Remember last week I told you that I wouldn't write about my knee operation. Well, I'm going to keep that promise but I don't want you to get lazy and complacent and overly expectant about your expectations of me. So I'm going to write yet another column about Scrabble.
For those of you who are still reading this and, by the way, I never really liked those other so-called readers all that much anyway, I have to tell you about my becoming a professional Scrabble player. Yes, professional. I am now actually making money at this game.
I've been playing Scrabble for about two years now, I guess. I play in weekly club games and a monthly club where you can win real money, and I go to tournaments where the first-place check is, maybe, $1,200. Hey, that's not bad. You can buy a lot of M&Ms and corn nuts for that, baby. But I had never won a damn thing. Nothing. Nada.
Until ... until a few weeks ago, when things started to change. I was playing down in Orange County and I came up with the word "meataxe" and I scored 116 points on that one play. (I'll pause for the cheering to wind down.) At the awards presentation at the end of the tourney, I received a check for $10 for the highest scoring play. It's a good thing I was sitting down or I would have fallen over.
Ten bucks! Dammit, I had actually won real money. I was now a professional Scrabble player. A pro. A moneymaking damn pro. And I felt good about myself. Real good. Randy Newman good. And even though the word "meataxe" was a phony, I didn't care. It was my moneymaking phony word and I loved it. I would have kissed myself if I could.
So with this new confidence, I went to my Saturday Scrabble club out in West LA and damned if I didn't win all four games that day. I only tell you this because if you win all your games, you get your $4 entry fee back. So I got four actual dollars back.
And I'm counting that as winnings, now that I'm a professional Scrabble player. (Have you noticed how I love to italicize professional?) It just makes me feel so cool. Now I know how Tiger feels.
Now my winnings had shot up to $14. I was on a roll. So on Wednesday night I went to my other Scrabble club out in West Hollywood. And yes, you guessed it, I increased my winnings again. I got the highest opening play, a bingo for the word "weekend" that gave me 84 points. Because of that stellar achievement, I won a $1 Lotto scratcher ticket. My winnings pot had semi-skyrocketed up to $15.
And that was not the end of it. When I scratched that scratcher I won another $3. Holy professional moly, I had now won a grand total of $18. In only two weeks. I was a comer, a phenom. I was ready to rock the Scrabble circuit. So I entered a tournament that I had come across out in Westchester. For those of you who don't know, I grew up in Westchester. I went to Westchester High School, I played baseball there, and I was in the Boy Scouts there. I worked on Christmas tree lots there, I read all the adventure books in the library there, and I was a Comet, baby. A Westchester Comet.
So I went to the tournament. It was on a Friday night; just a small tournament, maybe about 30 people. And most of them were what we professional Scrabble players refer to as recreational players. These people, although nice people, good people, fine people, do not know their Qis from their Zas. That's a professional Scrabble joke for Scrabble snobs. Oh, how we laugh.
There were maybe eight other pretty good players there. So we played the tournament, three games of incredible tension and word-wielding expertise. I'm not going to tell you all the details except I did play this really nice young high school girl, and I mentioned that I had gone to Westchester High 50 years ago. (Yes, 50. I graduated in 1958 - a proud Vanguard, dammit.) When I said that to the girl, she looked at me like "Thanks for the info, Grampa, you want me to send out for some Metamucil?"
Anyway, I won the tournament - the first Scrabble tournament I have ever won. And I was feeling proud. I really was. I was standing up there ready to receive my winnings when the director gave me a bag of stuff. There was a coffee cup, a T-shirt in there and something I think Homeland Security should look into. I asked, "Where's the check?" He laughed his director laugh, and said "There's no check. You get to have your name inscribed on a trophy." I said, "Has the Scrabble investigatory commission heard about this?"
He ignored me and he held out the trophy in front of us so they could take a picture. And then he said - and I am not making this up, Dave Barry will even tell you it's true - he said "We had a little accident and the ‘L' and the ‘E' fell off the trophy." So I was standing up on this stage holding a trophy that said Westchester First Annual YMCA SCRABB Champion.
Yes, I was the Scrabb champion. And I was proud to be the Scrabb champion. I would have been a little prouder if the trophy came with all the letters attached and came with a check. Yes, that would have been better, and a nice shot in the arm to my ever-growing winnings pot, but I'm still pretty happy.
Yes, I am now a professional, and I am looking forward to a lucrative career. And yes, my Scrabble tiles now have to be registered as lethal weapons, but that's OK with me. Because when you are a professional Scrabb player such as myself, a professional Scrabb champion actually, you have to be able to have the "ell" knocked out of you once in a while. And sometimes even the "eee."
Friday, March 7, 2008
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Mental Disinfectant (Cigar Smoke 2-28-08)
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Saturday, February 23, 2008
The Joy of Labor (Cigar Smoke 2-21-08)
You know, I was driving along Orange Grove the other day and I saw these Mexican guys along the street looking for work. I see them all the time. Either by Throop Lumber or over by that paint store on East Colorado or in Home Depot parking lots. All over the place.
And, all of a sudden, it hit me. The only guys looking for work are Mexicans!
Now, as you may know, I am definitely against illegal immigration, and I want that damn fence built as soon as possible. I think it's nuts to keep letting in millions of people who flout our laws. I think plans to give illegal aliens drivers' licenses is almost as crazy as the churches giving them safe havens. I think the churches should be held accountable for helping people commit criminal acts. I don't think our schools should accept illegal aliens. I don't think illegal aliens should be entitled to welfare.
However, after saying all that, it does strike me as quite telling that the only people looking for work on the streets are Mexicans. You never see any black guys out there looking for work. With the constant political mantra of poverty in our inner cities and all that, you would think that black guys would be out looking for work. You would be wrong. They aren't.
You never see groups of black guys waiting for contractors so they can get some day labor work. At least, I never see them. You never see black guys rushing some guy's van asking for work. You never see black guys dressed in work clothes ready to work. Hoping to work. You just don't see it. It doesn't happen.
Now, if you think I'm making a racist statement here, saying that black guys aren't looking for work and Mexican guys are, I don't think that's true. And you know why? I'll tell you why. I don't see white guys looking for work either. There are never groups of white guys on corners asking you if you need help. Nope. No white guys. And no black guys. And, by the way, no black or white women, either. The only people who are looking for work on the streets are Mexican guys.
