Addict Recommends: (Film) A Dream of Kings (1969)

The primary criticism against this film is that Anthony Quinn essentially reprises his performance in Zorba the Greek. And to some extent, I can see where the two roles overlap somewhat. This observation, however, does not detract in the least from the significance of this film, especially from the point of view of this blog. On the contrary, any similarity between the two characters only lends heft and validity to the importance of A Dream of Kings, a movie which is largely overlooked.

Quinn portrays Matsoukas, a larger than life fellow determined to suck the marrow out of his existence. He spends all his nights carousing, getting drunk and gambling in the backroom betting parlors and card rooms of Chicago. He sleeps in late and seems to work in his job as an abstract personal “counselor” (basically he gives sage advice) about five minutes a day. Although a heavy gambler who suffers severe and sometimes terrible swings in fortune, he is a strict man of honor who revels in his great losses with the same appreciation as he does his wins. He is beloved by his cohorts – who feed off his energy – but despised by his wife Caliope (portrayed by Irene Papas, also of Zorba fame) who resents his freedom, his exuberance and most of all his ethics and ability to abide an elevated, if complicated, code of existence. She probably also resents his philandering, which of course he executes with gusto and panache.

Matsoukas is the father of three children: two sweet, healthy girls and a boy who is terribly ill and is diagnosed with mere months to live. Our protagonist, however, refuses to accept the word of doctors and science, knowing in his heart that if his son could only breathe the clean air of Greece and walk Mount Olympus, the strength of his warrior ancestors would enter his body and cleanse him of all sickness. In the tradition of great characters in narratives like these, (Axel Freed of course comes to mind) Matsoukas believes that the power of his will is strong enough to overcome any obstacle, regardless of the odds against.

Unsurprisingly, Matsoukas lacks the funds to travel to his homeland and cure his son. And so he stakes it all – his marriage, his friendships and his honor – on a desperate scheme to make the dream a reality. It is a grand story and a solution straight out of ancient mythology, set in the small and gritty life of an outstanding yet ordinary man.

Addict Recommends: (Film) Mississippi Grind (2015)

         Although there are no genres of film I enjoy as much as movies about gambling and addiction, the ones about road trips come pretty damn close. (Some of my favorites include Lolita, Easy Rider and The Blues Brothers.) So you can imagine my glee when I came across Mississippi Grind, a movie which combined the elements of gambling, drinking, womanizing and the epic American road trip in one compelling package. 

         The story centers on two characters: Gerry and Curtis. Gerry is a down on his luck real estate broker, played perfectly by the King of the down and outers Ben Mendelsohn. (Whose work in season one of “Bloodline” sets the standard for portrayals of the dirt-bag functioning addict.) Gerry runs into Curtis – played by Ryan Reynolds in a role with real depth – in a casino in Iowa one night. Gerry is almost immediately drawn to Curtis, and the two end up getting drunk at a local bar. The next day, they win a bundle at the dog track, only to lose it back quickly. While getting drunk yet again, Curtis explains to Gerry that “Machu Picchu” time is fast approaching. This is his slang for time to hit the road and get lost. The two become so inebriated that they are thrown out of the bar while trying to play pool for a thousand dollars a game. Outside, Gerry is stabbed by a mugger who incorrectly believes he possesses a wad of cash. 

          After being threatened by his female bookie Sam, to whom he owes a tidy sum, Gerry realizes that Curtis is right and it really is time to hit the bricks. They plan a road trip south through the cities and towns of the Mississippi. They will gamble their way ultimately to New Orleans, where a high stakes poker game awaits. Curtis stakes his newfound friend, who pads his bankroll by stealing the office petty cash. In a scene which is both touching and heart breaking, Gerry fills his cat's bowl to the brim with cheap dry food. It is one of those scenes that makes us wonder when in the world he will come back. It also reminds us of the age old truism in fiction, that Chekhov’s gun must always be eventually fired. The cat, as is good and proper, also returns in this narrative. 

          Their journey takes them to St. Louis, Memphis, Little Rock, Tunica and of course the Big Easy. Along the way they encounter hookers, gamblers, tough guys and losers. They frequent back room card games, bet horses at the racetrack and live out of seedy hotel rooms. Money is won and lost. Expectations are disappointed, fulfilled and exceeded in a full and glorious display of the capacity of human nature. What more could you ask for?       

          Directors Anna Boden and Ryan Fleck – a rare film making duo – were inspired to make this movie by their experiences on riverboat casinos in Iowa. But their command of the language of the gambling narrative is masterful and complete. They even have a scene where they feature, in an interesting if taciturn role, writer/director James Toback, who wrote the original screenplay for the greatest gambling movie of all time: The Gambler (1974), featuring James Caan, Paul Sorvino and Lauren Hutton. (See my recommendation for this legendary film in these archives.)

          The directors avoid employing the now tired, moralizing, cliché ending. Instead, we are granted closure both unexpected and (perhaps) unrealistic, but which somehow works perfectly. Ultimately however, the film proves in conclusion what we already knew at the beginning: that gambling isn’t strictly about winning or losing, plusses and minuses. It is about the highs and lows of the experience. It is about the knowledge that there is never “enough.” And more than anything, this movie stands for the proposition that at the very end of it all, to the chagrin of addicts of everywhere, the best we can ever hope for is to break even. 

Addict Recommends: (Film) Uncut Gems (2019)

Yesterday I viewed for the second time this offering by the Safdie brothers. (Also known for their 2017 film Good Time.) In keeping with their style, the Safdie’s pacing is frenetic, fast moving and even stress-inducing. The viewer gets literally sucked in at the beginning and spit out at the end, having never left the edge of their seat during the entire experience. As proof of this, I offer my wife as an example. She usually chit chats throughout films, asks numerous questions, makes sarcastic remarks and other such vocal activities which really distract and annoy me. But throughout the entirety of Uncut Gems – which we first saw in the theater – she sat silent and riveted: as good a tribute to the filmmakers as I can come up with.

Adam Sandler is a revelation in his portrayal of Howard Ratner, a charismatic but unscrupulous New York jewelry dealer and compulsive gambler who has staked his business, his family and even his life on a series of ill-conceived bets culminating in his investment in a rare uncut black opal which he hopes will set his world right, even when he is doing everything in his power to destroy it. In his way are his angry wife Dinah, his disappointed kids and a host of family, business and gambling associates who have in some way been manipulated or taken advantage of by him. Seemingly the only person in the world who believes in him is his girlfriend Julia, a smoke-show of epic proportions. She loves Howard and assists him in his folly in any way she possibly can. When Kevin Garnet (who did a wonderful job portraying himself) enters his shop and falls in love with the opal, a series of events unfolds which Howard is powerless – because of his own character flaws – to prevent.

A primary theme running throughout the film is that of Jewishness, especially in how it intersects with African American culture. Howard’s obsession with basketball is highlighted when he informs his cohort Demany that a Jew (Ossie Schectman) scored the first two points in NBA history. The black opal which is the source and instigation for much of the plot (so similar to the scholar’s stone in Parasite) is secreted from a mine by what Howard calls “African Jews.” Scenes depicting the hectic work life of the diamond district are juxtaposed with others in largely black nightclubs, where artist The Weeknd performs.

