Bad Beat

    Every gambler has war stories about their bad beats. There are literally millions of them. They are both glorious and tedious, depending on your mood or perspective. So here's mine from tonight.

    I've got the Seahawks minus 6.5 against the Eagles on Monday Night Football. There's about 18 seconds to go in the game and the Eagles have the ball on the Seahawk 40, down by 14. I can see it coming, but I convince myself that my second sight is mere paranoia. Carson Wentz drops back to pass and chucks a Hail Mary into the end zone. The Seahawk defender knocks it down, but into the waiting hands - single hand, actually - of a Eagle receiver. I don't even remember who it was. There are 11 seconds left. My heart drops, but I remind myself that the Eagles can still win this thing, they can still tie the game in regulation by kicking the extra point, successfully performing an onside kick and somehow completing one more Hail Mary to end the game. So of course they won't go for two. That wouldn't make any sense whatsoever. If there was no time on the clock, okay: maybe they would do that. But not with a legitimate, if remote, chance to square the game up. I breath a little easier.

    Of course, for whatever inexplicable reason which I will never in my entire life comprehend, the Eagles go for two. They run it in successfully with literally no resistance from the Seattle defense. The Seahawks end up winning the game by 6 points, and I lose my bet by the hook. I was betting fairly small, but that's just not the point. 

    There is no glory without defeat, no pleasure without pain or love sans hate. That's the lesson from tonight folks. I'm going to sleep easier knowing that my suffering is both profound and utterly banal. 

Lazarus Rising and a Lesson in Persistence

            I had not seen Annabelle in several months. After we graduated she had gone up to Humboldt to attend College of the Redwoods and I was doing a semester in junior college at home. We had been thick as thieves in high school. She was the best female friend I ever had in my life. That remains true to this day. All the other women I’ve been that close with have either been family or a significant other. Annabelle and I were practically bros, if such a thing is possible. She sure talked like a dude, especially when recounting her sexual escapades. And she could party harder than any guy I ever met.

            It was Halloween night, October 31, 1992. The Jerry Garcia Band was playing at the Oakland Coliseum, in what was the guitarist’s second and final return from the edge of the abyss of existence in six years. His next foray into serious illness, three years later, would sadly be his last. It is impossible not to acknowledge here the significant role that heroin addiction played in his terrible health and ultimate demise.

On this day however, he was still with us and he was ready to roll. He hadn’t played publicly in a year, and Deadheads from coast to coast coalesced in the Bay to welcome back their spiritual leader. And although Annabelle and I had no tickets to the show and only about fifty bucks between us, we decided to head out to the parking lot to see if we could score a pair. I think we both knew it was likely a fool’s errand. But the worst that could happen is we would smoke some dope around a bunch of happy hippies. What was the harm in that?

We arrived in the parking lot about an hour before the show was to go off and we wandered around. Disheveled female fans held up one finger and melodiously uttered the word “miracle” in an attempt to obtain a free ticket. Dealers coursed through the crowd whispering their wares: doses, shrooms, weed. Annabelle and I stopped and smoked a bowl and enjoyed the scenery. A guy walked by holding a filled nitrous oxide balloon. There was a buzz in the air. You knew it was going to be a grand event.

We tried to buy some tickets but everybody was selling them for a hundred or more. Darkness fell quickly and soon it was seven o’clock, only half an hour from the scheduled show time.

“Well Annie,” I said, trying to sound philosophical about the whole thing. “Maybe we should just take off then.”

“What are you fuckin’ talking about, man?” she replied in disbelief. “We’re not going anywhere.”

“You want to just hang out in the parking lot for a while? We could suck down a couple balloons.”

She looked around and then up at the arena. “Nah man. We’ll just go up there and sneak in.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Don’t be a pussy, man,” she retorted, sounding disgusted. “Let’s head up.”

The Coliseum sits atop a great mound, the base of which was largely encircled by a steep hill which was entirely ice plant. We walked up the hill with some difficulty, as the greenery is thick and somewhat difficult to maintain footing upon. But with some effort we made it to the top and were along the side of the arena. And as it was dark and we were pretty far from the crowd and security on the walkways nobody had really noticed us ascending. And indeed, we were against glass doors which opened from the inside when an event was over. Of course, that did not help us at the moment from the outside, where these portals of egress were nothing more than flush glass.

Unbelievably, a guy wandering around on the inside, a common fan, walked up to one of the doors three or four sections down from where we were standing. He turned around and slumped against the glass where he began to eat a hot dog. He wore a Dijon mustard yellow corduroy jacket. Annabelle and I hustled down to the door he rested against and knocked. I could see security down the long hallway, but they were pretty far away. The guy turned around and looked at us.

“Let us in bro,” Annabelle pleaded.

The guy looked left and right and saw no resistance. So sure enough he pushed the bar which opened the door and we slipped right in. It was ridiculously easy – the essence of simplicity.

“Thanks bud,” I said brusquely.

We slipped by him and hustled, but did not run, inside to where the crowd was gathering. It was probably three quarters full at that point. And we were in the clear. It was the perfect crime.

I felt a tap on my shoulder and my heart sank. Of course there was no way it was all going to work.

I turned to see our gatekeeper, smiling. I only recognized him by the jacket because I had never gotten a good look at his face. He was older than us, but only by maybe ten years or so.

“I’ve been involved in a lot of cool shit at shows,” he said. “But never anything like this.”

Annabelle hugged him and I let out a triumphant scream. I grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and pushed him back and forth in a kind of bonding gesture. The next thing I knew a roar went up from the crowd and Jerry began singing, “How Sweet it Is To Be Loved By You” by Marvin Gaye.

“Shit, I gotta go find my people,” he said. “Have an awesome show.” And with that, he turned and walked away.

