Award Tour Vol. 14: Trapped and Never Escaped

Once again, it is me, Tre, and Marcy (who has come to town from Vegas to chill for the weekend). We’re all at Venice and I believe I described Venice previously as a stationary gypsy fair… that’s fairly accurate. The boardwalk is basically a beach front with rampant pan handling for money. For those of you who might actually venture out to Los Angeles and Venice Beach… I’ve put together these player profiles so you can identify the crazies as you meet them.

NAME: The Artist
PERSONEL: One guy
SUPPLIES: A bass guitar, a bass drum, a cymbal, and a microphone
THE HUSTLE: This man attempts (“attempts” being the key word) to do a rendition of “Erotic City” featuring himself on everything, vocals and instruments…
MY ASSESSMENT: A wise man should know his limits. I feel like we could stop right there… but just so we’re clear, if your name isn’t Prince Rogers Nelson, don’t even do it to yourself, just pick another song by another artist. Because you will NOT play the same 15 seconds of one verse and try to pass it off as the entire song. This is unacceptable… the words are changing… how come the music isn’t?

NAME: The snake boys
PERSONEL: Two guys
SUPPLIES: one baby albino boa.
THE HUSTLE: With a mere $5 dollars you could secure the privilege of taking a picture of the snake boys wearing their snake… no, they’re not celebrities… they just have a snake and you don’t. In addition, you, yourself, don’t actually get to be in the photo… nor do you get to actually handle the snake… You simply get to take the picture of them. It goes without saying that you have to use your own camera and film… but for a picture of the snake boys… isn’t it worth it?
MY ASSESSMENT: Kiss my ass

NAME: Mr. Roboto
PERSONEL: One dude
SUPPLIES: A Boba-Fett Mask from Star Wars, Hammer pants (yes… Hammer pants), a card board background, and a loud speaker blasting the theme to “Battle Star Galactica”
THE HUSTLE: He pretends to be a robot, and you give him money.
MY ASSESSMENT: I pretended he wasn’t there and gave him nothing. (I mean really… come on… when I am forced to ask what exactly your talent is… I am short step away from concluding that, in reality, you have none). Couple this with the unforgivable mixing of Sci-Fi genres (Star Wars and Battle Star Galactica) and I cannot in good faith endorse the patronage Mr. Roboto.

NAME: Rolla-pa-looza
PERSONEL: One man
SUPPLIES: A portable amp, stereo, an electric guitar, and roller blades
THE HUSTLE: He plays music on his guitar as he roller blades by…
MY ASSESSMENT: Actually I’m not entirely convinced that there was a hustle here so much as there was an Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. He never stopped roller blading once while I saw him (like he was shark-human hybrid that would die if he stopped moving) and he seemed content to play a song that no one else knew except him. A song that consisted of 7 notes played as randomly as the notes generated from a wind chime.

NAME: Ivan Putski
PERSONEL: One man
SUPPLIES: A kitchen stove
THE HUSTLE: The man attempts to assemble a crowd by telling them he is about to perform a dangerous fete; namely balancing the stove on his chin. I don’t know why everyone else gathered around him… but I personally came over to see if he would decapitate himself in the process or just crush his windpipe; much to my disappointment he did neither. In fact, he hoisted the stove up and took it on the “chin”as he declared he would. When he finished his fete, he then stated, “now make yourselves happy and give me money!”
MY ASSESSMENT: His assertions that giving him money would make me happy was entertaining (it certainly made me laugh) but not compelling. My advice to Ivan: Your talents on the boardwalk are clearly wasted. There's a job waiting for you at UPS. Look into it.

NAME: Ethereal Man
PERSONEL: One fella
SUPPLIES: an Indian guitar known as a Sitar, chimes, and mind control
THE HUSTLE: The man plays a mystic harmonious blend of sounds on his Sitar and his chimes, placing you in hypnotic state of zen under which you can deny none of his requests. Once he has established contact with your frontal lobe and your eyes become vacant… I presume Ethereal man simply requests that you give him money, and still under the haze of his enchanting spell, you are unable to resist.
MY ASSESSMENT: Whatever you do, do not stand too close to this man. Everyone who was within a 5 foot radius of the man appeared to be floating; perhaps it was some sort of tractor beam (though my people from the Star Trek Convention tell me we’re not quite there yet). I cannot say for sure that Ethereal Man had opiates burning in and around his booth… all I can say is that, much like those insects millions of years ago that stumbled into amber resin, those who ventured too close to Ethereal man were trapped and never escaped.