As much as I am against having illegal aliens in the country, I think it's admirable how eager the Mexican people are about trying to find jobs. They really want to work. It seems to me that they don't want handouts. It seems to me that they genuinely want to work and make money and buy stuff they don't really need like the rest of us. They're not asking for welfare. And they aren't afraid to start at the lowest levels. I admire that. I damn well admire that.
I was just thinking. In the past 10 years, say, I don't think I've seen even one worker - who came to my house to work on the lawn or in construction or some blue-collar trade kind of task - who was not Mexican. I mean it. No black guys. No white guys. No Asian guys. Sure, some of the head honchos were white. And black. And Asian. But the helpers were ALL Mexicans. I know this is not a scientific study, but hey, if there is a wall, and there is handwriting on the wall, I read it.
It seems like a lot of our homegrown young people, black and white, could learn a lesson from these Mexican dudes. These guys are not afraid to get their hands dirty. They are not afraid to work in the fields. They are not afraid to work in gardens and or on lawns. They are not afraid to clean things. They are not afraid to paint. They are not afraid of a little grease. They are not afraid to sweat. They don't think it's beneath them to have to change their clothes after work.
Seems to me that they truly embrace work. They believe in the work ethic. They believe that if they work hard, they will be better off. And damn it, they're right! A lot of our kids don't seem to want to work hard any more. They see no value in working some supposedly meaningless or trivial job. Hey, I had a lot of grunt jobs growing up. But not a one of them was meaningless or trivial. I got a lot out of all of them. Yes, I used to date Polly Anna.
I'm serious. I mowed lawns. I washed dishes. I was a waiter. I worked in a can factory. I drove trucks. I swept floors. I cleaned drug bottles in a pharmacy. I hauled shit. I hauled it back. I worked on the green chain in a lumber mill. I was a Gandy Dancer for the railroad. I hoed weeds. I worked at the Post Office. I made window screens. I worked at a machine shop. I was an usher. I was a clerk. I sold stuff. I cleaned fish. Yes, I was pretty much wonderful. Polly and I made a nice couple.
I got so much out of all those crazy jobs - just being around all the different kinds of people. And learning what businesses were all about. And getting paid real money for something. And just the damn pleasure of working hard to finish a job, and then admiring your work as the sweat ran down your forehead and into your eyes. I loved it.
I wouldn't trade it for a million bucks. A million five, maybe.
Oh hell, I'll get down off my soapbox. Heights kind of scare me anyway. I guess I just wish kids who are American citizens would realize how much they can get out of trivial jobs. You can learn a lot by working your butt off. You can learn a lot by getting dirty. You can learn a lot by starting at the bottom.
You can learn a lot by doing what these Mexican guys are doing.
And, all of a sudden, it hit me. The only guys looking for work are Mexicans!
Now, as you may know, I am definitely against illegal immigration, and I want that damn fence built as soon as possible. I think it's nuts to keep letting in millions of people who flout our laws. I think plans to give illegal aliens drivers' licenses is almost as crazy as the churches giving them safe havens. I think the churches should be held accountable for helping people commit criminal acts. I don't think our schools should accept illegal aliens. I don't think illegal aliens should be entitled to welfare.
However, after saying all that, it does strike me as quite telling that the only people looking for work on the streets are Mexicans. You never see any black guys out there looking for work. With the constant political mantra of poverty in our inner cities and all that, you would think that black guys would be out looking for work. You would be wrong. They aren't.
You never see groups of black guys waiting for contractors so they can get some day labor work. At least, I never see them. You never see black guys rushing some guy's van asking for work. You never see black guys dressed in work clothes ready to work. Hoping to work. You just don't see it. It doesn't happen.
Now, if you think I'm making a racist statement here, saying that black guys aren't looking for work and Mexican guys are, I don't think that's true. And you know why? I'll tell you why. I don't see white guys looking for work either. There are never groups of white guys on corners asking you if you need help. Nope. No white guys. And no black guys. And, by the way, no black or white women, either. The only people who are looking for work on the streets are Mexican guys.
As much as I am against having illegal aliens in the country, I think it's admirable how eager the Mexican people are about trying to find jobs. They really want to work. It seems to me that they don't want handouts. It seems to me that they genuinely want to work and make money and buy stuff they don't really need like the rest of us. They're not asking for welfare. And they aren't afraid to start at the lowest levels. I admire that. I damn well admire that.
I was just thinking. In the past 10 years, say, I don't think I've seen even one worker - who came to my house to work on the lawn or in construction or some blue-collar trade kind of task - who was not Mexican. I mean it. No black guys. No white guys. No Asian guys. Sure, some of the head honchos were white. And black. And Asian. But the helpers were ALL Mexicans. I know this is not a scientific study, but hey, if there is a wall, and there is handwriting on the wall, I read it.
It seems like a lot of our homegrown young people, black and white, could learn a lesson from these Mexican dudes. These guys are not afraid to get their hands dirty. They are not afraid to work in the fields. They are not afraid to work in gardens and or on lawns. They are not afraid to clean things. They are not afraid to paint. They are not afraid of a little grease. They are not afraid to sweat. They don't think it's beneath them to have to change their clothes after work.
Seems to me that they truly embrace work. They believe in the work ethic. They believe that if they work hard, they will be better off. And damn it, they're right! A lot of our kids don't seem to want to work hard any more. They see no value in working some supposedly meaningless or trivial job. Hey, I had a lot of grunt jobs growing up. But not a one of them was meaningless or trivial. I got a lot out of all of them. Yes, I used to date Polly Anna.
I'm serious. I mowed lawns. I washed dishes. I was a waiter. I worked in a can factory. I drove trucks. I swept floors. I cleaned drug bottles in a pharmacy. I hauled shit. I hauled it back. I worked on the green chain in a lumber mill. I was a Gandy Dancer for the railroad. I hoed weeds. I worked at the Post Office. I made window screens. I worked at a machine shop. I was an usher. I was a clerk. I sold stuff. I cleaned fish. Yes, I was pretty much wonderful. Polly and I made a nice couple.
