrak doesn't announce the train number, and it is not displayed on the train.  So I asked a conductor as he stepped off the train if this was my ride.  He said no.  I asked if maybe they combined the two and he said he, "don't know nothin' 'bout that."  As soon as the train pulled out, my train was taken off of the departure board.  The Amtrak woman finally got somebody on the phone.  They said that I missed my train.  They advised me to take a NJ Path train to New York's Penn Station and get a train to Boston.  I wanted to vent to these jackasses, but a Path train was pulling in.  I jumped on.  

The conductor on the Path train came by punching tickets.  He acted angry when I said I didn't have one.  I started to explain my Amtrak dilemma and he stopped me short and walked away mumbling something that could have been "f**king Amtrak."  

Normally, it's exciting to roll into New York City.  But I went straight to the Amtrak window and tried to explain the situation to a Jamaican woman behind the counter who wasn't into stories, at least not mine.  "You ain't gettin' to Boston tonight, honey" she explained.  The next train was at 3:15 am.  So I had seven hours to kill.  I tried to roll with it, but the universe still didn't want me to roll.  I had two suitcases that I needed to stow so I could go explore NYC.  But the days of lockers are long gone.  I went to Amtrak baggage and asked if I could check them.  He said I couldn't because  I wasn't going all the way to downtown Boston (I was getting off one stop early, and they only unload bags downtown).  He said I could leave my bags with him for $5 a bag, but they close up at 10 pm and don't reopen until 5 am.  Again, my train was at 3:15 am.  

So  I dragged my bags into a pub within Penn Station, where I drank light beer and ate chicken wings until they closed up at midnight.  Then I dragged my bloated body over to  the Amtrak waiting lounge and read magazines until 3.  At one point I started thinking about how this must be the longest day ever.  That got me to thinking about the movie "The Longest Day,"  a good flick about D-Day.  I tried to amuse myself by naming all the stars I could, guys like John Wayne, Robert Mitchum, Henry Fonda.  My God, I thought, is anybody from that movie still alive?  Then I thought of Red Buttons.  I think he's still alive.  I hope he's still alive.  And doing well. 

At 3 am I went down a level and caught my train.  There were only three people in my whole car, so I  was able to spread out and  relax.  We rolled out of the  dark city, northeast up the coast.  Around Stamford, Conn. the sun started to come up.  It was  daylight as we rolled through some picturesque seaside villages, including Mystic, setting for the movie "Mystic Pizza", in which Julia Roberts played a Portuguese pizza waitress/ho'. 
 
The ride was pleasant until Providence, Rhode Island.  Then it filled up with commuters heading to  Boston.  Well dressed, carrying their Starbucks beverages.  I  felt stale and dirty and out of place.  Luckily, 30 minutes later we were at the  Route 128 station south of Boston.  I dragged my bags off of the train and was picked up by my sister in her Ford Escape.  I could barely keep my eyes open as she drove me to  her house.  She fixed me a little breakfast.  Her husband was reading the paper, giving me the highlights.  As I finished my second cup of coffee, I was starting to feel like a human being again.  The Longest Day was coming to an end.  Then my brother-in-law  knocked me back down a peg when he got to the obituaries and announced, "Hey, Red Buttons died."    

        

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Headed to Philadelphia today.  The drive took us through the outskirts of Baltimore.  Ran into gridlock.  Busted our way out and continued.

Good news--no motel tonight.  We are staying with Bubbles' sister and brother-in-law, Mare and Mike, and their dog Mickey.  And their new baby, Sammy.  They live on a sprawling estate in the lush Downington nieghborhood.

When we arrived Mike was busy trying to figure out why the air-conditioning had gone kabloey.  In this part of the country it's a mighty important appliance.  Without it, adults get sticky and babies get prickly.  Nobody wins.  Mike is pretty handy with a phillips head, and he got inside the unit and discovered an electrical cord had been gnawed through.  And two dead mice.  One looked like a piece of spent charcoal.  The other simply looked surprised.  Arms and legs contracted.  Shocked that he would be so harshly punished for being inquisitive.   Mike made some calls, but help would be at least a day away.  