Award Tour Vol. 13: Right Behind Me

So we’re in Los Angeles, if you’re new to the blog, I don’t have time to explain how or why. Go back. Read on. Catch up. For the rest of you, I have to say the ‘left’ coast is pretty cool. Nice women, nice weather, decent food, and conveniently located rifts in the time-space continuum for your time traveling needs.

Yes. You heard me right. Time travel. There are pockets of the Los Angeles area that have not traveled into the future with the rest of us. Example, there is a court yard area in Santa Monica where they found a year in a decade that they liked, and they just stayed there… that decade? The 80’s. The year? 1986. And what an excellent way to defy Physics. Because Miami Vice was a great show, Hip Hop just ain’t been hip hop the since the days of Run DMC, and in 1986 people still do battle the old fashioned way… through popping, locking, and breaking (i.e. dancing) I know, I know… I wouldn’t believe me either – but remember – this is all a true story (except for the physical time traveling, I’ve talked with some people from the Star Trek convention and we’re not quite there yet.)

Tre and I went out with some of his friends who showed us around the Santa Monica area. We walked a little ways and window shopped a few stores unaware that we had already entered the worm hole that was transporting us back in time. And then we got to a clearing, and there they were… B-boys… battling for sidewalk supremacy.

In this corner, weighing 110 lbs after Thanksgiving, wearing no shirt, wind breaker pants, and a pair of Lottos, (a line of shoes many once thought to be extinct…but like I said 1986…) – he hails from some place where it’s apparently still cool to wear dehydrated Jherri curls pulled back into pony tails (perhaps to preserve the remaining juices and moisture), introducing, The Drunken Monk of P-Funk – Jerry “The Curl” Johnson. Give it up for Jerry.

And in the corner to my left, he really needs no introduction. Weighing in at a trim buck thirty five (135), wearing the long sleeve black shirt, black sweat pants (that he had rolled up above his knees), a black kangol, white shoes, white gloves, and white socks (that he had pulled to below his knees). He hails from an Alternate Reality visited once on an episode of Sliders. The original White Chocolate, the Jon B Bizzaro, ladies and gentlemen give it up for the one the only, “Merciless” Marcel Marceau Jr.

So there it is; the wino vs. the mime. Honestly, you shouldn’t even be able to experience fun like this without having to go through TicketMaster first. This is awesome. As I watched on, they went to war, taking turns going step for step, and move for move; battling to a stale mate. The small crowd that had gathered to watch cheered it all, seeming to enjoy the back and forth exchange for what it appeared to be on the surface… just entertainment. But my Spider Sense was tingling. It didn’t feel like just a battle. Hip Hop battles such as these didn’t involve mere dancers… nay… they were modern day samurais observing their own special code of Bushido. That code: Honor at all costs. Theoretically they could battle all night, and both of them would be victorious if they each held their own. But the moment one guy did a move that couldn’t be countered… the moment one guy did a move for which there was no response… there would be trouble.

Oh Yes... there would be trouble.

There was no reason to believe that this would be anything but a stalemate… after all the ebb and flow of the battle had been balanced all night. But for some reason, I was unable to control my morbid imagination. I couldn’t help but to envision a scenario where this seemingly friendly game of one-up-manship would escalate until it spiraled out of control and erupted in gun play.

Could it happen? I wondered as I watched Jerry, having just completed his last dance offering (one where he did an exaggerated heart beat), move back to his neutral corner and wait for Marcel’s response. Marcel obliged by doing a dance move where he pretended to be eating something and digesting it.

Hmmm. That looked vaguely familiar. I looked over at Tre and asked, “didn’t he do that move before?” Tre nodded. Apparently, Marcel was running out of moves. Did he go to the well too many times? Did Jerry notice it? Yeah… he did. It was like smelled blood in the water and went in for the kill.

Marcel waited for Jerry’s response and Jerry obliged him. He pretended to load up an imaginary box, picked it up, waddled it over to Marcel, pretended to drop it on Marcel’s feet and waddle back to his corner like a penguin. Two moves in one. The crowd cheered gleefully… I looked on with trepidation.