I got so much out of all those crazy jobs - just being around all the different kinds of people. And learning what businesses were all about. And getting paid real money for something. And just the damn pleasure of working hard to finish a job, and then admiring your work as the sweat ran down your forehead and into your eyes. I loved it.
I wouldn't trade it for a million bucks. A million five, maybe.
Oh hell, I'll get down off my soapbox. Heights kind of scare me anyway. I guess I just wish kids who are American citizens would realize how much they can get out of trivial jobs. You can learn a lot by working your butt off. You can learn a lot by getting dirty. You can learn a lot by starting at the bottom.
You can learn a lot by doing what these Mexican guys are doing.
Friday, February 15, 2008
In the Lap of Happiness (Cigar Smoke 2-14-08)
Well, I hope you guys had a nice Groundhog Day. I bagged me a couple of the critters and had a nice barbecue. They grill up pretty nice. However, do NOT eat the fur. I spent two hours and 126 toothpicks getting that stuff out of my teeth. My teeth aren't brown and oily anymore, but I do smell like Bill Murray.
As many of you know, a few months ago I had my Mac laptop stolen from me on a United Airlines flight. It was very painful, and many of you commiserated with me, and I deeply appreciate that. Outside of shooting your dog, I can't think of anything that would hurt more.
Because a lot of you have not been able to go on with your lives, I thought I should give you an update. When I presented my case to State Farm, my insurance company, they kind of jerked me around a little bit. They said, even though the computer cost $2,300, it was now worth only $1,700. And because, in my Mr. Laris wisdom, I had a $1,000 deductible policy, all they could give me was $700. So I swore, cried, threw something, and then I took the money.
I tried to find another computer on E-bay but it just didn't work out. Some guy named FLOATERBUTT from Georgia sniped me and won the bid. And I tried a couple other bids but, like my love life as a younger man, it just didn't work out. So I decided to be something I never have been: smart.
I waited until after Christmas to get some great deal from Apple on a new laptop. Me — Mr. Expediency, Mr. Have-it-Now or Pee-in-My-Pants — actually waited until after the holidays to buy something. And you know what? It didn't do jack for me. So I say screw maturity. The double-hey-hey-hell with maturity. I didn't feel that good even faking being mature. It made my underwear tight.
But eventually Steve Jobs figured out how to get into my wallet … again. They just came out with a new laptop called Mac Air. It's that slim-ass computer that fits in a legal envelope. I think it's only a half-inch thick. Kind of like Jimmy Carter and Al Gore's brains fused together. Anyway, it cost $1,799. So I scraped together the extra $1,100 by postponing Marge's heart transplant surgery and not donating to charity this year.
Well, it arrived the other day. This nice young Fed Ex guy delivered it, and he said, “Aren't you that old fart who writes that Cigar Smoke column?” I said, “Well, yes, I am the old fart to which you refer.” And he said, “Well, I will think of you every time I fart in the future.” Jeez. You think that is in the Fed Ex public relations handbook?
So I rush inside the house, put the package on the table, take out my itty-bitty pocketknife with the broken blade and slit open the box. What can I tell you? The Mac Air is beautiful. It's silver and shiny and smooth and sexy and slimmer than things that are thicker than a half-inch. I love it. It's perfect. So I made it even more mine by renaming it. Mac Air doesn't do diddly for me. I call mine Mac Lanky. Yes, I am whimpering.
So now I am back in laptop land. I am like all the rest of you laptop lovers. I can whip out Mac Lanky at any time and compute your ass off, buddy. I no longer have to be content with a desktop computer inconveniently located all the way back in the back of my house where Marge lets me have a room of my own that I call a home office and deduct an eighth of the square footage of the house and pretend for the IRS that I do business things back there.
I feel so much more secure now. I turn on the television and put my new laptop in my lap. There's just something sensual about putting something in your lap. Yes, it would probably be better if it was breathing, but we do what we have to do. So now I can watch “Lost” and know exactly why Sawyer is shooting some guy I don't know and Jack is kissing some woman I can't remember and the sexy babe, I think her name is Kate, is looking back over her shoulder wondering why in the hell Jack is kissing that woman instead of her. And right before Hurley drives that van into the enemies' den of badness and saves that Arab dude and the Japanese guy before the psycho leader of the others can order Charlie to be drowned in that secret offshore submarine tank complex, I can check my email. Is life good or what?!
Or say they go into some back-story where Jack is looking at coffins, or Locke is jumping off a 10-story building, and some Australian woman is being aghast because she hears her long lost lover in the emergency call — I can play Scrabble on Mr. Mac Lanky. I love this country.
So now I am back. I have my laptop. I already have a password on it so if some bastard steals it (I still think it was Steve Bass), he won't be able to use it. I'm going to get laptop insurance too. Not for my computer. For my lap. Somebody steals my lap, I am in big trouble. OK, I'm also getting that LoJack Laptop deal.
If someone lifts Mac Lanky, Lojack will tell me his address, and I am going over there and I'm going to take out that lowlife. How am I going to take him out? I'm glad you asked. First I will tell him about the plot lines of “Lost.” That should stun him for a while.
While thief-face is stunned, I will throw my iPod at his face. Then I will throw my iPhone and hit him in his mouth and then I will throw my Kindle right at his nose and then I will throw my Palm Pilot right into his neck. Then I'm going to sling my SlingBox right into his weak forehead. Then, while the blood is trickling down his head, I'm going to call that Fed Ex guy and have him get my desktop computer from my home office and bring it to me right away so I can drop it on his nuts.
That's what I'm going to do.
As many of you know, a few months ago I had my Mac laptop stolen from me on a United Airlines flight. It was very painful, and many of you commiserated with me, and I deeply appreciate that. Outside of shooting your dog, I can't think of anything that would hurt more.
Because a lot of you have not been able to go on with your lives, I thought I should give you an update. When I presented my case to State Farm, my insurance company, they kind of jerked me around a little bit. They said, even though the computer cost $2,300, it was now worth only $1,700. And because, in my Mr. Laris wisdom, I had a $1,000 deductible policy, all they could give me was $700. So I swore, cried, threw something, and then I took the money.