The soundtrack by electronic musician Daniel Lopatin is innovative, unique and works to heighten the sense of anxiety which persists throughout the film. The music is hard to describe. The best I can do is say that it reminds me of those 70’s progressive rock songs which prominently featured a high-pitched synthesizer instrument known as the mini-moog. The soundtrack is also obliquely reminiscent of the iconic score from Stanley Kubrick’s Clockwork Orange, composed by musician Wendy Carlos. In both cases, the compositions reflect a sense of a world distorted, of morals twisted, of reality bent and manipulated in ways which are wondrous and colorful, awful and repugnant.

And like Kubrick’s protagonist Alex, we almost perversely root for Howard to win in the end. Despite all his flaws – the lies, con jobs, cheating and most of all his indifference to how his selfish actions are hurting others – we like him. We want him to find a way out of the hole he dug for himself. We see in Howard all the failings, ineptitude and iniquity of the man of this world. But we also see something else: his potential. Like an unpolished stone, there is hidden under his rocky surface a jewel of inestimable value. And that potential is always there to be revealed, until that last day comes when it sparkles no longer.

Addict Recommends: (Film) Pale Flower (1964)

                I came across this film recently in the incomparable Turner Classic Movies on-demand library. I was familiar with the director Masahiro Shinoda through his film Silence, based on the novel by Shusako Endo. (Martin Scorsese also made a movie under the same title in 2016.) But I was completely unfamiliar with this film until I watched it. And man, was I glad that I did.

                Widely considered an outstanding example of the genre of international noir, Pale Flower is the story of Muraki, a Yakuza operative who has just been released from prison after a few years for the murder of a rival gang member. Returning to his roots, Muraki begins inhabiting his old world: the clandestine gambling halls, race tracks, pool halls, bowling alleys and bars of Tokyo. As a counterpoint to these seedy environs is Muraki’s young girlfriend Shinko, who has waited for him while he did his prison term.  She is pressuring him for a greater commitment and threatening to marry another pressing suitor. But Muraki’s interest has become greatly distracted by Saeko, a solitary, beautiful woman he met gambling. 

                Saeko convinces Muraki to bring her to a gambling den where she can play for higher stakes. Her compulsion urges her to wager larger and larger amounts to attain the high she desires. Muraki tries to watch over her and protect her from this world he understands all too well. But her true desire is to go further into addiction, to forget, to dig the hole ever deeper. When needle addict Yoh enters the scene, Saeko’s curiosity slowly attaches to him, with predictable results.

                Although the plot of Pale Flower is more than satisfactory to hold the viewer’s attention, what makes this film so compelling is its atmosphere: the sights, sounds and rituals of the illegal gambling dens, the dark, narrow alleys of the city which seem to press down on Muraki, the striking Saeko racing through the night with Muraki in her convertible and the brilliant musical score created by Toro Takemitsu. These are as much characters in the film as are the actors, and taken individually and as a whole they convey a feeling, an attitude of life on the edge.

                Although this is a space where one cannot long live, it is hard not to yearn to exist there if only for enough time to drink it all in.

Addict Recommends: (Restaurant) Bombay Garden, Newark, California

There are a few problems with all you can eat Indian buffets. First, there are never enough items to choose from. Second, the naan station is only refilled every so often, and even when plentiful the bread is often stale. Third, the quality of the food is generally second rate next to plated offerings. And finally, at virtually all restaurants, the buffet is only offered at lunch, not dinner. Despite these many shortcomings, I have still eaten regularly at the Indian buffet line for as long as I’ve been an adult, and for two simple reasons: it’s cheap and I get my fill.

Unlike me, my buddy Rick won’t eat Indian or Pakistani unless it is at a buffet. He finds the portions prohibitively small and the prices ridiculously high. So forget about, for example, Shalimar for dinner when we’re in the City. He simply won’t do it. And we’ve chatted for years – fantasized, in fact – about finding that all you can eat Indian buffet for dinner. But nobody does the buffet at dinner time because, apparently, it’s not cost effective.

Imagine our surprise and elation when, after an afternoon at the Pick n’ Pull searching out parts for our respective vehicles, we encountered Bombay Garden Indian Cuisine at 5995 Mowry Avenue in Newark, California.

Featuring 35 menu items and serving buffet style for lunch and dinner, Bombay Garden is, hands down, the finest Indian buffet I have ever encountered. It defies, in every category I mentioned earlier, the stereotypical Indian buffet. There are so many items, the main problem is not getting sidetracked with all the appetizers and alluring finger foods available for consumption. The naan bread is cooked fresh, and brought to your table in a basket immediately upon sitting down, and is refilled upon request. And the quality of the food stands up in every way to the plated, sit down Indian and Pakistani restaurants I have dined at in the past.

We ordered a large Taj Majal beer to split between the two of us. (But if you are not in the mood for an alcoholic beverage, soda and tea are available on the line for no extra charge.) In our five or six visits to the buffet we enjoyed Chicken Tikka Masala, Chicken Curry, Lamb Vindaloo, Lamb Saag, Yellow Lentils, Mattar Paneer and Tandoori Chicken, among a few other items. All were fresh, hot and clean tasting. The serving area was spotless, giving me feeling of confidence that the cuisine was sanitary. For desert we enjoyed a heaping portion of mango ice cream, which was in every way delicious.

And I haven’t even discussed the impeccable service. Unlike numerous experiences at other sub-continental restaurants in the past, the servers were quick to respond to requests for beverages and bread, and were exceedingly friendly and helpful in every way, bearing wide smiles and positive attitudes.

It is important to note that the Bombay Garden franchise has several locations in the Bay Area. I have personally dined at two of the others. But only the Mowry Avenue location meets the above description and gets my recommendation. The others are, simply put, average at best.

I don’t get down to Newark very often. It’s pretty far from my home base. But I assure you, every time I’m passing through for work or going to an Oakland A’s baseball game I’m making a stop at Bombay Garden.

Addict Recommends: (Restaurant) Piccolo Teatro, Sausalito, California

In a small restaurant in one of the coolest towns in one of the superlative counties in America a diamond is being born. I say “being born” because this aptly named “Little Theater” seems to be in a constant state of becoming, of evolution in a lively synthesis of regional cuisine, sustainability, originality and tradition. The management points to the influence of the Veneto Regione of Italy as a starting point for a discussion involving the cuisine. But to me this restaurant is so much more than can be described by the lexicon of any one region or style of cooking.

Located at 739 Bridgeway in the heart of downtown, Piccolo Teatro is a sophisticated blend of simple, time tested and classic comfort food with innovative twists reflecting the diversity of the Bay Area. A side dish as simple as the sautéed winter greens dances with the perfect balance of garlic, chile and lemon. The pasta and meatballs would be more appropriately named “meatballs and pasta,” if one were to accurately reflect the percentages. The Ragu of rabbit and polenta is rich but the flavor is cut perfectly with pecorino cheese. Don’t forget to order a salumi plate as an appetizer: the quality of the prosciutto, sopressata and coppa is simply unrivaled. And you’ve got to try the butter beans, an otherwise straightforward side that is coated luxuriously in truffle oil.