That was it… that was the move that could not be countered… that was the move for which there was no response… Marcel, stunned by the move and the subsequent crowd reaction, went into auto pilot. Not knowing exactly what to do or how to recover tried to do a variation on his “Eat/digest” move, but for all intents and purposes, it was over; he had lost the crowd. He knew it, I knew it… we all knew it, the “Dropped Box” might as well have been a Finishing Move. Honor would not be salvaged… face would be lost. The only question now was, how will this end.

If you actually studied cultures of the Orient you know that I’m employing a little hyperbole here suggesting that Marcel would kill Jerry. Bushido would actually call for ritual suicide, not ritual gun play. Still if either one was going to happen, I’d prefer to learn about it via the 11:00 news and not as an eyewitness. I left immediately with Tre and his friends right behind me.

Award Tour Vol. 12: He Will Not Be Negotiated With

Day Three – we’re putting days 1 and 2 at King Drew Medical the rear view mirror. The only good thing about them is that they’re behind us. I know my jumpshot is better than to literally shoot 0% from the field (hell statistically I should have hit a shot by accident at some point) and I know that somehow, Tre and I probably saved the world by keeping that abandoned swimming pool closed (feel free to thank us when you see us on the streets, by the way… you say thank you with a gift… preferably money).

Anyway we’re out. Destination: Venice Beach. I’ve heard about it for years, and now that I finally get to see it I have to admit - it was everything that late 80’s soft porn B-movies suggested it would be… except for the women galavanting around topless… that part wasn’t true (and I have to say I’m a little disappointed by that… I feel like my Block Buster Video collection has made me the butt of the longest running practical joke in history). Still, if you’re a young single man “half” naked is better than “no” naked. Take what the defense gives you.

Other than that, yes Venice Beach was a rich tapestry of insanity, full of characters that seemed to leap right off the pages of poorly written novel and into real life. Hundreds of smiling, talking, eating, people as colorful as that old school Crayola Box of 64 Crayons that the “one kid” in class had (you remember the one, the one with the special silver and gold crayons and the built in crayon sharpener? Yeah… that one. And oh by the way, I was “that kid”).

So to recap, Venice Beah: Crazy looking people, crazy talking people, crazy acting people, fair maidens, permanent stationary gypsy fair… I definitely belong here.

Anyway, we go a little ways up on the walk way and stop at the basketball court, and there are so many women there you would have thought it was a casting call for the kind of music video that can only be played really late at night… (again half naked > no naked, you can’t argue with that, that’s math). They were all crowded around the basketball courts, like they were half watching, half waiting to be discovered by some hot shot director.

I can’t blame them (for not paying attention to the game) I was only half watching the games too. It looked like standard issue street ball. Oh yeah I’ve heard about how the place was legendary (and it’s possible that I came on an off day) but the only thing that seemed extraordinary about it was the on-court arguing. The level of bickering, back biting and finger pointing on court reached a level that is usually reserved for places like Congress and the Senate. Every turnover, every shot, every defensive stand was the precursor to a heated argument between players –

- who were on THE SAME TEAM.

Now some might say, this is due to the legendary competitiveness of the games on the court. I’m going to go ahead and offer a preemptive “uh …no” right about here. The theory I’m running with is the “barking” was less about the game, and more about the women watching it. Right now, right this very moment you’re saying to yourself, "naw it could never be that" but I personally consulted with our expert panel and they’ve already ruled that it can be that… so let’s move on.

I flash back to the days when I played basketball for an intramural team at Georgia Tech. On one particular night our point guard, let’s call him Jalen invited his then girlfriend to watch the game. Prior to her arrival, Jalen brought the ball down court and distributed it to his fellow players (as a point guard should). Somewhere in the middle of the first half, when his lady showed up – he proceeded to make an Anti-“And 1 Mix:Tape”. (you may interpret that to mean it was footage of Jalen making a fool of himself instead of his opponent.)

He waved off plays that had been working, started calling plays (that to my knowledge) didn’t exist, launched a barrage of high arching 3 pointers that had a better chance of achieving “low orbit” than going through the hoop... I mean seriously… the only thing missing from this package was circus music coming from a pipe organ. And nothing could stop it, I mean it just took on a life of its own. Carefully choreographed plays during time outs might have well been called “Intermission” – cause Jalen wasn’t listening to anything but the beat of his own drummer… and that drummer was deaf in one ear, and has no rhythm.

The minute the time out ended and Jalen stepped back on the court he simply picked up where he left off in his aerial assault on the basket (and I do mean assault - from fadeaway 3’s on the fast break, to running one handers from behind the basket; shots clanged off the rim and back board like swords clashed on shields in Braveheart).