We dined out, then returned to spend much of the evening on the screened-in patio.  Short bursts of heavy rain cooled and entertained us.  Mike and I enjoyed cigars.  He had one of his "It's a Boy" cigars and I enjoyed a "concepcion" cigar that he bought when he first learned he would be a father.  As the cigar smoke curled into the damp night sky, the sense that Sammy's future held unlimited possibilities filled the air.

After everybody headed to bed, I decided to take a shower.  I wasn't sure were the guest towels were, so I used an emergency towel that I brought with me.  It is a beach towel with a full-size likeness of Celtic great Larry Bird on it.  After drying off, I thought it would be funny to hang the towel over the shower in a way that Larry would greet people as they came in the bathroom.  A few hours later, I stumbled into the darkened bathroom (lit only by a nightlight) and looked at myself in the mirror.  I actually jumped when in the mirror I saw behind me this hulking pale-skinned man.  That was not funny at all.  My sleep after that was fitfull.

Epiphany -  Throughout most of the history of mankind, a convinience like air-conditioning was unimaginable.  Yet for us it has become essential.   I realized that night, however, with Sammy and the others down for the night, that all that is truly essential are the people who let us into their lives, and those we invite into ours. 
 
Beef Jerky - Obierto original flavor.  One of the better mass-market jerkies.  Better texture than Jack Links, though a little less flavorful than most of the good independents.   

  


      

        

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While Bubbles slept this morning I was up doing a load of laundry.  I wasn't out of clean clothes, but I had erred in putting my river rafting clothes in a bag with some other soiled garments.  Turns out the wetness was causing the contents to get real stinky, real fast. 

In the laundry room at the Hampton a sign said to get detergent at the front desk.  When I left our room I didn't want to wake Bubbles, so I was wearing my sleeping outfit, some plaid shorts, a batman t-shirt and socks.  As I stumbled into bright lobby lights I encountered many of our fellow travelers, dressed for the day and enjoying the fine Hampton Inn breakfast.  The old Rocky would have felt painfully self-conscious and out of place.  Traveling Rocky is too at peace with the world to care (though I was a little concerned about not checking for the stuff that comes out of my eyes when I sleep).   

This is a good time to point out that Bubbles and I have been checking into nearly full motels and inns this whole trip, yet whenever we get going the next day, the parking lots have been empty.  We are the latest starters on the American road.  No apologies.  We are on vacation, and one of the best parts of a vacation is sleeping.  And we have the drill down.  One of us will scurry down to the free breakfast just before the 10:00 am cutoff and load up a tray of food and coffee.  Then we enjoy it in the quiet of our room as we plan the day ahead and reflect on days and friends gone by.

We drove from Kentucky into West Virginia, a lovely state with empty highways winding through densely forested mountains.  I read somewhere that because Robert Byrd uses his lofty power in the U.S. Senate to divert enormous highway funds to West Virginia, they have more highway miles per capita than any other state.  It seems to be true.  We enjoyed fast, uncrowded highway cruising.  For all we know, those early Hampton risers were already in D.C. buying Capital Hill souvenirs.   But for us, the interstate system was once again sapping our spirits. 

Then we saw on the map that we were coming up on our old friend, Highway 50, "America's Loneliest Highway."  One of our books described the upcoming stretch as a "treacherous winding mountain road through one of the most economically depressed areas in the country."  We're in!  With Bubbles behind the wheel, we headed off of the interstate and straight into the dark underbelly of the American Dream.

The road was winding and treacherous, and Bubbles soon had a smile the likes of which I hadn't seen since our day river rafting.  I kept handing her lit cigarettes as she thrust the Camry through a series of helter-skelter maneuvers. 

And it was nice country with pleasant houses and seemingly comfortable people.  It was certainly much nicer than anything we saw along the road in Kansas or Missouri.  The book made it seem like meth-addicted teenagers would be shooting out our windows and stealing our jerky.  But the only bad thing was realizing after about 80 miles that we needed to head back north to the interstate to find a place to crash for the night.

Epiphany - Conventional wisdom usually lags behind the reality on the ground.  People think of West Virginia and the coal mines going bust and they imagine all those out of work, black-lunged miners sitting around going hungry.  But that was twenty, thirty years ago.  People have a way of pulling themselves together while the rest of the world keeps feeling sorry for them.  

Beef Jerky - Mountaineer teriyaki flavored.   A good, regional jerky.  Much like the wine industry, different regions struggle to establish legitimacy in the jerky trade.  West Virginia seems to be staking its claim with a robust style of jerky that reflects the leathery toughness of the local populace.  