Uncool Addiction

          I always had a healthy relationship with video games growing up. Like most kids, I enjoyed them, and spent a fair amount of time in the arcade at Straw Hat Pizza playing my favorites Gauntlet and Spy Hunter in the 1980’s. In the 1990’s, my girlfriend and I had an obsession with Galaga – which was by then an old game – and would play every time her mom took us to Ted’s restaurant in San Anselmo, which was often. In the 2000’s, while living in the Ingleside neighborhood of San Francisco, the homies and I would stay up until 4:00 am on a nightly basis getting high and playing NBA Jams, NHL 97 and Sled Storm on the Play Station, our eyes glazed over with weed and strain from looking at the television too long.  It was tough to wake up on time many mornings after these marathon sessions.

            After my tenure at the Ingleside house however, I gave up on video games. They seemed to be a thing of my youth and a wasteful pastime. They also seemed singularly uncool and certainly not a hobby I would find in people I admire. I’m pretty sure Charles Bukowski. Pete Dexter and Cormac McCarthy weren’t big video game players.

            And then, about four years ago I discovered Sim City for my Iphone. Sim City is what it sounds like: a city building game that continues the tradition of the old “Sims” series, which I never actually played. To keep it short: essentially, the player has a bunch of tasks they have to complete so that they can earn money and other game currencies and build up their city, thereby increasing the population which creates more taxes and makes it possible to build more buildings, sporting arenas, casinos, beach boardwalks and so on. The goal of the game? Basically it is to build a cool, well functioning city with a lot of people in it.

            Here’s the rub. The game moves at a painfully slow pace, especially when you make more progress. Tasks get exponentially harder as the game goes on and your city becomes bigger. Why, you ask? Simple: so that the game creators can get you to pay actual, real-world money in exchange for Sim Cash, the most difficult currency to acquire in the game, and the key to shortcutting all the painstaking work of building.

            So I’m ethically opposed to paying my hard earned money for game currency. That just seems ridiculous. In addition, it feels like the minute you do that you have ruined the challenge. I mean, anybody can buy their way to success, right? So I set out years ago to play the game the right way, without paying a dime. My goal: to build a city with one million inhabitants.

            I’ve probably put on average an hour a day into this motherfucker. And it’s been almost four years now. So lets call it 1200-1400 hours just to be reasonable. I think about that and it makes my heart sink. I could have written two novels in that amount of time. I could have put those hours into my work, and who knows what kind of payoff I might have seen. But no, instead I put my life’s effort into this meaningless game. Why? It doesn’t get me high; it offers nothing but frustration and, ultimately, existential dread in miniature.

            As it stands today I have 985,855 Sims living in my city. What will I do when I hit a million? I’d like to believe I’ll just put it down.

Nothing to do with Bathing

             The phone rang at about three-thirty at night a few months ago. Normally I turn it off when I go to sleep, or the many news notifications which come in the early morning with their numerous chirps and beeps wake me up before I’m ready. But I will say that on the few occasions I actually hear a call in the late to early hours, it’s something important. I rolled over and answered..

            “Hello,” I said groggily.

            “Hey, it’s Jimmy,” I heard whispered into the phone. I hadn’t heard from him in an age, probably six months or more.

            “Jimmy, how you doing man? Everything okay?”

            “Why you asking me if I’m all right or not?” he queried nervously.

            “Because it’s the middle of the night man. You out partying?”

            “I knew it!” he said, now very upset.

            I sighed. “What do you know?”

            “I knew you were in on it from the beginning. You son of a bitch, you were behind them all along. You set me up man. And now they’re all around me.”

            “Jimmy I have no idea what you’re talking about. Calm down and I’ll try to help you.”

            “Don’t you tell me to calm down you son of a bitch! We both know what you did so let’s stop pretending.”

            “Do me this one favor. Just tell me what it is I’m supposed to have done. And please be as specific as you can regarding times and dates, so I can completely understand.”

            I could hear his broken wheels turning in the silence which emanated from the other end.. The oscillations were uneven and creaky, the works ground wearily and sounded infested with sand.

            “You know I can’t do that, man. That’s just the thing. You know I can’t. But I know that everybody is against me, and all these forces that are coming down on my house right now, you’re definitely a part of it. That’s all I know.”

            “Jimmy, you’re high and this is way out there, even for you. I’m hanging up now.”

            The last thing I heard before I hung up was him screaming, “You’ll pay for this you motherfucker!” I immediately blocked the number he called from and tried to go back to sleep. It was no good though, and I got out of bed about an hour later and started my day, knowing I was up for a while, at least until I could nap. By noon I had forgotten the whole incident.

            Last week I got another call from a blocked number. It was Jimmy again, this time sounding as lucid as a college science professor. When I heard his voice I remembered for the first time our last discussion. I couldn’t help laughing out loud when I realized who it was.

            “We need to talk man,” he said soberly.

            “It’s your dime,” I replied.

            “Well, I’ve been in rehab for almost sixty days now and I’m working through my steps. I’m on step nine, which means I have to…”

            “I’m familiar with step nine,” I interrupted.

            “Yeah. Okay. Well then, you know that I have to apologize to those I hurt along the road of addiction. And I’m not even sure if I’m right or not, but I vaguely remember calling you and accusing you of all kinds of things that weren’t true. I might have even threatened you, I don’t know. I was going through a very stressful time.”

            “Well Jimmy,” I said, a little smugly. “I do remember that call. But it’s okay, old friend. You need say nothing more. There are no hard feelings.”

            Jimmy let out a hefty breath. “That’s good to hear. Thank you.”

            “If I may, would you mind my inquiring as to what drug you were on that night? I mean: I’ve gotta know. It was meth, right?”

            “Meth? Shit, I’ve stayed up two weeks on meth and never felt that way,” he replied. “No: I was on bath salts. Don’t ever do that shit. It makes you see demons everywhere you look.”

            “Isn’t that the shit the guy in Florida was on, when he was eating that homeless dude’s face?” I asked.