Piccolo Teatro serves lunch daily and breakfast on the weekends, but my four visits have always been at dinner time. This allows me a one hundred percent certainty of enjoying their excellent bar before I get into my meal. They have, hands down, the best martini olives I have ever tasted. Their wine list is discriminating, and well represented by a healthy number of unique Italian selections.

And if all that I have described isn’t enough to bring you in, let me tell you with absolute certainty that the service equals if not exceeds the quality of the food, wine and spirits. From the management to the servers, bartenders and even the bussers, cordiality and knowledge are the touchstones. These are people that are proud to work at this restaurant and want to share that pride with its patrons. Run, don’t walk, to Piccolo Teatro.

Addict Recommends: (Bar) The Eight Ball, Cotati, California

It was well over a year and a half ago, and I was at the Eight Ball with a lady friend who was soon to move on to greener pastures. I know for sure that it was a Tuesday night, because I recall belting out some karaoke Sinatra and the gal performing a surprisingly decent rendition of “Loving You” (It’s easy ‘cause I’m beautiful) while she stared at me as if I was the only person in the room. I’ll gladly tell you I was the envy of more than one of the many guys in the bar that night.

We were outside having a smoke after indulging our inner lounge singer when a twenty something blonde, skinny girl came up and asked us for a light. I surmised from her sweatshirt that she was a student at Sonoma State University just down the street. The place is literally teeming with these types, so if young, dumb and drunk is what you’re into, you’ve come to the right place. Anyway, this one was drunk for sure and the three of us began conversing.

“What are you up to tonight?” my girl asked.
“Whatever I can get into,” Blondie replied. “I'm fuckin’ pissed at my boyfriend."
“Why is that?” I inquired.
“Sonofabitch took off earlier tonight with some other chick. I told him, ‘hey, you’re supposed to be goin’ home with me.’ But he didn’t give a shit. ‘I’m a poon hound and you knew that,’ he told me. ‘We have an open relationship.’ Well fuck him! You know what? I’m a peen hound, and I’m gonna get some dick tonight if it’s the last thing I do!”
“Damn, too bad I’m with somebody,” I chuckled.
“Shut the fuck up, you idiot,” my girl replied.

And this pretty much sums it up for the Eight Ball. You will be hard pressed to find a bar before Berkeley to the south and Eureka to the north with more young, drunk chicks looking to get laid. In addition, the drinks are stiff and cheap, the bartenders are relatively friendly, (Brett is an especial favorite of mine) the juke box is well stocked and the pool tables are straight and clean. And yeah, it’s a dive. So you’ll feel right at home.

The only thing I can’t understand is why I’ve never been able to score coke at a place called the Eight Ball.

Addict Recommends: (Film) The Road (2009)

Director: John Hillcoat

Starring: Viggo Mortensen, Codi Smit-McPhee, Charlize Theron, Guy Pearce

Normally, I wouldn’t go outside the four corners of this blog and recommend something that is in no way related to the mission. But this movie affected me so profoundly, left such terrible scars on my psyche, that – after much deliberation – I’ve decided to break my own rule. It is quite possible that this will never happen again.

The movie is based on a book by Cormac McCarthy, who also wrote No Country for Old Men, adapted for film by the Coen brothers. (I have already ordered a copy of The Road and am awaiting its arrival with bated breath.) It follows a father and son who travel in a post-apocalyptic world, searching for the coastline and heading south, where the conditions may be more favorable for living. What befell earth is a mystery, but the destruction and devastation is complete. All life other than human has been apparently wiped out. The world’s forests are filled with burnt embers instead of trees. Existence has been reduced to a desperate struggle for food. Many, if not most, people who survive do so by practicing predatory cannibalism. It’s not just that human life has been wiped out; humanity itself is teetering on the edge of a bottomless precipice.

Don’t expect The Road Warrior when going to see this movie. Mad Max’s world is a carnival ride in comparison to what you’re in for with The Road. Be prepared for a place so bleak, so unthinkably brutal as to be almost without hope. It is in this setting that “The Man,” portrayed by Mortensen, tells his son that they are the “good guys” who are “carrying the fire inside.” But even the good guys face terrible choices in a world where everyone you meet is potentially seeking to rape and then consume your child.

“The boy is my warrant,” The Man says early in the film. And throughout the narrative, it is clear that his only purpose is in protecting the child from harm. But this protection also includes instructing the boy how to commit suicide with a pistol in a hopeless situation. “The Boy,” (played excellently by Kodi Smit-McPhee) is often the moral voice, the counterpoint to The Man’s natural impulse to violently oppose every person they come across. This dynamic is played out perfectly when the two catch a thief attempting to steal their food and worldly possessions.

Chalize Theron portrays “The Woman,” who we get to know through flashbacks and recollections of The Man. (Apparently, this aspect of the film is not present in the book.) Her performance is the essence of despair in the face of truly insurmountable odds and, like a horrific accident, is impossible to turn away from. Robert Duvall also has a wonderful cameo as “Old Man,” a decent person in a world of monsters who is basically waiting for his own death.

This movie is a work of art that offends and challenges the viewer’s sensibilities. It sat on the shelves for a year before release. I can certainly understand why. There is nothing easy about seeing this. But in the end, somehow, you leave knowing you’ve witnessed something special and strangely, sublimely beautiful.

Addict Recommends: (Film) Days of Wine and Roses (1962)

Director: Blake Edwards

Starring: Jack Lemmon, Lee Remick, Jack Klugman

One of the first great addiction movies, (following 1945’s The Lost Weekend) this was a breakout film for Jack Lemmon, presaging by many decades his legendary late life portrayal of the pathetic salesman Shelley Levene in David Mamet’s film Glengarry Glen Ross.

Lemmon plays Joe Clay, a heavy social drinker and classic functioning specimen. From the beginning, we see Joe at the bar exhorting the bartender to “hit me again.” Before he takes a drink he says to himself – a phrase he repeats more than once in the film – “magic time.” But Joe manages his drinking, has what appears to be a good job and actually uses his habit to advantage in a world where a three martini lunch and getting hammered with a client late at night is considered good form and basic socializing among men. (One cannot help but think of the television series Mad Men when watching this movie.)

Shortly into the film, Joe meets Kirsten, played very well by the lovely Lee Remick. As they begin dating, Kirsten tells Joe that she doesn’t like alcohol, but that she has a heavy fixation for chocolate. So he mixes her a brandy Alexander, which appeases her sweet tooth and provides Joe with a much needed female drinking companion. As their relationship grows we see that each needs the other in a desperate love where something amorphous and indefinable is clearly missing. But for the moment, anyway, their love is an island of refuge in a turbulent sea.

The couple marry and the problems begin in earnest. Joe, frustrated at work, where he is often required to perform tasks which challenge his somewhat vague morality, comes home drunk or needing to drink every night. He is clearly losing control of his habit. He complains that Kirsten won’t drink with him enough, that he needs her to join in his nightly ritual. Finally, she relents and falls down a rabbit hole of her own, one that, ultimately, goes even deeper than her husband’s.