        

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It can be tough out on the road.  Today we agreed to leave St. Louis a little late so that Bubbles could get a manicure and pedicure.  Her nails look great.  I am no longer embarrased to let her come into Stuckeys with me as I search for jerky.

It must have been 2:00 pm by the time we rolled East out of St. Louis.  Crossed Illinois, Indiana, then entered Kentucky.  We ate up some miles without seeing anything of interest.

Checked into the Hampton Inn outside of Lexington in the town of Winchester.  It made me think of Charles Emerson Winchester (David Ogden Stiers) on the tv show M*A*S*H.  I can't recall why he was there.  I know he took Frank Burns place as the new foil for Hawkeye and B.J.  But why did we lose Burns to begin with?  Did Larry  Linville want more money?  Was his agent demanding "Klinger dollars"?  If anybody knows the answer, let me know.

btw - Hampton Inn is my favorite chain lodgery.  Clean, quiet rooms and their breakfasts include eggs and sausage.  Others just have pastry and bagels.

Epiphany -  Every one of us is a Frank Burns.  Whatever tent we live in and whatever cot we sleep on, we can all be replaced by a veteran character actor. 

Beef Jerky -  Most people know that a Slim Jim is not jerky.  It is an omnibus of cow parts processed into a slimy tube of despair.  Well, today I bought what I thought was a single slice of jerky, but it was just a flattened out Slim Jim.  My bad. 

        

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We lingered at the Country Inn this morning, had breakfast and did some laundry, then blew out of Kansas.  We fueled up near Topeka, then crossed Missouri without stopping, landing in St. Louis and checking into a nice downtown hotel near the restored Union Station. 

It was getting late by the time we cleaned up and started strolling the city.  We impulsively grabbed a meal at a chain restaurant (sorry Mack Diesel) that neither of us had eaten at before - Hooters.  The food was good.  I had fish and chips and some of their famous wings.  Bubbles had a quesedilla.  Bubbles asked me what kind of fish it was, and I replied that it's usually cod, but the menu just said "deep fried fish..."  We asked the waitress, who was very nice and cheery, what kind of fish it was.  The question seemed to sadden her, and she thought for a moment then wondered aloud, "Why can't they put everything you need to know on the menu?"  "Don't worry" we said, "It's probably just cod."  Her face lit up, "Yes, somebody else asked, and it is cod!"

After dinner we explored St. Louis and discovered that they have a riverboat casino.  Bubbles and I share a distaste for games if chance anyplace other than Las Vegas, but as students of the American zeitgeist, we knew we had to examine how the growing gambling phenomenon manifests itself in this quintessentially Midwestern city. 

Our cabbie answered a lot of our questions.  He explained how conservative St. Louis is, and how surprised many residents were to see the casino approved.  But a big reason it got the okay is that across the Mississippi River, Illinois already had riverboat casinos, so St. Louis decided people might as well piss away their paychecks here at home. 

But they have rules.  We had to show I.D. and then get issued personal gambling cards.  Everytime you bought chips at a table or put money in a slot machine, they ran your card through a computer.  Nobody is allowed to lose more than $500 in a day.  At one point at the craps table, I only had $5 chips, and I wanted to make a bet that required $6.  Bubbles handed me one of her $1 chips and the dealer barked at us that it is illegal for one player to pass a chip to another.  It would make it possible for me to lose $501 and the state would have to shut down the casino.  Beverages aren't free, and the waitresses have to be paid in cash, so people have to fumble with their wallets everytime they get a drink, which means turning away from your chips, which you don't want to do because of the unsavory clientle all around you.  So everybody ends up playing thirsty.  And cranky.  It was all a bit dreary and we didn't stay long.

Epiphany -  At Hooters, epiphanies are as prevalent as halter tops.  Why can't the menus tell you everything you need to know?   I realized how much pain  a lazy writer can cause.  Let the word go out, from this day forward, that those who write about fish, or other entrees, be bold and be specific.  

Beef Jerky -  I had to go mainstream, had some Jack Links.  It is what it is.

 

        

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We spent last night at the Eagle Inn in Manitou Springs, a clean, cozy, mom and pop lodge.  Mom and pop are corporate escapees from Philadelphia who are enjoying their new lives as innkeepers. 