            “YES!” Jimmy replied. “And believe me, I thought about killing all kinds of people when I was fucked up on that stuff”

            “So you wouldn’t recommend trying it?” I asked.

            “Fuck no motherfucker! What have I been trying to tell you all this time?”

            I consider myself warned.

La Grange Angel Dust

            I had the two tickets to ZZ Top that midweek night and Alberto had the 1988 Mustang 5.0. He really was a good person and I had always liked him. But he was also the guy with the car, which meant he got taken advantage of by just about everybody who didn’t have an automobile. That’s pretty much how it went in those days. You’re a true and loyal friend: great. You’ve got a sweet ride: now we’re talking. And even though I was sixteen, almost seventeen, my parent’s had sagely disallowed me from the teenage cultural ritual of obtaining my drivers license. So it was Alberto and I, headed to the Cow Palace, a well aged, cavernous, unexceptional, multi-purpose venue. But to me it might as well have been the Royal Albert Hall.

            We took Mission Street through the City not because it was the fastest route but because he knew a liquor store that would sell us booze, no questions asked. He had done it a million times, he said. We pulled up in front of the store and I offered him five bucks.

            “Don’t worry about it man,” he said graciously. “You got the tix.”

            “Right on,” I replied.

            A few minutes later and he returned with a twelve pack of Bud and a fifth of peppermint Schnapps: more than enough for two youngsters out to catch a substantial buzz. We each cracked a beer in the car as we finished the last short portion of our journey.

On the way, we talked casually about adolescent nonsense, but in a way we did not usually. It was just the two of us, unencumbered by the usual pressure of the group. We could be ourselves. At that time, it was a moral failing of mine to be unduly influenced by the behavior, actions and opinions of others. Because they somewhat marginalized Alberto, so had I. But now, one on one, I was released from this pressure. Maybe he was as well. In any event, as the first beer settled in our stomachs we settled in with one another.

We obtained a good spot in the parking lot close to the exit and got out. It was about an hour before the opening act was going on, so we had plenty of time. We each took a big hit off the Schnapps, finished our first beer and cracked our second. Pretty soon we were both through four beers and the Schnapps had about two swigs left in it. We grabbed one more beer, leaving one each for when we got back, and headed toward the building.

            “Time to boogie,” Alberto declared.

Along the way I checked out the crowd. The first thing I noticed is how much older than us everybody was. Now, it wasn’t like the time I saw Dave Brubeck with my family at Davies Symphony Hall: that was an ancient crowd. But most of the people there were in their 30’s and 40’s, even a few in their 50s’. It was a rough and ready bunch, working class dudes in jeans with thick black moustaches, arm around their old lady’s waist, half-hippies smoking joints, long hairs from back in the day. There were a few cowboy types, complete with the Stetson hats, shit kicker boots and oversized belt buckles, chugging beers and grinning at one another while they sat on the tailgate of their Chevy truck. I even observed a few older African American guys, well dressed fellas wearing suits and ties as if they were going to the Met. I don’t know what kind of people I had expected to see, but the diversity of humanity somehow impressed me.

Music filled the air, and it reflected the variety of the crowd. The cowboys were playing Hank Williams Jr. A group of twenty-somethings was blasting Prince’s “1999.” I heard the high-pitched guitar wail of BB King from somewhere in the distance. Of course, I also noticed several tunes from the “Eliminator” album, which had almost inexplicably dominated the American music and music-video culture in the mid-1980’s. “Gimmie All Your Lovin’,” “Legs” and “Sharp Dressed Man”: I heard these tunes several times in the short period during which we traveled from the Mustang to the doors of the edifice.

Once inside, more music blared. The opening act had already begun. I had heard the name Jeff Healey before and I associated it with rock music. And I had never seen the movie Roadhouse, although it had been released about a year earlier. So I was surprised to see what I ultimately realized was a blind man hunched over a slide guitar doing things I had frankly never seen or heard before. I was transfixed on him, and he was the opener. It would have been enough for me if he were the front line act.

Time went by quickly. The whole scene consumed me: the blues-rock music, the multi-celled organism which was the growing crowd, the smell of marijuana in the air, the camaraderie and the novelty of it all. I felt reborn, fresh, new. I was aware of my own becoming. And I know how ridiculous that sounds, in such an essentially banal milieu. But that is how I felt at the time.

I lost track of Alberto. At some point he came and gave me a large beer in a plastic cup. I have no idea how he obtained it. He seemed to be doing all right on his own. As instantaneously as he had materialized, he disappeared. Jeff Healey finished his set to the mostly polite applause that opening acts generally receive.

I had been standing to stage right, on a raised portion of the seating area. But in the bowl of the stadium there was the general admission. I think the whole show was GA; this is how I remember all the shows I attended at the Cow Palace. I decided to descend onto the floor. Just as I did so, the band took the stage and the crowd roared as one. The power trio meandered about the stage for a moment, ostensibly checking wires and connections, but I believe their real reason was to prolong the anticipation. Whatever their intentions, that was the effect they had. And then, in a flash, the music hit us like a ton of bricks, loud and heavy, simple, raw and completely understood by the audience.

I wandered around on the floor, maybe eighty feet from the stage. Any closer and the crowd got really tight. I wasn’t interested in squeezing into that mass of humanity; I wanted to watch from a distance, to have the experience from a position just outside the molten core.

I don’t know how much time went by, but it was probably thirty minutes to an hour. The band began playing the song “Tush,” while a dozen or so bikini-clad beauties marched in a single file line across the stage. At this point, I noticed a small group of very tough looking bikers light up what could only be described in those days as a “pinner” joint. From what I could see, they were unaffiliated with any known motorcycle club, as they wore leather vests without any recognizable patches or insignia. But they were bikers for sure: straight off the set of the movie “Mask.”