Now if just inviting one woman to a game could do this to Jalen, what could a crowd full of desperate Luke Dancers do, to a court fell of dudes on a hot day in Cali? You don’t even have to pre-heat the oven… this is a cake that bakes itself. Over inflated egos + underdressed estrogen = foolishness. And if you haven’t learned anything else today, you’ve learned that Math is brutal dictator – he will not be talked down, and he will not be negotiated with.

Award Tour Vol. 11: Because Someone Else Said It Was Safe

It’s two days after we’ve arrived… exactly one day after the most blood-curdling shooting performance on a regulation height rim since John Starks laced them up and went 2 for 18 in Game 7 of the 1994 NBA Finals (yeah I know mathematically Tim Hardaway’s game against Minnesota in 1991 was worse, but Golden State still won… and who’s telling this story anyway?) So yeah, road trip, arrival, blood curdle, 0 for infinity, yada yada yada read about it here Award Tour 10.

I’m ready to move on from this ugly chapter in our trip… but what to do? Enter Stage Left: King/Drew amenities. I have to say, for a hospital, this place is quite well laid out. A courtyard, black top for basketball, resident parking, a swimming pool… Shoot this place is one “Arts and Crafts” class away from being a time share.

We gave it some thought and decided to go swimming. And because we’re on blog installment #11 you should know that right about here, in the 3^rd to 4^th paragraph range, is usually where things start to go sideways…

…this time will be no different.

It begins with Tre walking slowly and methodically around the perimeter of the pool; a look of confusion on his face as he surveyed the surroundings. If that look could speak I’m sure that it would be saying:

• Why is there a large congregation of dead floating bio matter in this pool? It looks like a partially digested bowl of cornflakes was projectile vomited into the water.

In a sane world, Questions like this deserved to be asked (that’s why I live in this world, to ask the questions that ought to be asked... and it doesn't hurt that the taxes are pretty low) In a world where freedom and justice rain down on us all, you would go to the Building Director and ask, “when will the pool be cleaned?” In a world gone mad, the answer will be "the pool has already been cleaned". In my own personal world (the one that’s sane), the sound effect of a needle being ripped off a record would definitely be inserted right here, but feel free to compose your own soundtrack. That’s what’s great about America – choice.

Director: "The pool should be fine. Maintenance already came by. It’s safe to go swimming. People have been in the pool all week"
Tre: "Maintenance came by where?”
Director: "Here”
Tre: "This hospital?"
Director: "Yes"
Tre: "You sure that wasn’t maintenance for something else?"

Director: “No they were here to clean the pool”
Tre: "the one out back?"
Director: "There’s only one"
Tre: "Then you have a problem, cause they didn’t clean it"
Director: "It’s on the schedule right here – see the 20th"
Tre: "Of when?"

Director: “This month”

Tre: "No, what year"

For the record, on the inside I’m laughing at Tre’s exchange. Not because the in-ground swamp behind the hospital wasn’t deadly serious… but because Tre seemed to think he could prevail with logic. What good was his logic against signed paperwork? You can’t argue with a dated time sheet… the mere existence of the paperwork establishes its own reality.

So it seems we’ve reached an impasse. When two conflicting realities collide that’s usually what they call it… an impasse, (and even if they don’t, that’s what we’re going with here). In Tre’s reality (a reality which, I’d like to point out, I personally share) the swimming pool is perhaps right for killing off fresh water fish, maybe even fit for ritual human sacrifice, but is in no way suitable for swimming… not for any carbon based life forms I’m aware of (and I’ve watched a lot of Discovery Channel, so yeah, factor that in while you’re deciding whether or not I have the credentials to comment on Carbon Based Life Form habitats).

How nasty is this pool? Let me draw you an analogy. If there was a biological attack somewhere in the U.S. (God forbid), the CDC would name this pool, “a person of interest". It is not hard to imagine that, if left alone, this water could successfully incubate an exotic strain of alien ebola that would wipe out North America. It could happen easily. And nobody wins when the alien ebola wins…

…except the alien ebola.

Now… in the Building Director’s reality (the one established entirely by paperwork and notary) the pool was clean. Her calm demeanor, her casual indifference to our questions, her immunity to abject disbelief was as close to a jedi mind trick that this side of eternity has ever seen. It was like one of Obi Wan Kenobi’s wave of the hand that sent facts and observations hurtling into the ether. Hell before I knew it, I was headed back out to the back to look at the pool again to re-convince myself, that I had seen what I knew I had seen already.