This morning we visited the Garden of the Gods.  Bubbles said it sounded like I named the place because I frequently refer to whatever I'm drinking as the "Nectar of the Gods."  Thumbs up on the Garden.  We had to skip Pike's Peak because of the rain. 

We've lingered in Arizona and Colorado longer than we expected, and we need to start heading east.  This means skipping some sights we had considered further north, like Badlands and Mt. Rushmore.  We're rolling with it.  We figure that Mt. Rushmore is either an incredible ode to the American Spirit or it's bad art.  Let those who have seen it render judgment. 
 
So today we entered Kansas.  We sped up as we approached the border, looking for a running start to quicken our crossing of the state.  But our momentum, both physical and spiritual, was soon reigned in by the vast prairie.   We stopped for fatty snacks and beverages.  That's what they do out here.  Bubbles got a bag of Chex Mix, which led to a long discussion.  I think that they should explain on the bag what every piece is.  I know that some of the pieces are Chex cereal.  Duh.  But there are other funny looking items that I couldn't identify.  What's the big deal about telling us what they are?  There are some dark, crutoney-looking things that taste pretty good.  I wouldn't mind of bag of just them.  But I wouldn't know what to ask for.  Bubbles tried to call the 800 number on the bag, but they were closed for the day.

We only got about halfway across Kansas, ending up in Salina.  We drove around town hoping to find evidence of small-town Americana charm.  No luck.  The first place we checked into spooked us.  Driving back to our room, we saw our fellow lodgers were an unsavory group of young, shirtless men negotiating on cellphones.  We got a refund and moved on, discovering a more family-friendly place, the Country Inn and Suites.  They gave us a top-floor suite and after what we had been through we felt like The Jeffersons, movin' on up.  I got some Chinese take-out and we lived regally. 

Epiphany - We call Kansas "flat" but the locals try to spin it and say that Kansas is "level."  Whatever.   We made a mistake when we chose to get back on the big interstate (I-70).  We should have stayed on Highway 50 ("America's Loneliest Highway").  I'm certainly not the first person to knock the Interstate travel.   But the problem isn't that interstates  are bad, it's that they are so good at what they do, which is to give you the means to travel a lot of miles in a single day.  Drivers get greedy.  You knock off a couple of hundred miles real quick and you want even more, even faster.   Quick pit stops, eat in the car, get around that motorhome  before he gets in your lane, "we're making great time, baby!"  Even Rocky P., patron saint of stopping and smelling the roses, turns into a caffinated pavement jockey.  But I miss the guy at the general store who came out to admire the Camry.    

Beef Jerky - Nothing tastes good in this environment.  I will eat jerky again in Kentucky.

    

   

        

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Went to bed in a thunderstorm, woke up to clear skies, so I went running through Pueblo.  It felt good to get in some exercise.  I jogged through a new housing tract, single family homes starting in the mid $100s.  Pueblo is Colorado's third largest city and it feels bland.  I wouldn't bite at those prices.

On this trip, we've started most days not sure where we were headed.  It hasn't been a problem until today.  This morning we started off towards Pike's Peak, not even sure whose idea it was.  A little schism had developed.  I guess living in close quarters it becomes inevitable.  Both parties were a little cranky.  I even drove past the Pike's Peak exit, thinking that our sour mood would just be magnified at 14,000 feet.  But then we reluctantly doubled back and drove through Colorado Springs and entered Manitou Springs.

Manitou Springs is a bucolic little slice of paradise.  Shady, cool, green and breezy.  It lifted our spirits.  We swerved into a tourist cottage to see what they knew.  They had lots of info on Pike's Peak and Garden of the Gods, but our attention kept getting drawn to some rafting brochures.  We realized that rafting was exactly the kind of team building exercise that we needed.  Bubbles started calling rafting companies in Canon City, seeing if we could get on an afternoon trip.  An outfit called RiverRunners had a 3:00 trip that we could make if we hustled.  So for the first time on this trip we found ourselves doubling back.  

We got there in plenty of time, checked in, signed liability waivers, and waited for the van to take us to the river.  Our guide, John Nory, was a mellow 50-something guy who talked like a surfer from Torrance.  To our surprise, he came from the town next to Bubble's home town in New Jersey.  They even knew many of the same people.