The thing I noticed that seemed strange to me was that the joint they were smoking, in addition to being very thin, was also of a brownish hue, like a marshmallow after being properly turned over a campfire. I had never seen anything like it before. But what the fuck did I know, anyway?

The music drove through us like a massive power drill. The bikers rocked forward and backward. They were yelling to one another over the deafening sound. I heard one shout out: “These guys are bad to the bone.”

Indeed they were. I was amused at his comment as I stared at this outlaw slice of Americana in front of me with which I was, at that time, completely unfamiliar. As if he felt my gaze in the back of his head, one of the bikers, the one who had yelled out, turned and looked at me, the roach of the still burning joint in his right hand. He reached out and handed it to me, our forefingers and thumbs pinching together to make sure that the truncated baton was successfully passed. I hit the joint hard and coughed a little. It tasted funny. I offered it back to my host. He waved me off with his hand and gave me a big thumbs up. I hit it again.

A moment later I saw him give this knowing look to his cohorts. They began nodding and pointing in my direction. They were laughing, but it seemed good-natured enough and didn’t make me feel awkward or anything of the sort. I just thought they were getting a kick out of smoking-out a pretty square looking teen. I smiled back at them and left it at that.

It did not take long for me to realize that something was terribly wrong. The first thing I noticed was I could not feel my fingers. Just after this, the music lost all its definition and became a slowing pulsating “wah-wah” in my ears, oscillating between extreme volume and absolute, deep space silence. It was something like the sound which would accompany a beacon from a lighthouse as the light turned round, but more quickly than in real life. Anyway, this is how it seemed in my mind’s eye.

My field of vision began creeping in from both sides, little by little. In a minute or so it had narrowed to approximately fifty percent of what it was normally. A sickness welled up within me. I realized I had to escape the floor and began stumbling toward one of the gaping exits. I ran square into a stranger; he threw me aside violently. I continued my march toward the light, toward some semblance of openness. When I reached it I realized that nothing had been achieved. My vision was down to almost nothing, a mere slice of light, shadowy images of people passing. I was walking up the ramp toward the outer corridors. I reached the highest point in the ramp, which comprised the exit and thought maybe I was going to make a successful escape.

Suddenly I began careening downhill. I had lost all control of my body. It seemed I ran for an age, a Bizarro Sisyphus. I struggled to keep my feet beneath me until I hit a wall and crumbled to the ground.

I awoke on a thin mattress on a concrete floor. I could hear the music muffled through the walls, which was comforting. My hair was matted with sweat. A young woman, probably in her mid to late twenties, came over and looked down on me.

“Hello,” she said pleasantly.

“What is this place?” I asked.

“The Haight-Ashbury free clinic,” she responded. “We set up at all the concerts. Guys like you keep us awfully busy.”

“Oh,” I said, a little embarrassed. I noticed that she was quite pretty in a gaunt kind of way. But it was obvious she paid little attention to her looks, her chestnut hair was straight and tied in a ponytail and she wore no makeup. Also, she had that sunken countenance of the Vegan, a face that belied missing nutrients in her diet.

“What did you take?” she asked.

“I only had a little bit to drink,” I minimized. Oh: and I took like two hits off a joint that was passed to me.”

“Passed by whom?”

“I don’t know. Some guys I was standing next to.”

She shined one of those little flashlights into my eyes. “Your pupils are saucers. Looks to me like you may have smoked a chip.”

“Chip?” I asked. “What’s that?”

“That’s a joint laced with PCP. Angel dust.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yes,” she replied. “You need to be more careful who you use drugs with.”

She looked down at a pad of paper she was holding and wrote some notes. As she did so, I could hear the band tear into the opening licks to “La Grange.” I was suddenly filled with energy and jumped to my feet.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked incredulously.

“This is my favorite ZZ Top song!” I ran for the door. As I exited I heard her call after me.

“You’re not allowed to leave!”

I found Alberto wandering about on the floor after the lights came on and the crowd was thinning out.

“I was partying with two hot chicks,” he informed me. “They told me we could come over to their place afterwards but I lost track of them.” His eyes searched all around but to no avail. “Pretty great show, huh?”

“Fucking fantastic,” I replied.

“Hey you don’t look very good,” he said. “You’re so…pale.”

“Really?” I said nonchalantly. “Well, why don’t we get out of here.”

On our way home we stopped at McDonalds. I was not hungry. As Alberto ate his Quarter Pounder I gazed into the glow of the Golden Arches, mesmerized. They were shimmering like yellow, faceted diamonds in the night, so beautiful and grand as they rose from the filthy Earth into the cold, crystalline heavens above. Theirs was a guiding light for travelers near and far, I realized. A moment later I thought I heard them broadcasting something into my brain, some kind of essential, portentous message that was almost discernable and yet incomprehensible.

It was then I realized how high I was.

Rendezvous

I wake up in the middle of the night, the ringing in my ears like a serenade of ten thousand insects on some Louisiana bayou. Only there are no critters out there in the cold night making the deafening, all encompassing noise - it's the byproduct of a head cold and ear infection.

There's a bad taste and an irritation in my throat with each swallow, and it's obvious I'm not going to get back to sleep any time soon. I'm hot and cold and sticky with sweat. My stomach moans and creaks uneasily.

Dark thoughts of death, sorrow and isolation germinate. Words and sentences grow out of my mind and take independent form. They become compulsive little ditties in my head. "This is a state of unhappiness...u-n-h-a-p-p-i-n-e-s-s-u-n-h-a-p-p-I-n-e-s-s..." and so on for minutes at a time. Why these obsessed repetitious word games? What do they mean? And I realize that, in fact, I speak this way to myself all the time, that the rhythm of my mind is not as complicated and interesting as I like to believe, that I'm going through the same patterns day after day. I feel like a lost child at a surreal amusement park, where the distorted clowns all bear some version of my countenance.