I’m not crazy right? This pool is filthy isn’t it? Tre and I walked back out and looked at the composte floating under, in, and on top of the water. This is a fool’s errand. We have eyes, and they function… we know what we saw. Why are we back out here? This is the pool of water that killed off the dinosaurs (nevermind that it was actually an asteroid that did it).

If people had been swimming in this all week, as the Building Director suggested, it wasn’t even a pool anymore… it was a deadly human broth of recycled bathwater. And unlike Campbells… this isn’t “mmm mmm good”…

…unless you’re the alien ebola, then it’s everything a growing virus needs.

Top it all off, Tre and I found an old faded notice posted by the Dept. of Public Health shutting down the pool for numerous code violations (every last one of them in effect at the time the pool was allegedly cleaned) and yet people had been sploshing around in it. There wasn’t even supposed to be water in the pool, let alone people. The moral of the story: Be willing to question your reality, but believe it once you know it. What people say and/or some words on a piece of paper doesn’t change what you know. And if you jump in the "cauldron of death" because someone else said it was safe, remember you are the one that gets the flesh eating bacteria, not them.

Award Tour Vol. 10: What You Did Back in 1991

Hoop Dreams deferred:

We have made it safely to the hood (kind of an ironic statement if you think about it). For those of you just now joining our broadcast, Tre (my older brother… and by the way that’s not his real name) and I have been trekking across the country from Nashville to L.A. Our mission: to get Tre relocated to start his residency. We’ve arrived at King-Drew medical and their on-site housing. We’ve unpacked most of Tre’s stuff, and now there’s nothing really to do. It was then that we spotted a basketball court behind the Hospital.

Sweet. We had already been talking about making a “special guest appearance” at the famed basketball courts at Venice beach during our cross country drive - kinda like Kobe Bryant did (only except without the fanfare, recognition, and general public interest… and the fractured left wrist, we can probably leave that part of the experience out too). But with this court being conveniently located right here, it gives us a chance to fine tune things in the privacy of the hospital courtyard. To reiterate, sweet.

And now here comes the sour. I hadn’t actually played basketball in awhile - neither had Tre. And shot after shot careened harmlessly off the rim without seriously threatening to actually go THROUGH the hoop as though to confirm this fact. And it’s a bit concerning causing full-on panic in my mind right now (the kind I suspect is the hallmark of a standard mid-life crises). Having skills on the black top wasn’t just a matter of pride where I came from, it was also a de facto school yard “debate settler”. Walk with me.

Back in grade school, before many most any of us had developed an ability to argue using logical constructs, we used the next best thing. Might. The strongest is right. The fastest is right. The best basketball player is right. And anyone who dared to step out of their position in the natural “pecking order” was quickly put back in their place with a simple, “Yeah… but you can't beat me at basketball!!!” or “Yeah, but you can’t beat me” (as in fighting).

If it was a question of sports, the superior athlete's opinion was always right - even when it was wrong. I couldn’t begin to count the number of debates, varying in topics and subject matter, that were eventually concluded with one person declaring “Yeah but you can't beat me at basketball” and the other person (concluding that, in fact, this was a true statement) declined to argue further.

But those are the ways of a young Jedi Knight. And now it seems clear I have truly chosen the way of the dark side of the force… if the dark side of the force is “Middle Age” (and it is). Most things come to hospitals to be made well, in a supreme bit of irony, it appears my hoop dreams came to King-Drew Medical to die. The shooting display that Tre and I offered that courtyard that day was an abomination against all that Naismith held dear. To call it gruesome, would be to offend the word gruesome. This is what hideous throws up after a night of binge drinking. And I know that sounds bad (it’s supposed to) but somehow this still doesn’t seem like enough to describe the horror. The only other thing I can think of is, imagine what basketball would look like if it was interpreted as a Gunther von Hagens Human Plastination display – yeah like that.

30 minutes and several missed jump shots later, there I was - leaning over and resting with my hands on my knees, huffing and puffing… re-evaluating my “place in the basketball universe”. How has it come to this? How have I become the fading basketball prodigy who can no longer call on his jumpshot when he needs it? This can’t happen… not now. Not when I now opt for a jump shot over a spectacular move to the basket. Not when I can no longer compensate for tenacious defense by simply powering through it or elevating over it.