Also on our boat was a family from Iowa.  LeAnn, her husband Kelly, and their son Mark.  Kelly brought his family out here because he is returning in the fall to hunt elk and he wanted to check out the area.  They were super nice people and they invited us to their home.  They had rafted before, and their skills came in handy as Bubbles and I were a little clumsy with our oars.   This rafting thing put everybody in a good mood and got our trip back on track.  

 

The guide, John, does his rafting thing in the summer, then, who knows?  He might go to West Virginia, where they have fall rafting, or head out west.  He will pick up work at ski resorts in the winter.  I asked him if he lives in Canon City and he said no, he lives in a tent.  He says he had to get rid of most of his stuff.  I gave him my "you don't own stuff, it owns you" line.  He agreed, though he admitted he had a storage unit someplace.  This disappointed me.  He pays more  in rent for his stuff than he does for himself.  But he was still the happiest person in the boat.  He didn't even start rafting until his 30's.  I watched him before and after with the other guides and they seem like a very close family.



I realize that with the helmet and the shades I look like The Unibomber.  BTW-Ted Kazinski is actually in prison here in Canon City. 

Epiphany - This post is taking too long.  Come up with your own epiphany.  Feel free to use the words "almighty buck" and "Henry David Thoreau."  

Beef Jerky - Cracked open the jerky I got from John Huston on Highway 50.  4B Natural Jerky, made in Grand Junction, Colorado.  It was a good, old fashioned jerky.  Hard to gnaw into but well worth the effort.  Check your dental plan before attempting to eat.

   
 
 

 

        

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Highway 550 north out of Durango is sublime.  And I never use that word.  It winds through high mountain passes.  Two lanes.  Huge dropoffs with no guardrails. 

After a couple of hours we descended into Silverton, an old mining town populated by locals who all walk around with big dogs, mostly labs and retrievers who are all wet from the neck down.  Not sure what they were up to, but it was good to see, like coming across an SUV with real mud on the flaps.  Good lunch at an old cafe called The Pickle Barrel.

Highway 550 from Silverton climbs back up into the mountains.  Not good with adjectives, but in comparison all other scenic drives look like Sepulveda Blvd.

Took highway 550 north to the town of Montrose and then started heading east on highway 50, nicknamed "America's loneliest highway."  With the exception of Day 1 from L.A. to Jerome, we've done a good job of staying off of the big interstates.  Which I recommend.  We stopped at an tiny general store.  The  old couple running it seemed glad to see us.  I bought more snacks and drinks than we needed because it seemed like they could use the business.  Bubbles found some postcards that she liked.  As I was flipping through their jerky collection the old man, a John Huston type, started asking me about our car.  He was really fascinated.  I guess a silver Camry is a big deal on highway 50.  He wanted to know if I'd ever driven a Prius.  I wish that I had and that I could have regaled him with tales of adventure at fifty miles per gallon. 

Bubbles needed a toothbrush.  Huston went into the cupboard and pulled out a pack of 5 tiny toothbrushes.  "Last one" he declared, "Guess I oughta reorder."  They were single-use disposable toothbrushes, with the toothpaste built into the brush.  I'm not sure what they taste like, but from the sound she made that night, when she put the first one in her mouth, it's kinda like jerky.  And not the good stuff.

Much of Highway 50 runs along the Arkansas River.  Near Canon City there are scores of whitewater rafting companies vying for customers.   We passed them all up, as we passed up a visit to Royal Gorge, where some acid-freak built a bridge 1,000 feet above the river.  He charges $30 to enter the park and walk or drive over the bridge.  

We made it into Pueblo under dark skies filled with rain and flashes of lightning.  Checked into an unsatisfactory Days Inn.  Later, a close burst of lighting knocked out our cable and wi-fi at the same time.  I moved away from my perch near the window.  It didn't feel safe.  Bubbles took my place.  And lit a cigarette.

Epiphany - Canon City is actually pronounced "canyon city"  There should be a tilde over the first n.  But I don't do tildes.  (Nor umlats, for that matter, not since Nirvana killed metal).  But "canyon" sounds much better than "cannon."  Shakespeare said something about a rose by any other name smelling as sweet.  Shakespeare was a hack.  Driving down America's loneliest highway I had time to contemplate how much flavor words have.  How the right words provide seasoning to the objects they describe.  Call a rose a moldy sock and it does not smell as sweet, Bill, because we are physically affected by powerfully descriptive words.