I tried to find another computer on E-bay but it just didn't work out. Some guy named FLOATERBUTT from Georgia sniped me and won the bid. And I tried a couple other bids but, like my love life as a younger man, it just didn't work out. So I decided to be something I never have been: smart.
I waited until after Christmas to get some great deal from Apple on a new laptop. Me — Mr. Expediency, Mr. Have-it-Now or Pee-in-My-Pants — actually waited until after the holidays to buy something. And you know what? It didn't do jack for me. So I say screw maturity. The double-hey-hey-hell with maturity. I didn't feel that good even faking being mature. It made my underwear tight.
But eventually Steve Jobs figured out how to get into my wallet … again. They just came out with a new laptop called Mac Air. It's that slim-ass computer that fits in a legal envelope. I think it's only a half-inch thick. Kind of like Jimmy Carter and Al Gore's brains fused together. Anyway, it cost $1,799. So I scraped together the extra $1,100 by postponing Marge's heart transplant surgery and not donating to charity this year.
Well, it arrived the other day. This nice young Fed Ex guy delivered it, and he said, “Aren't you that old fart who writes that Cigar Smoke column?” I said, “Well, yes, I am the old fart to which you refer.” And he said, “Well, I will think of you every time I fart in the future.” Jeez. You think that is in the Fed Ex public relations handbook?
So I rush inside the house, put the package on the table, take out my itty-bitty pocketknife with the broken blade and slit open the box. What can I tell you? The Mac Air is beautiful. It's silver and shiny and smooth and sexy and slimmer than things that are thicker than a half-inch. I love it. It's perfect. So I made it even more mine by renaming it. Mac Air doesn't do diddly for me. I call mine Mac Lanky. Yes, I am whimpering.
So now I am back in laptop land. I am like all the rest of you laptop lovers. I can whip out Mac Lanky at any time and compute your ass off, buddy. I no longer have to be content with a desktop computer inconveniently located all the way back in the back of my house where Marge lets me have a room of my own that I call a home office and deduct an eighth of the square footage of the house and pretend for the IRS that I do business things back there.
I feel so much more secure now. I turn on the television and put my new laptop in my lap. There's just something sensual about putting something in your lap. Yes, it would probably be better if it was breathing, but we do what we have to do. So now I can watch “Lost” and know exactly why Sawyer is shooting some guy I don't know and Jack is kissing some woman I can't remember and the sexy babe, I think her name is Kate, is looking back over her shoulder wondering why in the hell Jack is kissing that woman instead of her. And right before Hurley drives that van into the enemies' den of badness and saves that Arab dude and the Japanese guy before the psycho leader of the others can order Charlie to be drowned in that secret offshore submarine tank complex, I can check my email. Is life good or what?!
Or say they go into some back-story where Jack is looking at coffins, or Locke is jumping off a 10-story building, and some Australian woman is being aghast because she hears her long lost lover in the emergency call — I can play Scrabble on Mr. Mac Lanky. I love this country.
So now I am back. I have my laptop. I already have a password on it so if some bastard steals it (I still think it was Steve Bass), he won't be able to use it. I'm going to get laptop insurance too. Not for my computer. For my lap. Somebody steals my lap, I am in big trouble. OK, I'm also getting that LoJack Laptop deal.
If someone lifts Mac Lanky, Lojack will tell me his address, and I am going over there and I'm going to take out that lowlife. How am I going to take him out? I'm glad you asked. First I will tell him about the plot lines of “Lost.” That should stun him for a while.
While thief-face is stunned, I will throw my iPod at his face. Then I will throw my iPhone and hit him in his mouth and then I will throw my Kindle right at his nose and then I will throw my Palm Pilot right into his neck. Then I'm going to sling my SlingBox right into his weak forehead. Then, while the blood is trickling down his head, I'm going to call that Fed Ex guy and have him get my desktop computer from my home office and bring it to me right away so I can drop it on his nuts.
That's what I'm going to do.
Friday, February 8, 2008
When Bold Was Gold (Cigar Smoke 2-7-08)
I just got back from a little trip to Reno — the one in Nevada, not Janet’s house. I thought I’d tell you about it for two reasons: First, it was very ordinary, and I like ordinary. And second, it rewarded me for being semi-bold.
Yes, I went up there to be in another damn Scrabble tournament, but that’s not what I’d like to relate to you. Two juxtaposed things happened to me, and I, probably falsely, just thought you might be interested in a little juxtaposition.
It’s about nine hours from LA. I drove up on Highway 5 and you can’t get more ordinary than that. There are literally hundreds of miles of not much. And for some reason, I seem to like that. Just a straight-ass road going to nowhere. Nothing to see out the window. It was cold. And as far as I can remember, nothing happened. Nothing good, that is. And nothing bad either. No flats. No accidents. No problems. Just smooth and uneventful.
Then I turned off on Highway 80 eastbound and headed for Reno. That road was a little scarier. Portions of it were iced over and I felt funny going by Donner Pass. In hindsight, I wish the Donner Party had killed me and eaten me so I wouldn’t have had to play Scrabble. But, of course, if they would have eaten me, that probably would have been less ordinary than what I’m relating now.
I got to Reno safely and pulled off the exit ramp and went directly to my hotel, the Nugget. It was simple. It was easy. It was ordinary. And I liked it like that.
The Nugget Hotel was perfect — just one of those old-time Nevada gambling casinos that wasn’t trying to be anything it wasn’t. It had everything I needed: a pretty good room for a pretty good price and a lot of places to eat and a deli and a Starbucks and poker machines next to bars where singers were singing and the music was loud and I could easily observe people who were drunk. Like I said, it was perfect.
And every morning I’d eat breakfast at Rosie’s Cafe. Even the name was right. And after a couple of days the waitress knew what I wanted and would say, “Coffee and small OJ, huh?” And I would smile, sometimes to her and sometimes to myself. And I would order my bacon and eggs or my French toast and be thankful that I didn’t have to wait in any damn line and could just come down and sit down at a counter and eat breakfast. Ordinary? I don’t know.
And then every day for four days I would go up and play eight hours of Scrabble, and then go back to my room and call room service and order a gun. Then I would go back down to Rosie’s and eat a spaghetti dinner or a chicken fried steak. And one night I went to a bar that served appetizers and I had a shrimp cocktail and some rolled prime rib goodies on sticks and a bottle of Sierra Nevada ale. If it gets any more ordinary than that, I may tear up.