And I wonder what holds it all together, in so much as it is "together" at all? What keeps this earnest facade in presentable, marketable condition? How close is it to crumbling and turning to dust, right before the eyes of the world and my own self-observing eyes?

I sneeze so hard and long I wake up the dog. She shakes furiously and looks at me with her coal black eyes. To me she seems concerned.

An Uncomfortable Realization

My Mom was the one who turned me on to pills, sweet little lady. It had to be about twenty years ago now, the first time she hooked me up with Vicodin for a headache. It didn’t take long for me to realize how well one of these little white pills - broken in two to circumvent the time-lapse effects of the outer coating of course – went with a heavy pour of red wine. I can still recall the first time I experienced this combination fully: lying on the couch under a blanket, feet in the air, the Godfather on television, my brother sitting beside me in a plush armchair in a similar state of relaxation. It is no exaggeration to say that it was a blissful moment, filled with inner peace, serenity, fraternity.

It also didn’t take her long to realize that, from time to time, I liked to help myself to her stash. I think my brother may have pilfered on occasion as well, because those things flew out of her closet like so many newborn moths. Once she figured it out, they were more difficult to procure. She’s a wily one, and hid them well.

For the longest time this was where my relationship with pills settled: I’d pop one whenever I could get my hands on it, which was infrequently. So there was no big problem there. And anyway, I was busy with several other drugs which featured more prominently in my life.

But then, about three years ago, I came across an excellent and regular supply of Norcos, which I soon learned were even more warmth-giving and oblivion-inducing (especially in combination with several drinks) than their weaker cousin which had brought me into the world of Opioids. I learned that the yellows were the best and the ones speckled with red were full of acetaminophen and less powerful. I generally – but not always – had a supply available in the medicine cabinet and a few in my desk at work, just in case. Still, I took them only semi-regularly, perhaps twice or three times a week. I felt completely in control of the situation, and I guess you could say I was.

About a year ago, however, I met my match in the form of these tiny green fifteen milligram oxycodones. Through procedures and circumstances I shall not describe for you here, I fell backasswards into a supply of about a hundred of these little buddies. At first, a mere half a pill would have me tingling from head to toe almost immediately upon swallowing. The effect would last for hours on end and would culminate in the most wonderful, dreamless sleep. Soon however, I needed a full pill to get the desired effect. Ultimately, I needed one and a half to get to that special place.

Having so many pills on hand it became more difficult to hold myself back from taking them every day. I would go on a spree of five or six days in a row popping my dear Oxys. I would then take a day or two off and pat myself on the back for showing so much restraint. Finally and mercifully, I ran out of the little buggers, thanks in no small part to the proverbial "little help from my friends." (Who always gave my supply the highest praise.) Knowing with great certainty that I was increasingly descending down into the vortex, I was glad to see them go.

In the succeeding days, however, the most interesting and unpleasant thing happened. I would sweat profusely in my sleep and awake to a cold, saturated pillow. I was extremely irritable during the day. My concentration was at its nadir. And more than anything, I had a stomach ache and diarrhea that lasted over two weeks. Sure enough, I looked up the symptoms of physical opioid addiction and what did I find? All of the above.

PHYSICAL ADDICTION. The phrase rang through my mind like the tolling of a funeral bell. Is there anything more inconsistent with the idea of the functioning addict than physical addiction? I was face to face with a concept that was truly foreign to me and the questions were unavoidably vexed: had I reached my end, the point of no return, was the functioning addict now no more than a mere addict? Was the time to finish the experiment at hand?

After a five week run cold turkey the answer presented itself as it always has and I fear always will: of course not. I’m in charge of my own existence. I’m the functioning addict. My will be done.

And predictably, after a while I started popping Norcos occasionally once again. But don’t worry: I’ve got it all under control. 

A Meditation on Greatness

Scanning the endless repetition of selections on cable television the other night, I came across the movie “Whiplash.” I’ve watched parts of the film several times from my couch and saw the film with my wife when it was in theaters, so I’m quite familiar with the plot. (To the point that I can quote lines before they are spoken.) Still, I really enjoy the music and have always loved Buddy Rich, who is a sort of demigod-phantom hanging over the plot. So I decided to once again give the movie my time.

The story line is pretty simple: Andew Neiman (Miles Teller) is an aspiring jazz band drummer at the nation’s most prestigious music school, the Shaffer Conservatory. Terence Fletcher (J.K. Simmons), leader and instructor of the top studio band at the school, takes an interest in Andrew and – despite his status as a neophyte – brings him into the upper echelon band. Andrew’s ambition is boundless and is further fueled by Fletcher’s interest and mythical stories of how Charlie Parker became “Bird.” In spite of – or perhaps even because of – Fletcher’s ludicrous cruelty, malevolence and racist comments toward his students while instructing, Andrew’s purpose in life is singular: to be the greatest drummer in the world. And he sees Fletcher as pushing him to achieve this goal. Not surprisingly, the quest for supremacy and Fletcher’s tyrannical methods lead Andrew down a path of destruction and misery. Ultimately, however, the story culminates in a moment that can perhaps be described as perfection.

The film is a morality play about the pitfalls of ambition and a meditation on the cost of the pursuit of greatness. Fletcher, interestingly, is a sort of dual personification, both of the “Godly” purpose of personal achievement and of the “evil” we do to others when we seek one aspiration at the expense of everyone and everything around us. Some may argue that Fletcher is simply a bastard and cannot personify anything worthy, but I think the denouement and end of the film support a contrary and more variegated conclusion. And I do my best to not argue against text.

For me, the film sticks like a thorn in my sock, rubbing, scraping and irritating a small but ever growing ankle wound with each step. For the functioning addict, by definition, gives up greatness, at least the kind pursued in this story, the minute he or she commits to “the life.” And it is impossible to watch this movie and not ask certain difficult questions.