Beef Jerky - I'm saving the jerky I got from Huston, though it looks good.   

        

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Monument Valley is a twenty minute drive from our lodging in Kayenta, so we checked it out.  At the visitor center we got some literature that boasted how it has been the setting for many classic films, "including Stagecoach, My Darling Clementine, and Back to the Future III."  Really?  BTTF III is a classic?   The film was flawed on several levels, beginning with the idea that one hundred years ago Hill Valley was in Monument Valley.  And the time-space continuum was exploited differently than in the first two volumes.  Maybe director Zemickis was trying to incorporate advances in string theory into the franchise, or maybe studio meddling led to the contradictions.  I don't know.  I just think that our park service shouldn't play so fast and loose with the term "classic."  Not with my tax money.

The park charges $5 a head, and this gives you the right to drive an 18 mile loop through the monuments on a dirt road.  Which we did.  And it's a miracle that we didn't leave our transmission out there hanging on a jagged piece of sandstone.  Parts of the drive were like a Land Rover commercial, and they give you no warnings about that before you start.  I saw some Japanese tourists in their rented Mercury Montego laughing like they were on a ride at Disneyland, but this was real world stuff.  Some chump is going to buy that car from Hertz and wonder what happened when all four wheels shoot off as he is going down the 405.  

Back on Highway 160, heading towards Four Corners, Bubbles took the wheel.  Soon we were on the wrong road, Highway 64 heading East into New Mexico instead of Northeast into Colorado.  It took us a while to realize her mistake, but instead of doubling back we decided to ride 64 into Shiprock, New Mexico and then turn north towards Cortez. Colorado.  Shiprock, of course, made me think of the Flintstones episode with the singer named Dash Riprock.  I tried to explain this to Bubbles, but she is not well versed in Flinstonology, and she was still trying to figure how to blame me for her bad driving.  

The drive from Cortez east to Durango was as scenic as it gets.  We saw alpine mountains and rolling green farmland, while driving through brief thunderstorms mixed with bright bursts of sunlight.  And plenty of rainbows.  Checked into the Caboose Inn.

Epiphany- They made me read a Robert Frost poem in high school about  him coming to a fork in the road and taking the path less traveled, blah blah blah.  I don't remember much about that poem, except how he mentioned "way leading to way..."  The teacher tried to spell it out, as you must with meat headed high school kids.  Your whole life can change when you take one path, because that leads to other forks and other paths and finally you're miles away from where you would be if you made a different decision at the first fork.  But isn't life more like what happened to us?  Bubbles took one path, but we knew where we wanted to go, so we adjusted and veered back toward our goal.  No big deal.  I'm not saying Robert Frost was a boob.  But maybe Yogi Berra's take is more instructive, "When you come to a fork in the road, take it."  
 
Beef Jerky - Tillamook County - regular flavor.  A very good jerky, nice taste with just the right among of sponginess.  Tried to get Bubbles opinion, but after spitting out yesterday's jerky, she claims she won't eat anymore jerky.  Ever.  We shall see. 

        

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Still in Jerome.  Skipped the English Restaurant today and went to the Main Street Bar and Grill for breakfast.  Saw our friends from Tempe there.  Richie and the two girls were hunched over their coffee and eggs.  Travis was in the bar, happy to see us and asked if we wanted a shot of Jack Daniels.  Had to decline. 

At ten thirty the annual 4th of July Children's Parade started.  The locals warned us not to miss it, and we figured, when in Jerome do as Jeromans.  All the kids in Jerome get to ride down the street.  The only takes three vehicles:  an old fire engine, a horsedrawn carriage, and a pickup towing a flat trailer full of waving kids.  It goes by fast, but then they turn around at the old mineshaft and drive past again.  Pretty cool.