Jack Klugman does an excellent job of portraying Jim Hungerford, Joe’s Alcoholics Anonymous sponsor who gives good advice and displays unending patience and understanding for his charge, who loses jobs, friends and familial ties because of his addiction. Jim is always there when Joe falls off the wagon and is also there to help him get back on when the time is right. But things are not so simple for Kirsten, who doesn’t buy into the AA worldview.

The movie is a little preachy at times and a bit too bent on the concept that Alcoholics Anonymous is the only savior of the problem drunk. However, we need to remember when watching this film that it was made in 1962, and was way ahead of its time. The subject matter is well presented and very well acted, especially by Lemmon. This may be one of the top two or three performances of his amazing career.

Addict Recommends: (Music) Sleepytime Gorilla Museum

Sometimes in life you come across something beautiful and important, unique and resounding by complete accident, if such things as accidents exist. Last Friday night, by a fortuitous, happy aligning of the planets, I thus came across Sleepytime Gorilla Museum.

I was in the City after a day at the races with my brother, having dinner with my old friend Syed at Sutros Restaurant at the Cliff House, at the end of the western world in San Francisco. As we were completing our first martini and just about to head outside to smoke some hash, he made a suggestion.

“Should we a-call the Double A?”
”Yeah, let’s call Doubles. It’s been a while since I’ve seen that guy,” I replied.
“Good.” He dialed the number and handed me the phone.
“What’s up you crazy Paki?” AA answered.
“No, Dubs, it’s me,” I said. “I’m with the Paki. We’re having dinner at the Cliff House. Get your butt over here.”
“I can’t. I’m at a show with Adolph at the Independent. You should come over when you’re done.”
“Will do,” I replied. “See you in a couple of hours.”

Syed and I then continued with our evening, which consisted of a lovely dinner, several cocktails and two delicious bottles of wine. As we were leaving, I exhorted him to come along, but he had family in from out of town so he politely declined. As he staggered away from the car I continued on to Divisadero and Grove, not far from my old neighborhood, to see if I could find the boys.

AA was outside talking to some girl, as always seems to be the case. He gets more ass than a toilet seat. I honked at him as I passed, parked the car not far away and hugged him at the door.

“How’s the show?” I asked.
“Terrible. There was some opening band and the lead singer had his cock hanging out the whole time.”
“Oh, not good.”
“This show sucks,” he said, annoyed. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
“All right. But let’s go in and get Adolph first.”

I followed AA inside, but lost him almost immediately in the crowd of perhaps two hundred and fifty people. Along the wall, however, I saw Adolph by himself. I approached and we began talking.

“Double A says the show sucks.”
“The opening band was terrible,” he informed me. “But we’ve got to stick around for the show. You’re not going to believe these guys.”
And so I decided to stay. And man, was I happy that I did.

The core musical component of the band is what most people would describe as heavy or even death metal, so if you are turned off by the genre and can’t get past it then you should probably read no more. But to pigeonhole this group to any one musical style would be totally myopic and unfair. Within the show, there were elements and influences as diverse as tribal and gospel, classical and art-rock. The band consists of five members: Nils Frykdahl, Matthias Bossi, Carla Kihlstedt, Michael Mellender and Dan Rathburn. Frykdahl, the vocalist and guitarist, has a deep Tom Waites voice that ascends to a hearty growl when performing the heavier metal lyrics. The band is overwhelmingly talented, playing an array of musical instruments, many of them homemade and invented by the musicians themselves. I think a good word to sum up the experience is contrast. The music is at times melodic, at others atonal and dissonant. The content of the band’s lyrics cover a number of topics and themes. And yes, Satan is among them.

The crowd was as diverse as the band. I saw neo hippies, rockers, punks and intellectuals all in attendance. Some people were smoking dope, others were completely sober, concentrating intently and shushing thoughtless drunks – like myself – for talking too loud during the softer musical interludes. The bar was not doing good business; I know this to be the case because I never had to wait in line for a drink. That says something in itself. There were a few fantasy gamers there too, dungeon and dragons types: you know who you are. The one thing that seemed to unify the audience was their love and appreciation for the band.

Reputedly, the name Sleepytime Gorilla Museum comes from a group of artists, Dadaists and Futurists who founded a “Sleepytime Gorilla Press” and a museum of the future that opened on June 22, 1916. The sole exhibit was a fire that then permanently closed the museum. The band’s first album was appropriately named Grand Opening and Closing and their first concert was on June 22, 1999. Something tells me that Man Ray, Marcel Duchamp, Umberto Boccioni and F.T. Marinetti would approve of this dynamic, technological, avant-garde and nonlinear musical aesthetic.

When the show ended I had no idea how much time had elapsed, but I did know that I wanted to hear more, much more of what the Sleepytime Gorilla Museum had to say. The booze and weed was wearing off, so we called Gary, the friendly neighborhood cocaine dealer, to save the night. And so he did. But now I’m heading into another story altogether.

Addict Recommends: (Film) Barfly (1987)

Director: Barbet Schroeder

Starring: Mickey Rourke, Faye Dunaway, Alice Krige and Frank Stallone

At first, I made a halfhearted promise to myself that I would never mention Charles Bukowski or Hunter S. Thompson on this blog. I’m pretty sure I made this promise because I didn’t want to be found out for the intellectual thief I really am. Then I decided that I would wait until I had more stuff on here, so at least I could hide the reference and obvious influence like a needle in a haystack. What the hell. Now is as good a time as any.

I’m a huge fan of Bukowski’s books, both poetry and prose. When he was at his best, he was almost certainly a better poet than a novelist, despite the fact that his poetry is extremely prosaic. This is not to say that his novels weren’t absolutely fantastic. I’ve read most of them: Ham on Rye, Women, Hollywood, Factotum and Post Office all have a place of favor on my bookshelf. Whether you love him or hate him – and there are plenty on both sides of the aisle – there is no denying that Bukowski did something new and revolutionary in the world of literature.

The film is the perfect introduction to the writer for the person who has never read his books. This is largely based upon the fact that Bukowski himself wrote the screenplay, despite having no prior experience with the form. Within the movie there are bits and pieces of his several novels strewn about, sometimes mere shadows and allusions, other times passages from his books are re-presented. One criticism of the writer that always sticks with me and strikes me as valid is that he was very repetitive.

The film follows the life of Bukowski’s alter-ego Henry Chinaski, (played by Mickey Rourke) a drunken, brawling poet-bum through the superficially meaningless events of his skid row existence, from which the protagonist takes ultimate significance. “Some people never go crazy,” he writes in one scene. “What truly horrible lives they must lead.” And basically Chinaski takes this tagline and makes it a way of life as he wanders the concrete earth in search of a good drunk, beautiful women and a contrarian’s cause to champion. He loves classical music, hates obviousness and machismo and seems to have little or no regard for his personal health or hygiene. Along the way he does battle with “Eddie” the bartender played very well by Frank Stallone and manages through his haze to make love to two pretty great looking women in “Wanda” (Faye Dunaway) and “Tully.” (Alice Krige) He also gets discovered as a writer, which is in a way an afterthought to the events of the film, other than the fact that it brings five hundred sorely needed dollars into his life, which he quickly proceeds to spend at the bar buying drinks for “all my friends.”