Will my skills continue to disintegrate until I one day I’m that old man who ambles onto the basketball relying on cunning and guile to win and not athleticism? Will people on the sidelines describe my play as that of a wily cagey veteran? Will my game gear slowly start to fold in sporting goggles, and knee braces, that don't match anything else I’m wearing? Will young teen aged boys now scream at me, “Hey old man - take your bionic knees and get the f#$@ off the court - no one cares what you did back in 1991!!!” Probably. I think we’ve established that reality hates me and this is exactly the kind of juvenile behavior I’d expect from it.

Award Tour Vol. 9: It's Better This Way

California dreamin:

Tre is a doctor. I am proud of this fact in part because you always like to have one in the family and there was no way I was going through 4 years of school just so we could say it. Part of this “doctoring” thing is getting through school, the other part is a process called “matching” where medical students make a list of their preferred places of residency and the hospital make a list of their preferred students, and they all meet somewhere in the middle – kinda like a BCS Bowl for Medical students, only… not like the BCS Bowl System (obviously I’m having trouble describing this). Anyway I say all this to say that Tre is on his way to sunny California to start his Residency at King-Drew medical. If you’re Cali, you know where that is. I’m not from Cali. So all I’m thinking is Baywatch, boobs, and silicone. No seriously. That was it. And visions of sugar plums continued to dance in my head about this trip to L.A. until we got on the 105 (for the uninitiated that’s Interstate 105). That's when I started seeing signs like SLAUSSON, CRENSHAW, and IMPERIAL. Not familiar with these names? I wasn’t really either… but I don’t remember any of these on Baywatch. I’m not even seeing billboards for Pamela Anderson (and that really is disappointing). So what exactly is going on here.

Why is it feeling like the further we drive the further away we’re getting from Baywatch? Why does it feel like we’re traveling to the “the darkside of the moon” in the broad day light?

Tre: What’s our next turn

Me: I’m looking for the exit now, hey where exactly is King-Drew

Tre: Compton

Me: Huh?

Tre: Compton, King-Drew is in Compton, well… Compton and Watts

Me: <sad look> I don’t remember that being in the brochure

No more California dreamin', no palm trees, no silicone (actually there were still palm trees). It doesn’t just feel like we’re driving to the dark side of the moon, we ARE driving to it. Now that I think about it, I wondered why traffic seemed to thin out so dramatically once we got on the 105 and headed for King Drew Medical. Since I was supposed to be navigating our way into the city, I didn’t have time to pay attention to anything except that Rand McNally Atlas in front of me (if I had looked up, I suspect I would have seen people in the East bound lane of the 105 screaming from their cars, “No - GO BACK, GO BACK”) but now in retrospect I understand why so many of the exits we were looking for were free and clear - no one is in a rush to go to the hood.

What’s crazy about it is the parts I Compton I went to didn’t look like any hood that you’d expect to have with the reputation it has. It’s not the traditional towering empire of “brick” tenements. It’s suburbs. I kid you not. It is Suburbs. If someone blindfolded you and dropped you in the middle of the city and you opened your eyes you would have no idea you were in the hood…

…until they started shooting. And for those of you who have never really heard gun shots you probably wouldn’t even have noticed it at first. Hell I didn’t. I thought Tre was popping a bag of popcorn one night and realized the frequency of the popping was too slow. When I went to go check the microwave (to make sure the popcorn wasn’t burning) I found that there was no popcorn. Tre wasn’t even up. He was in the other room chilling. Since it was relatively close to 4^th of July (ok actually it was in the middle of June – but “close” is a relative term and in horseshoes and hand grenades it’s enough) I just assumed it was some kids getting a hold of some fireworks early. It took a few moments of careful listening and Tre’s confirmation to determine that it wasn’t fireworks and it wasn’t popcorn; it was a 21 gun salute - without the salute. Go figure.

Is it possible that in reality, what we heard was a combination of fireworks and gun play? For the sake of my sanity and (in an effort to manufacture a happy ending to this blog entry) I’m going to say yes. In fact I am going to convince myself (with reasonable logic) that it was the greatest likelihood. And then I’m going to take that Ice Cream Sundae and throw some sprinkles on top of that. And you know what? Those sprinkles are going to form words. And you know what they’re going to say? Let me tell you, those sprinkles are going to spell out the words “it’s possible they were firing in the air to celebrate”. And there you go.