Departed Jerome, headed north through Sedona, which still blows, and then up through some lovely forested country.  Got to Flagstaff.  I didn't realize that Flagstaff was at 7,000 feet, and it's not oppressive in the summer, but actually quite nice.  We stopped in the tourist center and got our bearings, visited Walnut Canyon National Park, called "one of the prettiest places imaginable, with pinon pines and juniper trees clinging to the canyon walls.:  Reminded me very much of the canyon scene as you pull out of Main Street Station on the train at Disneyland.  Only not fake.  Ended up talking to Nancy, a park ranger, about our cross country trip.  She suggested that we talk to her colleague, Steve, about it.  Steve was busy, so we hiked to the rim and back and then talked to him.  He reminded me of Martin Mull, and he explained that he used to make cross country trips a lot "under different circumstances."  Not sure what that meant, but those words are haunting me.  Anyway, he says if you have ten days to cross the country, you should spend seven on this side of the Rockies, then race across the cornfields.  Reassuring words, since we're still in Arizona.  He also gave some good tips on worthwhile stops and overrated places.

Then we visited the nearby Sunset Crater National Park, a nice mix of lava fields and pine trees, where we hiked and visited ancient Native American ruins.  Continued North on Highway 89 and then veared northeast towards Four Corners and Colorado.  Checked into the Hampton Inn in Kayenta, the "Gateway to Monument Valley".  There was an Indian Rodeo across the highway, which me missed, but we caught their terrific fireworks display at 10:30 before turning in for the night.  Happy 4th of July.

Epiphany- Looking over the Navajo ruins near Sunset Crater I realized something about progress.  It requires people willing to lead with ideas.  At some point, some Indian looked around and said, "Listen, jerkies, living in tents and teepees blows.  We can build stone communities into the cliffs here and be much better off.  Here's my plan..."  Committees and planning boards can't come up with that stuff.  They get bogged down by the loud talkers with the bad ideas.  Maybe the Indian's problem throughout the centuries has been a tendency to try to be too egalitarian.  You have to value the ideas differently if the come from the guy named "Builds with Stone" versus the guy named "Runs with Scissors". 

Beef Jerky- I got a pack of Arizona Mikes near Tuba City.  Smelled kind of gamey, but I figured that was just the marinade.  Tasted a little better than it smelled.  I gave Bubbles a piece and she spit it out.  Didn't finish the bag.

        

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Had breakfast at The English Restaurant in Jerome, which claimed to be "The Oldest Restaurant in Arizona" and they served the toast to prove it.   The food wasn't good, and two wasps chased Bubbles off of the outdoor patio. 

We drove down the mountain and 25 miles to Sedona, to see what all the fuss was about.  I say Sedonta.  At least don't go in the summer.  Too hot.  Thousands of tourists walking around in the unbearable heat, which doesn't make sense to me unless you're headed towards a huge air-conditioned casino.  Which they weren't.  It seemed like most of them were on their way to taking tours of the valley in pink open-air Jeeps.   The town is ringed by red buttes and mesas (I don't know the difference, though I should since my life hit a plateau years ago). 

We asked the woman in the Tourist Office about psychics and she said that most of them were charlatans.  She allowed that there might be some good ones, but they charged $275 and were hard to see.  No problem, I could tell the future at that point.  We were returning to Jerome.

Jerome is built into the side of a mountain and sits 5,000 feet above sea level.  It's always about 15 degrees cooler than Sedona, according to the guy who runs the Sage Brush Coffee Shop and Bookstore (he looks like The Dude from "Big Lebowski" and is just as laid back, as is everybody in Jerome).  We bought a book that covers famous haunted places in Arizona.  One of the chapters talked about the Connor Hotel, including a man that appears in the bathroom doorway of room #3.  Since we were staying in room #3 this piqued our interest.  We never saw him, however.  He must have found a more interesting place to stand. 

The population of Jerome is only 600, but in the day it becomes hard to park  on the winding streets as hundreds of tourists make the drive up the hill to escape the heat and to visit the many arts and craft shops.  They all disappear before sundown, and most of Jerome shuts down except for three restaurants and two bars that cater to the locals and the few guests of the Connor Hotel, the Grand Hotel of Jerome, and a couple of B&Bs.  So if you stay in Jerome you'll see a lot of the same faces at dinner and at the saloons afterwards, making it easy to make friends, which we did.  We ended up drinking with a foursome from Tempe who discovered Jerome about a year ago and now come up all the time.  Richie and his girlfriend are transplanted New Yorkers.  Travis learned to play keyboards about a year ago, and now he's in a band (called ADAMdontCare).  He was proud to say he finally learned to play the Charlie Brown song (we think he meant "Linus and Lucy" from Charlie Brown Christmas).  We closed the bar, which was the sensible option since it was very loud and our room was right above it.   