I have long struggled with the “Great Man” concept - the idea that my life would be meaningless if I didn’t do something outstanding or leave something memorable behind after I’m gone. I have little doubt this desire to do something important stems from my awareness and innate fear of mortality. I also believe it is what initially made me want to be a writer when I was a teenager.

In watching this film the old questions flash through my mind. Did I give up on my big goals and trade them in for fleeting moments of escape? Have I lost out on any chance of doing something really great in this life? And if this is the case, when was the die irrevocably cast? When was the even horizon breached? It may well have been when I took that first drink, puff, snort or drop of acid and said to myself, “this is where I want to be.” Maybe it was on the playground at recess when I was eleven and playing blackjack for my lunch money. Or maybe I was born with this thing.

If I so desired, could I turn my life around today, this moment, and invent a completely new existence for myself? History would indicate almost certainly not. Would I even truly want to do so?

I remind myself that I believe in personal responsibility and the freedom to choose. I remember that I can do anything I want with my today and potential tomorrows. I accept that I have limitations, even though the knowledge of their existence and extent stings my ego. I know that it is more important to love in the present than to be remembered by strangers. 

March 26, 2010 – Mixed Tape To Natalie, From Miles

The sun shone through the clouds in bursts of rays as I drove down leafy Park Presido Boulevard.  It was a couple of weeks ago.  The desiccated land needed rain badly and it was finally coming.  My happiness was the perfect balance of warmth, comfort and knowledge of the impending deluge; that, and the anticipatory joy of a free afternoon.

I was early for lunch so I pulled onto Fulton Avenue and parked a few blocks up from 25^th.  I grabbed my phone and walked into the thin strip of Golden Gate Park that runs parallel to the road.  After listening to my messages, I walked around aimlessly for a few minutes: closed my eyes and listened to the birds and traffic, checked out the blooming detritus of a homeless encampment which had been long vacated.  I imagined the lives of the people who had lived there and wondered at their contempt for society manifested and made flesh by such a magnificent collection of refuse.

I had fifteen minutes to get to the Tennessee Grill so I departed lazily and crossed Fulton toward my car.  As I was doing so, my eyes were drawn to a plastic bag which had been placed on the corner.  It called to me.  There is no other way to explain it. 

Upon looking inside, I saw it was filled with cassette tapes.  Believe it or not, both my cars have tape players in them and I continue to collect and use these seemingly ancient articles from the annals of my boyhood.  Still, it appeared that the vast majority of the tapes were blanks that had recordings on them, making them somewhat less “valuable” than commercially produced examples.  One voice inside my head screamed out, “Leave them, you idiot!  You don’t need any more crap in your life.”  But I couldn’t help myself.  I just had to have them.  As my old Uncle C always used to say, “If it’s free, it’s for me.” 

Blindly reaching into the bag I pulled out a tape marked “Roots and Blues 1925-1955.”  I saw names of artists such as Big Bill Bronzy, The Humbard Family, James Clark and Sister Myrtle Fields among many others.  Most of the artists I was unfamiliar with.  I popped it in the machine and hit the road. 

Almost immediately I was struck.  Bluegrass, gospel, folk, early blues and old-timey religious classics like “I’ll Fly Away” cascaded down like the impending gentle storm that was soon to be.  Somehow, it was exactly what I needed to hear at that precise moment. 

After a disappointing but sociable lunch with Rick, the two of us got into my car and I explained my find.  “These probably belonged to some hipsters,” he said.  “They love this kind of thing.” 

Yes, I agreed.  I had read an article recently in an airline magazine describing the resurgence of cassettes with the so-called hipster set.  But for all I knew the tapes were from the 1980’s.  We dug through the bag and pulled a few out.  One stood out of the stack we had created.  The inner sleeve song list had been meticulously typed in courier font – not hand written in pen – on an actual typewriter.  I was certain now that the collection was indeed very old until I read the side of the sleeve: “March 26, 2010 – Mixed Tape To Natalie, From Miles.” 

We set about our day with the “Roots and Blues” collection still playing.  We went to the zoo but decided against it after surveying the skies above and went instead to the De Young Museum.  Somewhere along the line we changed tapes and inserted one titled “Angel Dust: Music for Movie Bikers,” a compilation of 60’s B-grade biker movie soundtracks and film dialogs.  Later, while darkness and light rain descended, we sat outside near Irving Street and enjoyed a cup of coffee. 

We were finishing the night on Turtle Hill, sitting in the car, enjoying the view and a few one hitters from Rick’s Billy Bat.  The lights of the Sunset district shimmered in the night.  “Angel Dust” was our third companion, whispering masculine visions of open roads and surf-rock fantasies. 

“This album is fucking awesome,” he remarked.  “It’s a goddamned time capsule.  It makes me want to drive.”  This is the best assessment of it I can imagine.  The second best is my wife’s, who remarked distastefully when I forced her to take a listen a week later, “They should call this shit ‘Man Town, Music for People with Balls.’” 

Indeed they should.

As days passed, I went through a few of the other tapes but none of them really inspired me.  Some of them were really awful, others were just so-so.  The whole lot of them was worth picking up if only for “Roots and Blues” and “Angel Dust” anyway, I assured myself.  Finally, this morning, I decided to take a listen to “March 26, 2010” on my way to work. 

Side A begins with the song “Stop” by the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club: the band’s name a nod to Marlon Brando’s gang in The Wild One.  Side B finishes with Japanese cowboy troubadour Toshio Hirano’s “Thanks a Lot.”  In between are songs by Asobi Seksu, Mogwai and My Bloody Valentine, among others.

Somewhere between Novato and Petaluma I began to get shivers up my spine.  A visceral feeling of emotion washed over my body as the compilation progressed.  I did not even like all of the song selections, but collectively they were infused with an emotional quality where the whole was so much greater than the sum of its parts.  It has been twenty years since I made a mix tape for a girlfriend.  Why the overwhelming emotion?