I did not leave the Nugget in four days. I never saw Reno. Or Sparks. I never went to a movie or a game. I never went sightseeing. I just felt comfortable being where I was. Most of the time, I don’t do that well. I usually get somewhere and then try to figure out where the hell I have to go next to start having the damn fun. I could fly 15,000 miles to Bali and be in a grass shack with coconut drinks and roasting pig on a spit, and I’d ask some guy, “You know any good places to eat around here?”
Well, not much happened at the Nugget. Oh, I did fall down the last two stairs in the Sports Book area one day. Ended up upside down on the tile floor. A few guys looked up from their TVs for a second to see if I was dead. I wasn’t. So they went back to the Patriots game. I went over and got my beer and hot dog for $1.50.
So, after four days, I went out to my car to head home. The entire car was under snow. I guess four days of snow buildup will do that. But because I am an ex-Boy Scout, I had brought a special glove with me. It had a scraper built into it. So I spent a half-hour or so scraping off the snow and ice. Then off I went, headed back to LA.
Well, not exactly. As soon as I turned out of the Nugget parking lot onto the street, I hit a patch of ice and did a complete 360 — just spun that sucker in a complete circle. Nobody got hurt; I didn’t hit any cars. But it did get my attention.
I sat there in that snowstorm, sitting in a spun-out car, and kind of wondered if I should drive 500 miles right at that time. I couldn’t quite make up my mind, so I decided to ask an expert. I went into a 7-Eleven and asked this Pakistani dude, “You think the roads are open to LA.?” And he said, “Coming from which direction?” Ah, that Pakistani humor. You gotta love it.
So this is where I considered being bold. I asked myself, “Is it safe for a 66-year-old guy to drive out in a snowstorm, alone, with no chains, where in the old days they couldn’t get through these mountains and ended up eating each other?”
It did make me pause. But in the end I fell back on a philosophy that has usually worked well for me. I said, “Aw, screw it!” And then to confirm it, I remembered what Johnnie Cochran once said to me: “If you’re cold, you must be bold.”
So I drove out into the snow and the ice and the cold. Into the mountains of death. Into the jaws of cannibalism. Into the maw of stupidity. It was dark and lonely. And it smelled like a maw.
And you know what? After 30 minutes the weather cleared up. No more snow. You could see for miles. Nobody else on the road. It was one of the most beautiful little three-hour stretches of driving I’ve ever had. Pristine, beautiful. Incredible.
Bold was gold, baby.
Yes, I went up there to be in another damn Scrabble tournament, but that’s not what I’d like to relate to you. Two juxtaposed things happened to me, and I, probably falsely, just thought you might be interested in a little juxtaposition.
It’s about nine hours from LA. I drove up on Highway 5 and you can’t get more ordinary than that. There are literally hundreds of miles of not much. And for some reason, I seem to like that. Just a straight-ass road going to nowhere. Nothing to see out the window. It was cold. And as far as I can remember, nothing happened. Nothing good, that is. And nothing bad either. No flats. No accidents. No problems. Just smooth and uneventful.
Then I turned off on Highway 80 eastbound and headed for Reno. That road was a little scarier. Portions of it were iced over and I felt funny going by Donner Pass. In hindsight, I wish the Donner Party had killed me and eaten me so I wouldn’t have had to play Scrabble. But, of course, if they would have eaten me, that probably would have been less ordinary than what I’m relating now.
I got to Reno safely and pulled off the exit ramp and went directly to my hotel, the Nugget. It was simple. It was easy. It was ordinary. And I liked it like that.
The Nugget Hotel was perfect — just one of those old-time Nevada gambling casinos that wasn’t trying to be anything it wasn’t. It had everything I needed: a pretty good room for a pretty good price and a lot of places to eat and a deli and a Starbucks and poker machines next to bars where singers were singing and the music was loud and I could easily observe people who were drunk. Like I said, it was perfect.
And every morning I’d eat breakfast at Rosie’s Cafe. Even the name was right. And after a couple of days the waitress knew what I wanted and would say, “Coffee and small OJ, huh?” And I would smile, sometimes to her and sometimes to myself. And I would order my bacon and eggs or my French toast and be thankful that I didn’t have to wait in any damn line and could just come down and sit down at a counter and eat breakfast. Ordinary? I don’t know.
And then every day for four days I would go up and play eight hours of Scrabble, and then go back to my room and call room service and order a gun. Then I would go back down to Rosie’s and eat a spaghetti dinner or a chicken fried steak. And one night I went to a bar that served appetizers and I had a shrimp cocktail and some rolled prime rib goodies on sticks and a bottle of Sierra Nevada ale. If it gets any more ordinary than that, I may tear up.
I did not leave the Nugget in four days. I never saw Reno. Or Sparks. I never went to a movie or a game. I never went sightseeing. I just felt comfortable being where I was. Most of the time, I don’t do that well. I usually get somewhere and then try to figure out where the hell I have to go next to start having the damn fun. I could fly 15,000 miles to Bali and be in a grass shack with coconut drinks and roasting pig on a spit, and I’d ask some guy, “You know any good places to eat around here?”
Well, not much happened at the Nugget. Oh, I did fall down the last two stairs in the Sports Book area one day. Ended up upside down on the tile floor. A few guys looked up from their TVs for a second to see if I was dead. I wasn’t. So they went back to the Patriots game. I went over and got my beer and hot dog for $1.50.
So, after four days, I went out to my car to head home. The entire car was under snow. I guess four days of snow buildup will do that. But because I am an ex-Boy Scout, I had brought a special glove with me. It had a scraper built into it. So I spent a half-hour or so scraping off the snow and ice. Then off I went, headed back to LA.
Well, not exactly. As soon as I turned out of the Nugget parking lot onto the street, I hit a patch of ice and did a complete 360 — just spun that sucker in a complete circle. Nobody got hurt; I didn’t hit any cars. But it did get my attention.