Epiphany:  People talk about synchronicity and how other people arrive in our lives for a reason.  I realized that if you buy into that, and you should, you  have to allow for the fact that sometimes you are the person who arrives in somebody elses life for a reason, and you ought to stay aware of how you can push somebody in a good direction. 

Beef Jerky - No beef jerky today.  Sedona sapped me of my will to eat jerky.

        

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For a big trip like this you want to leave so early that you're rolling out of town with your headlights on.  It was disconcerting, therefore, to be sitting in Venice at 2:00 pm watching Bubbles throw food out of her refrigerator.  The movers came in the morning and now chores were being taken care of that should have been done days before.  At around 3:00 pm we rolled onto Lincoln Blvd.  I was sweaty and grumpy.

We took the 405 south to the 91 to the 10 and stopped at the border in Blythe, where the AM/PM has filthy bathrooms, but Blythe is filthy in general so the locals don't care.

We continued on to Phoenix and then headed north on the I-17.  Stopped in Jerome and checked into the Connor Hotel.     a historic old building in a former ghost town.   It was after 10 pm and the front desk was closed, but we had made prior arrangements to pick up the key from the bartender in the Spirit Room on the first floor.  

Miles traveled: 480

Epiphany:  Emotional Doppler Effect (EDE).  A city seems much less important as you drive away from it and much more powerful as you drive towards it.   Los Angeles is feeling more and more like a village as it disappears behind us.  And the cities in front of us seem to burst with possibilites. 
  
Beef Jerky Update:  I bought some teriyaki flavored Pemican brand in Blythe.  Very dry, like eating a cereal box, with almost no hint of teriyaki flavor.  I ate the whole bag, but not happily.   

        

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People have been asking, "Rocky, are you traveling across America all alone?"  No.  At least not in the beginning.  My friend Bubbles is moving back to New Jersey.  She spent a decade trying to buy into the California Dream, but like a broken vending machine this state kept spitting back whatever currency she offered.  To her, the drive is all about achieving a sense of demarcation. 

(Bubbles would like you to know that she quit her job, she wasn't

let go after meeting with the Bobs).

I used to walk to work.  Less than a block.  I found that the three minutes it took to go from the front porch to the office were not enough,  My psyche could not compartmentalize, and I often found myself taking the longer way around the block, past the Mercedes garage with the screaming Armenian mechanics, in order to achieve the proper emotional spacing.   For Bubbles, this trip will be the Costco-size version of my walk around the block.  Some transitions are too big to be made in five hours, with your tray table down, a tiny cup of Diet Coke in front of you, and "The Benchwarmers" playing on a monitor the size of my foot. 

Having said that, Bubbles can test my patience, and I have the patience of a Ukrainian sniper.  I've checked the map and found 14 cities near our expected route that offer direct flights to Newark.   Coach Wooden would be proud of me.

        

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Any baboon with a credit card can fly across America.  I’m going to Cape Cod for a clambake.  And I’m driving.  From California.  I’m not sure what a clambake is.  I’m not a big fan of clams, and baking them seems like an awful idea.  But I know that a clambake involves people coming together, and I’m a people person.  So off I go.

John Wooden said, “Failing to plan is planning to fail.”  They should make a poster with that quote and my face.  Warn people to stay focused.  Coach wasn't there to stop the aimless wandering that led me into this existential cul-de-sac. 

On the other hand, the Wizard of Westwood retired from coaching back in ‘75.  He was sixty



five at the time.  Back then men retired at sixty five because they would die by seventy.  Well, coach is still with us.  Still sharp.  His odometer is approaching one hundred.  Bet he didn’t see that coming.  So maybe planning has its limitations.  Maybe if you love coaching and you’re the best in the world you stay with it. You ignore the mortality charts and you keep attacking your opponents, and life, with a full court press.

Skeptics might read the above and ask, “Hold on, is Rocky rationalizing not putting any planning into this trip?” and “Is this another half-baked Rocky production?”  The answers: no and no.  I’ve done little planning, but that doesn’t make it half-baked.  This will be a fully-baked exercise in running my hand across the fabric of America, feeling for the threads that hold us together.  Along the way I anticipate adventures, epiphanies and plenty of beef jerky.                 

        

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