Who were Miles and Natalie anyway?  Were they lovers?  I imagine that this is the case.  But my imagination does not make it so.  And who are they today?  And where?  How have their lives changed?  Was it she who left the cassette tapes on the street?  And if so, why?  Why didn’t she just throw them away?

I today feel more justified than ever in the fact that I still buy old records at thrift stores, that I never got rid of my CD collection, that I find art and music and books by accident, that I’ve never owned an Ipod.  Where before I saw the ascending generations just behind my own as mired in their pre-programmed digital world I now feel a individuated sense of kinship with at least some of them who are reaching into the past, grasping antiquated technologies and making them relevant once again.  Digital music, this approximated digital life, will never ever replace the tangibility and solidity of my analog world, I promise myself with a nervous lump in my throat. 

How can there be any mistakes in the reality we inhabit?  At this moment the idea of a random, meaningless universe seems utterly ludicrous to me, as does the notion that any thing can be said to be valueless.  Somewhere inside all of this, I am convinced, is a clue at the meaning of existence.  It is as if I can literally feel my destiny and purpose – banal as it often seems to be – pulling me forward not to an ultimate end but to a never ending beginning. 

And all this from a bag of cassette tapes.  

The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men

The good Doctor and I had been planning a big night out for quite a while, but something, usually employment obligations, always got in the way. Finally, last Friday, we were able to make it work. But the Doctor was concerned that we not lose a single moment in our quest for a proper buzz.

“Let’s start the party in the early afternoon, so we get in bed at a reasonable hour and have something left for the next day,” he suggested. I agreed, and we met up around 3:45 at Scoma’s in Sausalito for a drink. After two vodka-tonics, he suggested we call my connection in the City.

“Can’t do it,” I informed him. “He doesn’t begin his rounds until eight o’clock.”

The Doctor sighed. “Didn’t I tell you I wanted to get started early?”

Not really believing in my new mission, I began scrolling through the numbers in my cell phone for some inspiration. When I came across the Jew, the proverbial light bulb went off over my head. He was always down for a good time, and fairly well connected. I called him and he luckily answered. Even more luckily, he informed me that he was sitting on a gram and a half of blow right there in his apartment.

“We’re coming over,” I said brusquely. He agreed.

Our journey from then on out was a tale in itself, a book of stories and adventures, many of which we will hopefully explore here someday. We drank, we smoked, we talked and danced and sang. We met a motley host of companions, all friendly and full of life. Dealers came and went throughout the evening. What else can be said? It was one of those nights.

And at seven forty-five in the morning, after fourteen hours of partying, back at the Doctor’s house in Sausalito, as the sleeping pill was just kicking in and the last drink was being polished off, I couldn’t help but observe:

“Good thing we got started early, buddy. Now we can truly tackle the day.”

Slam Dunk

It was my junior year in high school and three of us were walking to a well known and often used wooded area just off campus on the banks of a small, trash laden stream behind the football field to get high. The weed was Melinda’s, a friend I had known since we were five years old. With us also was Caleb, a sophomore and relative newcomer to our expanding group and the lifestyle we were so vigorously pursuing. I remember him in the months that surrounded this day displaying an enthusiasm for his nascent drug use which was sometimes fatuous and at other times absolutely contagious.

We were talking about something as we passed through the basketball courts, and I recall experiencing an odd feeling, like the three of us were somehow outsiders to the scene. At this moment a ball bounced and then rolled my way. I used my foot to stop it, and then picked it up in the manner of a soccer player to get it into my hands. I dribbled the ball a few times. I hadn’t played ball since I flaked on the varsity squad, much to the chagrin of the coach.

“Hey, pass it over here,” on of the guys on the court called out.

I dribbled the ball a few more times, feeling the exterior, rough and worn from outside use.

“You deaf or something,” he called to me again. “I said send it this way.”

I began running toward the hoop, pounding the ball into the concrete. I rose up as I got near and dunked it down with force. It felt good and reminded me of my recent athletic past, which I was not yet consciously aware was gone forever, at least in an organized sense.

The ball fell to the ground and I walked back toward my friends. Caleb was beside himself.

“Awesome, man,” he said, grinning as he patted me on the back. “You give us druggies a good name.”

At the time I was so proud to hear this from one of my mates, because that’s exactly what I was going for. Today this memory is fraught with complexity and paradox and I don’t always know what to make of it.

Me and Timothy Leary

It was 1993, and I was with my buddy Danny and a few other college chums at Lollapalooza in Mountain View, California. Primus and Alice in Chains were the headliners, though Danny and I were most excited about the side stage offering, a fairly new band we were into named Tool. It was sometime toward the middle of the festival that we headed over to check them out.

The crowd was only a couple of hundred strong, and we made our way toward the front. A few minutes later, an elderly, frail looking, grey haired man meandered out on the stage and said:

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce some good friends of mine. Put your hands together for Tool.”

The mushrooms and alcohol I had been consuming that day clogged the rusting gears of my brain, but eventually visual recognition kicked in. “Jesus Christ,” I yelled in Danny’s ear as the deafening music began to play, “I think that was fucking Timothy Leary.”

The show was great, though I remember it as pretty short. Lead singer and frontman Maynard had hardly broken a sweat on the scorching day before the band left the stage. I recall being a little disappointed as the two of us headed over to the bar for a drink.

But then, to our collective glee, we saw that Mr. Leary was sitting at a small, round table in the bar area with a fortyish, heavy-set man. Leary was staring into space and his companion seemed to be looking for something to say or do. We approached them aggressively, unable to contain our excitement.

“Mr. Leary, oh God, it’s so amazing to meet you,” I exclaimed. “You’ve been a big influence on me. You’re life’s work is, like, an inspiration.”