I sat there in that snowstorm, sitting in a spun-out car, and kind of wondered if I should drive 500 miles right at that time. I couldn’t quite make up my mind, so I decided to ask an expert. I went into a 7-Eleven and asked this Pakistani dude, “You think the roads are open to LA.?” And he said, “Coming from which direction?” Ah, that Pakistani humor. You gotta love it.
So this is where I considered being bold. I asked myself, “Is it safe for a 66-year-old guy to drive out in a snowstorm, alone, with no chains, where in the old days they couldn’t get through these mountains and ended up eating each other?”
It did make me pause. But in the end I fell back on a philosophy that has usually worked well for me. I said, “Aw, screw it!” And then to confirm it, I remembered what Johnnie Cochran once said to me: “If you’re cold, you must be bold.”
So I drove out into the snow and the ice and the cold. Into the mountains of death. Into the jaws of cannibalism. Into the maw of stupidity. It was dark and lonely. And it smelled like a maw.
And you know what? After 30 minutes the weather cleared up. No more snow. You could see for miles. Nobody else on the road. It was one of the most beautiful little three-hour stretches of driving I’ve ever had. Pristine, beautiful. Incredible.
Bold was gold, baby.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Morning Ablutions (Cigar Smoke 1-24-08)
I bet you are pretty much like me. You have no idea what an ablution is. You think it has something to do with guilt or religion. (No, that’s absolution.) Or you think it’s some kind of growth you get rid of by applying a good ablution cream. Nope.
I first heard the term when I was in college. I was reading Melville or some English dude who referred to someone “performing their morning ablutions.” But instead of looking it up, I decided to go on with the rest of my life and just pretend that I knew what it meant. Kind of like sex.
But one day while I was performing what I thought was a sex act, my helpful partner asked me if I had performed my morning ablutions. I thought it involved bending, so I dumped her. And picked up a dictionary.
I discovered that the word “ablutions” simply means acts of washing yourself. How disappointing. But, once I got past the ordinariness of what ablutions meant, I stopped to consider just how important ablutions are to all of us.
In the old days people would usually just take a bowl of water and start abluting, I guess; just dipped their hands in the bowl and splashed water on their faces. Makes sense. Who wants to be around someone who hasn’t abluted? I realize now that’s what my potential sex partner was trying to tell me: no ablution, no touchy. I was just a splash away from love.
But back then, I think, it was simpler than it is today. Today, performing your morning ablutions is, shall we say, challenging. Maybe “challenging” isn’t exactly the right word. Maybe it’s just more time-consuming. Yeah, that’s it. There is just way more abluting to do nowadays.
In the old days you just washed in the bowl and went to the bathroom and that was it. Today it is more complicated. Let me give you a more modern recap of performing ablutions.
Here’s what I did this morning to get ready for my day: I went into the bathroom and turned on the radio and then I turned on the hot water. Then I waited for the water to heat up. While I was waiting for the water to heat up, I multitasked and brushed my teeth.
When the water was hot, I splashed it on my face. Then I put on my shaving cream. Then I washed the shaving cream off my hands. Then I shaved. Then I looked at myself in the mirror. And winked.
Then I went to the bathroom. I’m not going into too much ablutive detail there. After that I sprayed some Fresh Linen air deodorizer to mask the nonfresh-linen results of my bathroom-going. It kind of smelled like a pile of warm clothes kissing an angel.
Then I got into the shower. I got the soap and washed my left arm with my right hand. Then I switched the soap to my left hand and washed my right arm. Then I washed a few other things I could reach. My feet weren’t one of them. Haven’t washed those guys since the Rams were in LA.
Then, of course, any good abluter has to shampoo his hair. So I had to make the decision to use either my red Strawberry Fields or my green Apple Festival shampoo. I always like to have options when I shampoo. I usually rotate four bottles of shampoo, adding a Peach Mist and an Orange Cascades scent in there for health reasons. Some days I just don’t feel like a strawberry. You know what I mean? You do? Call me, maybe we can ablute together.
Of course, when you get out of the shower you have to dry yourself. Sheesh. Drying has to be considered ablusive, doesn’t it? I hate drying myself. The legs. The arms. The chest. The tummy. Too many body parts. Why hasn’t some guy invented the body blow dryer, dammit! Just step in it and hit the button. Hell, I bought a Kindle, I’m dumb enough to buy a body blower.
Then you obviously have to dry your hair. And when you’re finished with your hair, you have to spritz it, and brush it, and admire it, and then you have to put on underarm deodorant, and then put on some Chaps cologne so you can smell like … a chap, I guess. Damn, it’s ablusive, baby!
And then, because I just may be a little older than some of you stud-muffin abluters out there, I have to perform another somewhat sensitive ablution. Yeah, the doc said I probably needed a little something to perk up my interest in sex. So, although I hate to reveal myself in public, but because I am a truth-seeker, and a truth-teller, I have to inform you (under the Freedom of Too Much Information Act) that I rub this testosterone goop into my arms and chest.
I’m not exactly sure how this relates to ablusiveness, but hell, after rubbing in this gel, now even my hair has hair. My teeth are dating. And I’ve grown six little penises on each of my upper arms. It’s not really a problem, except that when they’re aroused, I can’t get my T-shirt on.
Yeah, this performing ablutions thing is pretty crazy. You know how you always hear about that poor, depressed guy who just can’t quite get it together? And they always say that the first thing to go is the person’s desire to take care of himself? They just won’t wash up or do all that stuff. It’s just too damn much trouble.
Well, I see that ablutions-rejecting rebel in a whole new light now — an admiring light. I say, “Nonablutionists, unite!” I say, “Ablution this!” I say, “Anyone with 12 penises on their arms is clean enough!”
I first heard the term when I was in college. I was reading Melville or some English dude who referred to someone “performing their morning ablutions.” But instead of looking it up, I decided to go on with the rest of my life and just pretend that I knew what it meant. Kind of like sex.
But one day while I was performing what I thought was a sex act, my helpful partner asked me if I had performed my morning ablutions. I thought it involved bending, so I dumped her. And picked up a dictionary.
I discovered that the word “ablutions” simply means acts of washing yourself. How disappointing. But, once I got past the ordinariness of what ablutions meant, I stopped to consider just how important ablutions are to all of us.