I’ve done a lot of thinking and had great trepidation about the statement I’m about to make, but I’ve decided to make it anyway. This is, bar none, the best movie about drinking ever made. And the main reason for this is the fact that there is never a hint, never even a consideration, that Chinaski will ever quit drinking. It is undoubtedly bad for his physical and probably mental well being, but the bottom line is that this is who the man is and he will never change. Far too often a great addiction story is ruined in the end by what comes off as a false redemption of the main character. For most, there is no redemption, no story book sobriety that leads to a new life and an optimistic future. This story literally ends as it begins, with the protagonist continuing in what many would call an insane journey. This strikes me as authentic: the way it is and the way it needs to be.

Addict Recommends: (Film) The Cincinatti Kid (1965)

There are few names more synonymous with great movies than Steve McQueen. Everybody has their list of favorite actors, but nobody who knows anything would deny McQueen a place at or near the top of the heap. A perusal of his filmography is essentially a recitation of the coolest movies of his day. The Magnificient Seven, The Thomas Crown Affair, Bullitt and The Great Escape are only the most recognizable titles from a career of great acting that was unfortunately cut short by cancer. All of them are favorites of mine. But ultimately, I’m The Functioning Addict, so I’m going to recommend The Cincinnati Kid.

The plotline of the film is classic poker movie and is well executed. In short, McQueen portrays Eric “The Cincinnati Kid” Stoner, (I’m not getting started on the name, people.) the best stud player in the city of New Orleans, and a guy whose reputation is beginning to be well known nationally. Through connections he has in the city, he sets up a game with Lancy Howard, the greatest, best known stud player in the nation, a merciless cutthroat who goes simply by the moniker, “The Man.” A powerful local takes a financial interest in the outcome of the match up, and does all he can to spoil the fairness of the match in the Kid’s favor. But the Kid wants the game to be completely square, so that when he beats Howard he will know that he is truly the best. The denouement of this state of affairs is as surprising as it is effective.

If it was just McQueen carrying this movie it would be really good but not classic. What makes this film great is the incredible supporting cast, a veritable who’s-who of acting in the twentieth century. Edward G. Robinson’s portrayal of Lancy Howard is one of his strongest performances in a career that began in 1916 and ended impressively in 1973 with his supporting role in Soylent Green. Karl Malden is at his best as “Shooter” an earnest, honest, percentage playing gambler who struggles with his ethics when he finds himself between a rock and a hard place. In many ways, Malden is one of those actors that always seems to be playing himself. (See his portrayal of Father Barry in On the Waterfront or his role as General Omar Bradley in Patton: it’s that same sincere character in a different guise and situation.) And, as usual, it works perfectly here. Ann Margaret is at her sexiest as “Melba,” Shooter’s wayward gal. Tuesday Weld pulls off the country girl gone city excellently as “Christian.” Cab Calloway brings his unique style in his appearance as “Yeller." And finally, a young Rip Torn plays the part of “Slade,” a bitter local millionaire looking for revenge against “The Man.”

The movie is filled with great scenes and dialogue, but for me nothing matches up with the opening, where The Kid pitches dimes against a young shoe shine boy while a traditional New Orleans funeral procession – complete with jazz band and umbrellas – marches into the cemetery. I can’t think of any juxtaposition more essentially gambling movie than that: death side by side with and even ignored in the company of the thrill of the wager. It reminds us that we gamble because the excitement of risk fills us with life.

The Kid beats the young boy and tells him, “You’re just not ready for me yet.” Is The Kid ready for Lancy Howard? Go out and rent this movie and find out.

Addict Recommends: (Restaurant) Travel Centers of America, Redding, CA

It began three weekends back, when I was returning from my fishing trip to Dunsmuir, California. I was in Redding, running low on gas and getting hungry when I saw the sign on the side of Interstate Highway 5 calling me to the "Country Pride" restaurant. I don't know, I guess I just liked the name "Country Pride:" it sounded like a place that would have cheap, hearty food. I pulled in and saw that the restaurant was attached to a Travel Center of America. I was pleased to see that both birds would be killed by one stone.

My funds were running low: there was twenty-five dollars in my pocket and I was hoping that would get me fed and get me home. I sat down at the counter, began to watch the football game that was on television and ordered the biscuits, gravy and eggs and a cup of coffee.

The food was pretty darn good, though the coffee was swill. But the real revelation came when the waitress returned and picked up my plate.

"You want another, hun?"
"Uh, no thanks," I replied.
"You sure? It's all you can eat."
"Huh?"

She proceeded to inform me that, at this particular Travel Centers of America, the Country Pride offered unlimited quantities of food for the hungry diner. You order your plate, finish it, and are then allowed to order yet another...and if need be another and another - all for the same price. It doesn't matter if you are having a Denver Omelet or Fried Chicken, you get to keep eating until you are no longer hungry. This is not a buffet - this is hot, fresh, prepared food cooked, plated and served to you by a waiter or waitress. Unfortunately, I was not hungry enough for a second plate at the time, but I filed this experience away in the back of my mind and saved it for this past weekend.

Now, nobody - and I mean nobody - loves unlimited quantities of food like Rick. The buffet is his stock in trade and there are few individuals out there who can surpass him in his domination of the buffet line. (He at one point seriously considered a career in competitive eating.) So it was with great glee that I told him about the Travel Centers of America offer and we agreed that we would stop in on our recent trip north to Eugene, Oregon, where we were going to witness our alma mater demolish the hapless University of Southern California Trojans. (Go Ducks - Fuck the BCS)

We ordered the "smothered" sirloin steak dinner. It came with unlimited soup and salad, as well as potatoes, vegetables and a couple of slices of Texas toast. The twelve ounce steak was more than palatable, but admittedly the sauteed mushrooms, onions and a generous coating of A-1 sauce helped. At the end of our meal our server, a fairly nice young man, came to us with the bill in tow. We looked at him disparagingly.

"Um, we'll take another," Rick said.
"Both of you?" he asked incredulously.
"Of course," I retorted. "What do you think we're doing here?"

And, without question, he left the table and we sidled outside for a smoke. When we returned, two more plates awaited us. Yes, this time the steak was an eight ouncer. But it still satisfied. Upon easily completing our second plate, Rick and I pondered ordering a third but stopped short, knowing that our point had already been made. But God damnit, we would have finished that third plate without any great difficulty. Our server brought us the bill: thirty one dollars and change - and that was with drinks. And it leaves me with only this to say: what an incredible, almost unbelievable bargain for the compulsive eater.

FYI: the TA has a few rules that go with the all you can eat meal, and it is only offered in some TA locations, so check on your location in advance. The rules for this amazing offer are provided below:

Rules:

1. Menu pricing has remained the same.
2. Please - no sharing a single entree.
3. Re-order item must be the same as original item.
4. Soups, salads, breads and sides can be re-ordered at any time in the meal.
5. Re-order will be placed after consumption of the original menu item.
6. All beverages are auto-refills.
7. No doggie bags - all food must be consumed in the restaurant.
8. Management reserves the right to terminate meals that are being stretched for an unreasonable time.