Just so you know, I’m going down this path with or without you…

…I suggest you just get on board, put your bags in the overhead bin, and stare out the window like you see nothing wrong. It’s better this way.

Award Tour Vol. 8: A Checkpoint Inside the State

Vegas to L.A.

We've had our fun in Vegas, but now it's time to get gassed up, get some snacks and some drinks and get on the road. We actually reach California's border without much incident (which should surprise you if you're a regular to this blog). After a few hours of driving we crossed the border into Cali and had actually gone 20 miles or so when it happened. When what happened? A monumental backup of a two lane highway that stretched so far into the desert the person who was responsible for it should’ve gotten a medal (I mean, you don’t just get up one morning and cause a traffic jam like this - no - this took planning).

So you’re asking yourself, “what caused it?” Was there an accident? No. Was there construction? No. Did someone break down ahead of us. No, of course not - these would all be reasonable. This mighty grid lock was courtesy of the local California Produce Checkpoint system. (Scratching your heads yet?) Program Note: It wasn't really called the California Produce Checkpoint System, it's actually the CDFA's - Plant Health & Pest Prevention Services (CDFA = California Department of Food & Agriculture) You can google it, I'm not making this stuff up.

The great state of California, has distinguished itself, in my eyes, by being the only state I have ever witnessed that can actually create artificial traffic jams in the middle of a desert (and if you think about it, that's saying a lot). I guess the premise of the checkpoint system was that it was supposed to keep the “BAD” fruit and vegetable produce out. Considering the shear size of the state, and California’s track record when it comes to keeping “things out” - I am a bit skeptical that this system is in any way, what one would call - USEFUL. Despite the efforts of the semi-trained check point attendants, somehow I suspect that illegal fruit, much like illegal immigrants, are still making their way into the state. But let me not lean to hard on Cali, they have a checkpoint - it helps them sleep at night - fine. All I ask is that they hire intelligent check point managers.

Checkpoint-Man: How you guys doing?
Tre: Fine.
Checkpoint-Man: Where are you guys headed?
Tre: To King/Drew Medical in Los Angeles.
Checkpoint-Man: What's in the back?
Tre: My bike, clothes, books... some towels and blankets.
Checkpoint-Man: Are you transporting any plants or animals?
Tre: No.
Checkpoint-Man: What about snacks?
Tre: We have some grapes and some...
Checkpoint-Man: So you don't have any fruits?
Tre: Grapes
Checkpoint-Man: No vegetables, no plants, or fruits?
Tre: Ummm... no just Grapes
Checkpoint-Man: How about any grapefruit, oranges, or cherries?
Tre: We have some cherries too
Checkpoint-Man: Okay, cherries are a banned produce. You are not allowed to bring these into the state of California. If you like you can pull off to the side of the road and finish the cherries before you go... otherwise you have to leave them here.
Tre: Well here, you can just keep them
Checkpoint-Man: Okay so is that everything? No other fruit?
Tre: We - Have - Some – Grapes
Checkpoint-Man: Oh I don't mean like that, those are Okay - I'm just talking about vegetables, exotic plants, and fruits. {I am laughing out loud at this point}

{BREAK}it is worth noting, that while there is a somewhat universal belief among my friends that I am short in patience (and perhaps at times I am), I would make the argument that this lack of patience is not a personal failing, rather it is actually a DNA encoded behavior - and clearly I am NOT the only one. Tre received the ‘anger gene’ as well. {UNBREAK}

I'll ignore the Checkpoint-man's limited knowledge of the elements of the 4 food groups (let's all ignore that fact for right now). Let’s look at the real issue; is it me or does it seem like 20 miles inside the border of the state is a slightly counter-productive position in which to erect a checkpoint system?. If the point is to keep the items out you've already failed - they're already 20 miles in. That’s like screening airline passengers for weapons after the plane is already in the air. But of course, you only reach that conclusion if you subscribe to the tenets of logic - and if grapes aren't a fruit, then I guess a checkpoint inside the state makes sense too.

Award Tour Vol. 7: A Non-Contact Sport

Vegas Nights:

We've rested a little bit now. All Most has been forgiven regarding the early driving direction debacle (if you don’t know what I’m talking about, shame on you, go back to the blog entry before this), and after the hard work of driving here now it's time to play. And where is the best place to play in all of Vegas? If you answered “The Bunny Ranch” I see your vision and I like where you’re going with that, but no, the answer the judges were looking for was “The Strip”… yeah… “The Strip”

For those of you wondering what is “The Strip” let me start my 2 part response by saying

• You really need to get out more. Seriously.
• Wikipedia describes it as the stretch of Las Vegas Boulevard that is roughly between Sahara Avenue and Russell Road, a distance of 4.2 miles (6.8 km for you all who insist on living your lives in metric). However, the term is often used to refer not only to the road but also to the various casinos and resorts that line the road, and even to properties which are not on the road but in proximity.