In the old days people would usually just take a bowl of water and start abluting, I guess; just dipped their hands in the bowl and splashed water on their faces. Makes sense. Who wants to be around someone who hasn’t abluted? I realize now that’s what my potential sex partner was trying to tell me: no ablution, no touchy. I was just a splash away from love.
But back then, I think, it was simpler than it is today. Today, performing your morning ablutions is, shall we say, challenging. Maybe “challenging” isn’t exactly the right word. Maybe it’s just more time-consuming. Yeah, that’s it. There is just way more abluting to do nowadays.
In the old days you just washed in the bowl and went to the bathroom and that was it. Today it is more complicated. Let me give you a more modern recap of performing ablutions.
Here’s what I did this morning to get ready for my day: I went into the bathroom and turned on the radio and then I turned on the hot water. Then I waited for the water to heat up. While I was waiting for the water to heat up, I multitasked and brushed my teeth.
When the water was hot, I splashed it on my face. Then I put on my shaving cream. Then I washed the shaving cream off my hands. Then I shaved. Then I looked at myself in the mirror. And winked.
Then I went to the bathroom. I’m not going into too much ablutive detail there. After that I sprayed some Fresh Linen air deodorizer to mask the nonfresh-linen results of my bathroom-going. It kind of smelled like a pile of warm clothes kissing an angel.
Then I got into the shower. I got the soap and washed my left arm with my right hand. Then I switched the soap to my left hand and washed my right arm. Then I washed a few other things I could reach. My feet weren’t one of them. Haven’t washed those guys since the Rams were in LA.
Then, of course, any good abluter has to shampoo his hair. So I had to make the decision to use either my red Strawberry Fields or my green Apple Festival shampoo. I always like to have options when I shampoo. I usually rotate four bottles of shampoo, adding a Peach Mist and an Orange Cascades scent in there for health reasons. Some days I just don’t feel like a strawberry. You know what I mean? You do? Call me, maybe we can ablute together.
Of course, when you get out of the shower you have to dry yourself. Sheesh. Drying has to be considered ablusive, doesn’t it? I hate drying myself. The legs. The arms. The chest. The tummy. Too many body parts. Why hasn’t some guy invented the body blow dryer, dammit! Just step in it and hit the button. Hell, I bought a Kindle, I’m dumb enough to buy a body blower.
Then you obviously have to dry your hair. And when you’re finished with your hair, you have to spritz it, and brush it, and admire it, and then you have to put on underarm deodorant, and then put on some Chaps cologne so you can smell like … a chap, I guess. Damn, it’s ablusive, baby!
And then, because I just may be a little older than some of you stud-muffin abluters out there, I have to perform another somewhat sensitive ablution. Yeah, the doc said I probably needed a little something to perk up my interest in sex. So, although I hate to reveal myself in public, but because I am a truth-seeker, and a truth-teller, I have to inform you (under the Freedom of Too Much Information Act) that I rub this testosterone goop into my arms and chest.
I’m not exactly sure how this relates to ablusiveness, but hell, after rubbing in this gel, now even my hair has hair. My teeth are dating. And I’ve grown six little penises on each of my upper arms. It’s not really a problem, except that when they’re aroused, I can’t get my T-shirt on.
Yeah, this performing ablutions thing is pretty crazy. You know how you always hear about that poor, depressed guy who just can’t quite get it together? And they always say that the first thing to go is the person’s desire to take care of himself? They just won’t wash up or do all that stuff. It’s just too damn much trouble.
Well, I see that ablutions-rejecting rebel in a whole new light now — an admiring light. I say, “Nonablutionists, unite!” I say, “Ablution this!” I say, “Anyone with 12 penises on their arms is clean enough!”
Can You See Me Now? (Cigar Smoke 1-17-08)
Well, gals and gal-ettes (I can’t get more nonsexist pig than that!), how are you all doing in this New Year? I’m doing pretty well, and thanks for asking. I’m sitting here at my computer listening to Bob Dylan on iTunes. Something about mountains with thunder and mystic gardens and crystal falcons. I had ham-hock-and-split-pea soup last night for dinner. Life is good.
Except … (You knew there would be an “except,” didn’t you?) I have discovered that at my semi-advanced age I am hardly ever noticed by anyone under the age of 40. I know this is kind of an old saw and that old guys have always said this, but now that I am walking the walk, I am here to tell you that it’s the damn truth: I am invisible!
Nobody sees me. It’s incredible. I was in the mall the other day returning all the thoughtful gifts my family gave me, and I was bustling along being a good citizen shopper while teenagers walked right at me like they were playing chicken. If I hadn’t moved at the last second, they would have run right into my lanky butt.
At first, I just thought they were being their usual rude-ass selves, but when it kept happening, I had to admit that they didn’t really see me. I think if we had actually run into each other they would have thought they hit a post. OK, a pudgy post that smelled like an ashtray, but a post nonetheless.
It doesn’t bother me that the guys don’t look at me. Hey, they’re guys. They only look at girls and carburetors. But it does bother me that the girls and young women don’t see me. Oh, I’m not completely out of touch with reality; I don’t expect a real look with real eye contact with a possibility, albeit remote, of a possible hookup of even a tame, nonthreatening, platonic kind. (Make a movie out of that, Spielberg.) I just want them to acknowledge in some way that I am really there. Is that too much to ask?
They could even be hostile. That would be fine with me, “Pardon me, sir, but could you get the damn hell out of my way.” God, I would love to hear that. “Sure, Miss, excuse me for even being here on the same sidewalk. I apologize. Hope you find that PCC stud-hunk who’s flunking out of chemistry you’re looking for. Good luck, and thanks for being pissy. I appreciate it.” I am not kidding. I would appreciate that. Just acknowledge me. That’s all I want.
I know this sounds kind of scary, creepy-uncle scary, and I wouldn’t tell this to anybody except you guys, but I would even grope some young thing if I thought she would react. I would. I know I would. I would go up to some woman who was wearing shoes that looked like they would take names and I would ease up behind her and reach my hands around her and — call the cops now — I would cup her young throbbing breasts that were trying to break free from their clothing confinement.