PS: Wouldn't you love to be that guy who forces the management to invoke rule #8!

Addict Recommends: (Restaurant) Burger Barn, Dunsmuir, California

There is no food that is more representative of American national culinary culture than the hamburger. Grilled, broiled, pan fried or steamed, with cheese or without, topped with pickles, onions, tomatoes and lettuce or nothing at all, thick and juicy or thin, pre packaged and well done, with ketchup, mustard, relish or mayonnaise: in all its thousand incarnations and variations, the hamburger is, quite simply, the food icon of our civilization.

I would never lightly recommend a burger joint. I’ve been steered toward mediocrity far too many times by well meaning individuals that had a burger one night when they were drunk and starving and mistook the rush of satiation for inherent quality. Also, I have probably eaten more hamburgers than any other person I know, and I think they’re all good. From greasy fast food establishments such as McDonalds, Jack in the Box and In ‘N Out to fancy Kobe sliders topped with foie gras and everything in between, I’ve tried them all. To say I’ve eaten a thousand hamburgers in my life would be to grossly underestimate my consumption. Therefore, I take into consideration my love of and need for these tasty, hand-held miracles of gastronomic delight before I ever think to recommend a certain burger to another person. The simple fact is they may not enjoy it in the same way I do.

But over the weekend, I encountered a place so special I had to proclaim its greatness publicly. On Saturday, still a little hung over and tired out from a long day’s hiking and fishing, some friends and I enjoyed the bounty of the Burger Barn, in “downtown” Dunsmuir, California. (On Interstate 5 approximately 49 miles north of Redding.)

The Burger Barn is one of those places that used to exist everywhere in America: the small town burger spot. Generally, these restaurants were one to a town and were run by a well liked local family who made their living feeding their neighbors after sporting events, on holidays, weekends and casual but special family occasions. As time marched on and fast food giants replaced Mom and Pop establishments, the Burger Barns of the world began to drop off one by one. Thank god this one is still here.

I spoke to the owner – a nice woman whose name I unfortunately cannot recall – while her husband was giving my mates some advice on the best spots in town to fish. She told me that she purchased the Barn from the previous owner, a man who had run it for thirty-five years. He taught her everything he knew. “And other than adding a few items, we haven’t really changed anything at all,” she informed me. This is the secret. They are making hamburgers at the Burger Barn in exactly the same way they were made in the late 1960’s.

My friends and I all had the same item: the double cheeseburger. Mine was topped with Swiss and also bacon, as well as the obligatory special sauce, which looked like thousand island dressing. The preparation and attention to detail were the cornerstones. Each patty had its own slice of cheese, which was fully melted and completely covered the juicy meat. Also, each layer had its own two bacon slices, which were crisscrossed on top of each patty. I hate when you get a bacon burger and the slices protrudes two inches from beyond the bun – you are forced to take a bite of only the bacon just to even the sides out. This is not a problem at the Burger Barn, where the bacon is thick but fits entirely within the bun. With every bite, there was some bacon involved. Delicious. Also, our group split a large fries and onion rings, which were more than enough for five of us. They were crispy and well cooked but left almost no grease at the bottom of the basket. How they accomplish this is a secret I don’t need to know.

I was very thirsty, so was drinking a coke. Two of my friends, however, got milkshakes. They nodded assent to one another while consuming them and one said, “Damn, this thing is thick.” A good sign. At the end of my meal, I was craving something sweet, so I got a soft serve swirl cone. It was made of real dairy and not the imitation crap they are serving all over nowadays. The perfect end to the perfect meal.

Bottom line: from now on, any time when I’m traveling north or south on I-5 I’m stopping in Dunsmuir at the Burger Barn. You should really do the same.

Addict Recommends: (Film) Hard Eight (1996)

Starring: John C. Riley, Phillip Baker Hall, Gwyneth Paltrow, Samuel L. Jackson

Director: Paul Thomas Anderson

John needs six thousand dollars to bury his dead mother. When he meets Sydney, he is slumped against the outer wall of a seemingly ubiquitous diner somewhere between Las Vegas and Reno. Sydney offers him coffee and a cigarette. John reluctantly agrees, not knowing at first how to react to the kindness of strangers. When Sydney is informed that John is broke and has few prospects of earning money, he offers to teach the younger man what he knows. Which, it turns out, is how to get a free room and meal, how to scratch out a comfortable living as a professional gambler. But he makes it clear that he does not have six thousand dollars to give. Having no other options, John agrees to give it a try. “It’s always good to meet a new friend,” Sydney says sincerely.

So opens one of the great gambling films of the 1990’s. For a movie that generally flies under the radar, the cast of characters is frankly astounding. John C. Riley gives a perfectly flawed performance as “John,” always misusing words and phrases at just the right time to expose his character’s weakness. Philip Baker Hall gives an almost career-defining performance as the tough but generous and honest “Sydney.” Gwyneth Paltrow shimmers as “Clementine,” a waitress and sometimes prostitute. Samuel L. Jackson brings a charged performance in the portrayal of “Jimmy,” an egocentric scam artist, gambler and would be dangerous dude. Even Philip Seymour Hoffman makes a brilliant cameo as a loudmouth drunk at the craps table.

Sydney does teach John the ropes of how to make a living as a professional gambler, and the funeral is held somehow. Two years go by and the duo are still together, skulking around Reno’s casino-hotels, angling for comps, skimming the percentages. Clementine tells Sydney in the bar one day, “I see the way John follows you around and worships you, like you’re his captain.” And indeed it’s true.

But why is Sydney doing this, we wonder? He clearly has nothing to gain, and he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who gives away his trade secrets for free. As the story goes on, John and Clementine fall in love. Where will it lead? And what does Jimmy know about Atlantic City anyway? The answer just might cost Sydney six thousand dollars after all. Then again, every gamble contains the possibility of victory.

Directed by P.T. Anderson, (Boogie Nights, Magnolia) and containing an excellent musical score, Hard Eight is one of those movies where, at the end, you will feel enriched but not know exactly why, at least not on the first go around. I believe this reaction has three foundations. First, the story is pure, unadorned with superfluities that distract the viewer from focusing on the journey. Second, the acting is simply first rate: raw and honest, practiced but not polished. Finally, Hard Eight, while well known to cinema cognoscenti, was a real sleeper. The first time I saw it, I felt like I was in on a great little secret that only a few people knew about.

Well, I don’t know if the word’s already out. Either way, you should definitely see this film.

Addict Recommends: (Literature) Poker: A Guaranteed Income for Life (1968) by Frank R. Wallace

There are a thousand books about poker. Almost all teach the dry theory of the game. Whether the game is stud, draw, hold ‘em or crazy pineapple, these books focus almost exclusively on the odds and strategy, the universe that exists within the four corners of the table. They focus on esoteric knowledge that only a few will ever practically apply, and they teach us little about human nature or ourselves.

But there is one book that is absolutely different. Poker: A Guaranteed Income for Life (by using the Advanced Concepts of Poker) by Frank R. Wallace (which is actually the pen name for Dr. Wallace Ward) is the very best book on the game that I have ever read, and possibly the best that will ever be written. Mr. Wallace (I am going to refer to him as such here) was not only a master of psycho-poker strategy, but a publisher, mail order magnate, infamous federal tax evader, successful Supreme Court litigant and founder of Neo-Tech philosophy. While I am only superficially familiar with Mr. Wallace’s many other achievements, this book is one I have studied carefully and regard as one of the great anti-addict treatises of all time.