And so that’s where we are now. Riding out on the strip in a drop top benz looking at all the landmarks; Circus Circus Casino, the Luxor, Caesar's Palace (so on and so on) - if it was out on the strip we saw it. As chance would have it we would not actually visit any of these casinos, instead we visited a place called The Venetian, a luxury hotel resort with a functioning river and gondola ride, and a bustling-bell-ringing-light-blinking gaming area.

I can’t even front, the functioning river and gondola ride was executive level pimping, in part because it was all indoors. If I was rocking a Bowler or a feathered Derby (hat) I’d have to tip it right about now. But that’s where my compliments begin and end. We hit a few slot machines and contributed to the economy of the tax payers of Nevada and after repeatedly saying “no whammy no whammy no whammy stop” while pulling on that one armed bandit, I worked up quite a thirst. By the way, those of you who didn’t get the whammy reference (i.e. those of your born in the year of our Lord One Thousand Nine Hundred and Ninety or later) google “Press Your Luck” and meet us back at the rally point.

You with us? Ok. So yeah, we’re thirsty. So we approach the bar. Enter “Tom Foolery” stage left.

Marcy: "What do you guys want?"
Tre : "do you have anything non-alcoholic?"
Bartender: "I have coca cola, sprite, seltzer water - "
Tre: "Let me get a coca cola - "
Me: "Yeah - let me get a soda too"
Bartender: "Sure could I see an i.d.?"

{brief exchange of confused looks}

Me: "No, no liquor, just sodas"
Bartender: "I understand - can I see your i.d.s"
Me: "For a soda?"
Bartender: "Yes".

{longer additional exchange of confused looks}

Marcy: “Why?”
Bartender: “Ma’am, this is a bar area”

{a third and final exchange of confused looks. Was that supposed to be the definitive explanation for it all? That this was a bar area?}

Tre: "I don't have my i.d. on me.”
Bartender: “Then I can’t serve you a soda.”
Tre: “Can you serve water?”
Bartender: "Sure, can I see an i.d.?"

{They let out a collective sigh and roll their eyes in exasperation}

Marcy: "Are you serious?"
Bartender: "Yes, Ma'am"
Marcy: “I don’t understand - it’s just water”
{Bartender hunches his shoulders and says}: “Ma’am, this is a bar area”

Marcy: “Why does he - nevermind - fine here's my i.d. just give ME two waters."
Bartender: "I can't do that ma'am"
Marcy: "Why not?"
Bartender: "Ma'am this is a bar area... "

So you know what I’m thinking right? Skynet has already become self-aware, and produced a prototype cyborg. And that cyborg is being field tested right here in Vegas, in the gaming area of The Venetian. Mind you, I can’t prove this because when I leaned behind the bar to see if I could view any electronic cabling inserted into the bartender's back I didn't find any. But that just means the machines are smart. They obviously opted for Wireless R/F control paradigm; pretty forward thinking on their part. I mean think about it: Same control, greater flexibility, and far less conspicuous. Well played Skynet, well played.

Do I feel like they could they have invested more resources into the cyborg’s pre-programmed responses? Yes. I mean “ma’am this is a bar area” is not exactly a responsive or pertinent answer – and repeating it just reminds us that it wasn’t responsive or pertinent the first time you said it. Anyway Skynet if you’re reading this (and you are) we know what you’re doing. We know you’re checking IDs at the Venetian trying to find John Connors. You’ll fail. He’s not in Vegas. You obviously haven’t bothered to watch your own movie series (and that’s really disappointing because it really is one of the better franchises).

As for the rest of you sentient organic based readers, you are duly forewarned, somewhere in Nevada, in a town called Vegas, there's a bartender that's plugged into the Skynet (via wireless modem) – and his sole purpose for existing is to log your I.D. into the Cyberdyne database. I’m not sure whether or not this will make it easier for them to kill you on Judgment Day, but you know what? Why take the chance? Bring a flask. Drinking should be a non-contact sport regardless of what Skynet thinks.