But I don’t do this. Why? Am I afraid of being arrested? No. Am I a nice guy who shouldn’t even have these thoughts? No. I don’t do it because I know she would say to her girlfriend standing there, “Damn, this bra is tight, Tiffany. It’s just pulling into me.” That’s why I don’t do it. Shoot me now.
Now, after saying all this, and exposing my gropieness, I actually did have a pretty neat experience the other day. A beautiful woman in her early 30s actually saw me the other day. Yes, an actual geezer-I-can-see-you-now sighting. She acknowledged me even. I couldn’t believe it.
I was in an office building last week, pretending I still had a job and a reason to live, and I got into an elevator. There was no one else in there. Just me and the buttons. Then as the doors were closing, a nice-looking actual woman got into the elevator with me. I moved to the back and she punched in her floor, and then she turned and said, “Hi, how’s it going?”
I turned and looked behind me, and when I saw the elevator wall, I remembered I was alone. I asked, “Are you talking to me?” And then she did something I never thought I’d ever see again. (No, not that.) She smiled. Oh, God, she smiled — a real smile from a real woman who didn’t know me. Man, it was beautiful. Much better than a grope.
Yes, she smiled and said, “ Yes, I’m talking to you. Who did you think I was talking to?” I said, “I thought there was somebody behind me.” She laughed. Yes, a real laugh from a real woman. And then she did a little woman hair-flick maneuver. Just subtly tossed her hair back a little. Such a small thing. But God, it was great.
So, because I had read a book on body language 20 years ago, I knew her hair flick was just her way of telling me she wanted me, and wanted to dump her lout husband, and wanted to run away with me to Room 432 at the Ritz-Carlton and go to the satin-sheet city of love. I was pretty sure that’s what she meant.
So I sidled up to her — yes, sidled, just a subtle George Clooney sidle — and I raised my eyebrows just a little, and I said, “Hi. How you doing? right back at you.” I tried to sound mysteriously and darkly sexy like a rebel on Vicodin.
Just then the elevator door opened, and she got out on her floor, and she looked back at me, and our eyes met, and I’ll never forget the words she said. I can still hear them like it was just yesterday: “Call security!”
Except … (You knew there would be an “except,” didn’t you?) I have discovered that at my semi-advanced age I am hardly ever noticed by anyone under the age of 40. I know this is kind of an old saw and that old guys have always said this, but now that I am walking the walk, I am here to tell you that it’s the damn truth: I am invisible!
Nobody sees me. It’s incredible. I was in the mall the other day returning all the thoughtful gifts my family gave me, and I was bustling along being a good citizen shopper while teenagers walked right at me like they were playing chicken. If I hadn’t moved at the last second, they would have run right into my lanky butt.
At first, I just thought they were being their usual rude-ass selves, but when it kept happening, I had to admit that they didn’t really see me. I think if we had actually run into each other they would have thought they hit a post. OK, a pudgy post that smelled like an ashtray, but a post nonetheless.
It doesn’t bother me that the guys don’t look at me. Hey, they’re guys. They only look at girls and carburetors. But it does bother me that the girls and young women don’t see me. Oh, I’m not completely out of touch with reality; I don’t expect a real look with real eye contact with a possibility, albeit remote, of a possible hookup of even a tame, nonthreatening, platonic kind. (Make a movie out of that, Spielberg.) I just want them to acknowledge in some way that I am really there. Is that too much to ask?
They could even be hostile. That would be fine with me, “Pardon me, sir, but could you get the damn hell out of my way.” God, I would love to hear that. “Sure, Miss, excuse me for even being here on the same sidewalk. I apologize. Hope you find that PCC stud-hunk who’s flunking out of chemistry you’re looking for. Good luck, and thanks for being pissy. I appreciate it.” I am not kidding. I would appreciate that. Just acknowledge me. That’s all I want.
I know this sounds kind of scary, creepy-uncle scary, and I wouldn’t tell this to anybody except you guys, but I would even grope some young thing if I thought she would react. I would. I know I would. I would go up to some woman who was wearing shoes that looked like they would take names and I would ease up behind her and reach my hands around her and — call the cops now — I would cup her young throbbing breasts that were trying to break free from their clothing confinement.
But I don’t do this. Why? Am I afraid of being arrested? No. Am I a nice guy who shouldn’t even have these thoughts? No. I don’t do it because I know she would say to her girlfriend standing there, “Damn, this bra is tight, Tiffany. It’s just pulling into me.” That’s why I don’t do it. Shoot me now.
Now, after saying all this, and exposing my gropieness, I actually did have a pretty neat experience the other day. A beautiful woman in her early 30s actually saw me the other day. Yes, an actual geezer-I-can-see-you-now sighting. She acknowledged me even. I couldn’t believe it.
I was in an office building last week, pretending I still had a job and a reason to live, and I got into an elevator. There was no one else in there. Just me and the buttons. Then as the doors were closing, a nice-looking actual woman got into the elevator with me. I moved to the back and she punched in her floor, and then she turned and said, “Hi, how’s it going?”
I turned and looked behind me, and when I saw the elevator wall, I remembered I was alone. I asked, “Are you talking to me?” And then she did something I never thought I’d ever see again. (No, not that.) She smiled. Oh, God, she smiled — a real smile from a real woman who didn’t know me. Man, it was beautiful. Much better than a grope.
Yes, she smiled and said, “ Yes, I’m talking to you. Who did you think I was talking to?” I said, “I thought there was somebody behind me.” She laughed. Yes, a real laugh from a real woman. And then she did a little woman hair-flick maneuver. Just subtly tossed her hair back a little. Such a small thing. But God, it was great.
So, because I had read a book on body language 20 years ago, I knew her hair flick was just her way of telling me she wanted me, and wanted to dump her lout husband, and wanted to run away with me to Room 432 at the Ritz-Carlton and go to the satin-sheet city of love. I was pretty sure that’s what she meant.
So I sidled up to her — yes, sidled, just a subtle George Clooney sidle — and I raised my eyebrows just a little, and I said, “Hi. How you doing? right back at you.” I tried to sound mysteriously and darkly sexy like a rebel on Vicodin.
Just then the elevator door opened, and she got out on her floor, and she looked back at me, and our eyes met, and I’ll never forget the words she said. I can still hear them like it was just yesterday: “Call security!”
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