The book teaches you almost nothing about poker. It assumes the reader already has a reasonably strong grasp of the game. Instead, the text focuses on the theory behind the table, the infinite intricacies of human nature that create the winning or losing player, and the way in which the individual can shape his or her own nature and manipulate others so that he or she can create a winning environment. It is much more than a book about a game. It is a book about human weakness and vice, and how to exploit these character flaws to your own advantage.

“Luck is a mystical illusion that does not exist in reality,” the author writes in a footnote on page 2. This is the essential basis for the whole book, which is broken down into chapters such as, “Tailor Made Game,” “Behavior,” “Cheaters,” and “Exploitation” to name but a few.

The thing that sets this book apart and makes it entertaining is the fact that each section is broken down into two parts. First, the author discusses the particular theory he is espousing. Then, through creative fiction, he illustrates these theories. Wallace creates a game filled with characters that represent several player types. “John Finn” is the guy applying the author’s theories, and therefore the big winner and manipulator of the game. “Quintin Merck” is the solid but too tight player who can be easily offended. “Scotty Nichols” is the guy with the inferiority complex. “Sid Bennett” is a card cheat. “Ted Fehr” is the compulsive gambler.

There are so many humorous and insightful passages contained in this book it is hard to choose just one to illustrate the overall astuteness of the work. But the following passage is, I believe, one of the best:

Professor Merck subconsciously suspects Sid of cheating. One night, Sid cheats him out of a $700 pot. After sitting in silence for several hands, Quintin suddenly leaves without a word and slams the front door…Knowing that Quintin detected Sid’s cheating and fearful that he might tell others, John pursues him out the door. Quintin stops under the streetlamp when he sees John approaching. For a moment, neither say a word.

“You saw it too?” Quintin asks with squinting green eyes.

“I see it every game.”

“Why haven’t you said something?” Quintin half shouts. “He should’ve been bounced from the game.”

“Who’s the biggest loser in the game?” John snaps. “It’s Sid. And you’re a big winner. In the past couple years, you’ve taken Sid for thousands of dollars. Sure he’s cheated you, me and everyone else out of pots. What if we’d thrown him out two years ago? We’d have done him a forty thousand dollar favor.”

Quintin’s mouth opens; he scratches his moustache.

“Sid’s a cheater and deserves to be punished,” John continues. “The best way to punish him is to let him play. We only hurt ourselves by bouncing him out of the game.”

Obviously, this passage reflects a cynicism and callous opportunism that many people may find offensive. And don’t get me wrong: I’m not suggesting that I’ve directly applied the principals of this book to my game or life. I’m no John Finn. If anyone, I’m a Ted Fehr, who is the worst player, a junkie. However, this work is extremely valuable on a number of different plains. By reading it, you could learn how to create, manipulate and take advantage of people at the poker table, and thereby make yourself a better player. Or you could expand this book into the greater lesson the author is really trying to teach you and practice manipulation, moral relativism and opportunism in the greater game of life. Finally – and this is the lesson I take from this great work and the lesson I hope you will also take from it – you can learn in a very unique way how cynicism, callousness, opportunism, deception, manipulation and greed form the basis for almost every interaction you engage in while you move about in the world. If you are an addict, even a functioning one, you are more susceptible to these pitfalls than most. Reading this book may help you avoid one or two of them in the future. And it can help you to know yourself more honestly and completely.

Addict Recommends: (Music) Sloppy Drunk Blues by Sonny Boy Williamson

John Lee Curtis “Sonny Boy” Williamson was one of the greatest blues harp players in the history of the genre, and certainly the very best of the prewar period. Time and again in his career, he reached pinnacles of performance which defined the music of the day and set the stage for the rock and roll artists who would, decades later, reinterpret the blues for a new generation of listeners.

He also performed what can only be described as an addict anthem, the legendary “Sloppy Drunk Blues.” Click on the link below, press play and give it a listen. And then maybe go out and get sloppy drunk yourself.

http://new.us.music.yahoo.com/lee-sonny-boy-williamson/tracks/sloppy-drunk-blues--176723593

Addict Recommends: (Film) Croupier (1998)

Starring: Clive Owen, Gina McKee

Director: Mike Hodges

“Chapter 13. Its all numbers, the Croupier thought. Spin of the wheel, turn of the card, time of your life, date of your birth, year of your death. In the book of Numbers the Lord said, ‘Thou shall count thy steps.’”

The narrator is the main character Jack Manfred, an aspiring but struggling writer who has taken a job as a croupier at a middle of the road London casino, the “Golden Lion.” Raised by his father in the abnormal environment of South African casino-hotels, Jack is skillful with the chips and deft with cards, a true professional in the seedy underground world of the gaming employee. But his true skill is observation, the way in which he holds himself aloof from the degenerates that occupy the other side of the table. However, things change for Jack when he breaks one of the cardinal rules of the house – never socialize with a punter (player) outside the casino – and he is gradually dragged down into an existence and a scheme which affects everything that once mattered in his life.

A young, gaunt Clive Owen delivers a slick performance in this intelligently written film which has a touch of noir and plenty of good dialogue. Gina McKee, as Jack’s girlfriend Marion, plays the earnest counterweight excellently, as she fights harder with each passing scene to save their deteriorating relationship. Also worthy of note is David Hamilton, who portrays the cynical casino supervisor flawlessly.

For a film displaying such good writing and creativity, the movie closes somewhat ambiguously, some might even say illogically. But this obscurity, even if it offends the viewer, is worth the first-rate portrayal and inspection of the gambling world from the dealer’s point of view. This examination is particularly valuable and insightful, well worth the price of admission, especially for those of us who are used to seeing and experiencing casino life from the opposite perspective.

Addict Recommends: (Literature) The Dice Man (1971) by George Cockroft (pen name Luke Rhinehart)

Luke Rhinehart, the protagonist (and nom de plume) of the novel The Dice Man has a problem. He’s bored to death: with his personality, his choices, his professional goals and responsibilities as a psychotherapist. His dilemma is well fleshed out in chapter seven, in a discussion he has with friend and colleague Dr. Mann at the conclusion of a late night poker game.

Rhinehart: "I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm sorry but that's about it. I'm sick of lifting unhappy patients up to normal boredom, sick of trivial experiments, empty articles –"

Mann: "These are symptoms, not analysis."

Rhinehart: "To experience something for the first time: a first balloon, a visit to a foreign land. A fine fierce fornication with a new woman. The first paycheck, or the surprise of first winning big at the poker table or the racetrack. The exciting isolation of leaning against the wind on the highway hitchhiking, waiting for someone to stop and offer me a lift, perhaps to a town three miles down the road, perhaps to new friendships, perhaps to death. The rich glow I felt when I knew I'd finally written a good paper, made a brilliant analysis or hit a good backhand lob. The excitement of a new philosophy of life. Or a new home. Or my first child. These are what we want from life and now... they seem gone, and both Zen and psychoanalysis seem incapable of bringing them back."

Mann: "You sound like a disillusioned sophomore."

Rhinehart: "The same old new lands, the same old fornication, the same getting and spending, the same drugged, desperate, repetitious faces appearing in the office for analysis, the same effective, meaningless lobs. The same old new philosophies. And the thing I'd really pinned my ego to, psychoanalysis, doesn't seem to be a bit relevant to the problem."

At the conclusion of this conversation, Dr. Mann departs Rhinehart’s home, a little disgusted with what he sees as his friend’s childish attitude. Rhinehart, left alone, searches for a missing die from a pair the poker party had been using earlier. He realizes that it is sitting beneath a playing card, the queen of spades, covered but propping the card up slightly. It is at this point in the novel that the central character takes the momentous first step that is the hinge of the story.

"I stood that way for a full minute feeling a rising, incomprehensible rage: something of what Osterflood must feel, of what Lil must have been feeling during the afternoon, but directed at nothing, thoughtless, aimless rage. I vaguely remember an electric clock humming on the mantelpiece. Then a fog-horn blast groaned into the room from the East River and terror tore the arteries out of my heart and tied them in knots in my belly: if that die has a one face up, I thought, I'm going downstairs and rape Arlene. 'If it's a one, I'll rape Arlene,' kept blinking on and off in my mind like a huge neon light and my terror increased. But when I thought if it's not a one I'll go to bed, the terror was boiled away by a pleasant excitement and my mouth swelled into a gargantuan grin: a one means rape, the other numbers mean bed, the die is cast. Who am I to question the die?"

On turning over the card, he sees “a cyclopean eye: a one.” And so Rhinehart departs his apartment to fulfill the command of the die by “raping” his friend and neighbor Arlene. When he returns, his philosophical transformation is complete. He is now a devotee of the dice, proclaiming: “I must always obey the dice. Lead where they will, I must follow. All power to the die!” From this point forward, all his decisions are made in consultation with the dice. Sometimes there are two choices and a single die is used to decide: odd or even. In other situations, six choices are presented and a die is rolled, each number representing a corresponding option. In still more complex situations, two dice are used in combination. The more various and complex the choices, the more dice and mathematical possibilities which come into play. The choices range from the most simple and banal to esoteric or immensely important. But no decision is made without the dice. They control all. And so the world of the protagonist and all those he touches is permanently altered.

At the center of Rhinehart’s philosophy is the idea of giving voice to the minority self. Each individual has a number of competing desires within their psyche. However, we generally allow the majority voice, often controlled by the precepts of society, to have the ultimate say. Thus, while ten percent of our will may desire A, twenty percent B, fifteen percent C, five percent X, twenty percent Y and thirty percent Z, the majority voice, Z, will win out a disproportionate number of times, far more than it’s thirty percent stake. And possibly, that five or ten percent desire will never win out, not even in a sample size of several thousand choice scenarios.

Allowing the dice to determine action based upon mathematical representation assures the dice user that his or her minority urges will be fairly represented in the real world. It frees the individual from the tyranny of the majority voice and the social order.

From this point, the novel goes on a number of unpredictable twists and turns. The philosophy of the dice grows and is shared with others. One character, in an attempt to cure his fear of death, rolls three dice every morning with the following oath: three ones on a single roll and he must commit suicide. His fear of death is instantly overcome.

There are some who read this book and are unimpressed with the writing style or the direction the plot takes later in the novel. These criticisms are well founded. This is not in all passages the most well written book, especially considering its significant cult following. There were moments in the plotline where I felt uninterested, detached and disillusioned at the course of events or character development. Also, there are philosophical problems and inconsistencies within the fundamental principles of dice life. However, ultimately, I couldn’t help but relate intimately to the notion of leaving fate to the caprice of chance and thereby experiencing life more freshly, fully and in the moment.

On the cover of the American-published paperback it reads, “Few Novels Can Change Your Life. This One Will.” A big claim – and one I would never want as an author if I published a book. But you know what? In the case of The Dice Man it just might be true.

Addict Recommends: (Bar/Restaurant) AA Bar and Grill, Eureka, California

There’s something about Eureka I find extremely appealing. Maybe it’s the cool climate or the dense fog rolling in off the Pacific Ocean into Humboldt Bay. Perhaps it’s the illusion of isolation: I know of few other towns of similar size so far away from everything yet having such a very real sense of place and history. It could be the lush, verdant mountains which contain some of the last of America’s great Redwood forests. Then again, it’s possibly all that good green bud that saturates every square inch of the city as well as the surrounding land. Ultimately however, it’s all of these things, united with a feeling of real independence from the people, regardless of whether they are hippies, fishermen, professionals, meth-heads, hunters, cowboys or farmers.

And in the center of it all, there is the AA Bar and Grill. Located in the heart of “downtown” Eureka at 929 Fourth Street, the AA is a real classic, the best of a handful of places that simply should not be missed on your next visit.

First of all, the AA has the best steaks in Eureka without question. You can get a large variety of cuts, from ribeyes to top sirloin, all of which come at a generous discount if you buy two of the same. But for me, there’s nothing like tackling the forty-nine ounce porterhouse, a genuine colossus in the world of meat which I am sorry to report I was unable to finish on my last visit. But if steak is not your thing there are a number of other items on the menu that are sure to satisfy, from prawns to the French dip, a burger to the fish and chips and a number of items in between.

It’s almost strange that they even serve food in the place, as it is definitely more bar than grill, at least in the physical structure of the interior. The room is dominated by a large, long horseshoe bar and has only three dining tables, so most people eat at the bar. (This setup is augmented by a dining patio outside.) The theme of the place is strongly nautical, with a number of ships’ wheels and stuffed marlin and sail fish on the walls. There is also a handsome fish tank located at the very center of the bar, which adds a peaceful underwater feel. For amusement, they have a good shuffleboard table and a faded but still working Ms. Pacman machine.

Well mixed drinks are $3.25 and they have a special on 32 ounce Michelob for $5.00, so you can down your fill on the cheap. Keep your eye out for Donna, the septuagenarian bartender with the smoky voice and kind demeanor. Also, look for half dollars with your change, a signature of the place that I found very charming. One word of warning: the AA generally closes at 11:00 p.m., unless there is a large group still drinking.

There was a time about a year ago when I completed a professional visit to Eureka extremely early, probably about 11:00 a.m. I had the rest of the day and a beautiful woman to share it with, so we meandered over to the AA after my appointment. Thrilled at my work-related success and the prospect of a whole day to squander, I bought the three or four other patrons in the bar a couple of rounds. The buzz was just settling in when I got to talking to one of the other fellas, a nice guy who had been out on his boat that very morning. He asked me how I liked the town. I told him I loved it, but would love it even more if I had some chronic to smoke. A moment later he left the bar with my female companion. She returned a few minutes later with a mason jar full of sweet, stinky buds, probably a half ounce or so. Recompense for my initial gesture in buying the drinks, she informed me.

Now I can’t tell you you’re going to have the exact same experience as I did, but I can tell you that’s just the type of spirit and kindness you will encounter at the AA.