The Acid King said something, but I couldn’t hear him.

Danny chimed in, “You like Tool? How long have you known those guys?”

The Harvard professor mumbled and muttered unintelligibly. His eyes looked upward, as if searching for just the right word or phrase. Alas, the proper verbiage eluded him, though he continued speaking in his incomprehensible tongue. We waited for what seemed like several minutes on his every garbled word for some piece of wisdom, some kernel of truth; we waited in vain.

“Mr. Leary is very tired, gentlemen,” his companion-handler finally interceded haughtily. “I’m going to have to ask you to give him some space.”

We turned and departed the company of this legend of drug culture, disillusioned by the unexpected lesson we had received.

The Chameleon

The Oakland A’s have a “Tuesday Night Free Parking” promotion. So, being the cheapskates we are, Rick and I decided to head over to the game last night after a devastating session at Hometown Buffet. As the crowd was pathetic (an announced 10,125, but not even close to that number) our nine dollar tickets got us decent seats not far from the A’s bullpen.

We were taking in the game when Rick recognized Dave, a sixty-something supervising usher and former colleague. Dave came over and we all started talking. Soon the conversation steered toward the days when the stadium allowed access to the upper level. (Two years ago, the club decided to tarp over the highest level of seats, due to the fact that hardly anybody, other than people getting high, like Rick and myself, would sit there.)

“Oh man,” Dave said, “it was a real nightmare patrolling up there. Kid’s were smoking and everything.”

“I’ll bet they were even smoking dope,” I chimed in.

“You're right, they were,” he replied, his light blue eyes bulging like distended marbles.

“Damned druggies,” I added offhandedly.

Dave gave me an approbatory nod and said goodbye to the two of us. We enjoyed the rest of the game unmolested.

Inconvenient Timing and the Golden Mean

What a beautiful day for the races it was. The sun was shining. It was neither hot nor cold. The smell of grilled burgers filled the air. There were literally dozens of hot women wandering around the track in their sun dresses and fancy hats. The scumbag regulars and well to do, once-a-year outsiders mixed genially. There is no event in American life that compares to Kentucky Derby day.

My buddy Nick just had two teeth pulled a couple of days earlier, so he arrived with a fresh container of Vicadin to ease his pain. He offered me one. I accepted it, broke it in two to offset the effects of the time release coating, and washed it down with a Budweiser. As I was on an empty stomach, I began feeling the benumbing effects of the drug fairly soon.

Rick arrive soon thereafter, and within an hour or so we had pounded a couple more beers and went off to the bleachers to smoke some chronic. When we returned, I enjoyed a nice Cohiba Nick’s fiancés mom had brought back from Mexico. I was really flying high.

But it turned out that, like Icarus, I was flying a little too high. The three of us were in the interior hallway at the track, surrounded by people, watching the preliminary events leading up to the Derby on an antiquated television. Just as the singing of “My Old Kentucky Home” was coming to an end, I was overwhelmed by a strong claustrophobic sensation which was coupled by an immediate cold sweat, shaking and the feeling my heart was going to burst. I immediately went outside and walked around in circles for a minute or two, breathing deeply and telling myself I’d had this feeling a million times before. (Which is true, but this fact never makes it any easier.) I tried to return to the simulcast, but came back outside again.

I returned inside once more, just as the horses were entering the starting gate. My panic had seemingly peaked, though I was still very high and shaken by the experience. I watched the race and even hit on one of my plays, garnering a one half return of my total wager. But the event had been somewhat tarnished by my adverse chemical reaction. I had obviously overdone it. And I felt stupid and just a little bit juvenile.

The Affront

Friday: my brother and I had agreed on a late lunch at the Buckeye in Mill Valley. I arrived ten minutes early, got a nice corner table and ordered a glass of Pinot Grigio, trying my best to drink it slowly so that I wouldn’t end up drunk at five o’clock in the afternoon. He arrived on time from the City and ordered a beer. We were both in fine spirits.

The waitress took our order. He was to have the Petaluma Chicken and I the cheeseburger. We were to open with an appetizer of wings with bleu cheese dressing – always a good move. We began discussing a possible trip to Reno during the week. We then got on the topic of a bachelor party weekend that was going to take me out of town for a couple of days.

“Hey, I’ll watch the cat for you, if you like,” he said, taking a long gulp off his beer.
“Really? That’s so great, because you know how I hate to leave her behind alone.”
“Sure, I’ve got nothing going on that weekend anyway.”
“Man, I really appreciate that. Takes a load of my mind.”

And then the sound came from my left, long and loud, lasting approximately six or seven seconds. I’m not exaggerating.

“Shh.”

I turned and saw the mummified visage of a sixty-something woman, the bane of some man’s existence, no doubt. Our eyes met. I was still not sure.

“You’re very loud,” she informed me.

Now you probably don’t know this, but I find the shush to be the single most insulting utterance in the human language. It is the essence of passive aggressiveness, a tool used by social cowards and neighborhood despots. Ask me nicely; I know I’m a little loud but it’s not intentional. Ask me rudely; call me an asshole. At least I’ll know exactly what you’re thinking and can react in kind. But never, ever shush me in public like some kind of ill behaved child. That is an affront I cannot accept. So I stared at her for seven, perhaps eight seconds, using my most intense Manson lamps to lamely convey my powerful feelings of anger and indignation. She appeared unmoved. I slammed my butter plate down on the table – complete silence descended over the full room.

“I won’t sit here…next to you,” I stammered, dumbstruck. I’ve…I’ve, never been treated so rudely.” I got up and began to walk toward the host stand. A table of older diners stared at me aghast. “Pardon me,” I said to them generally, a little embarrassed.

My brother arrived at the host stand a minute later, beer in hand. I suggested we sit somewhere else in the restaurant.

“I don’t think that’s gonna happen,” he said, shaking his head gently.
“Why not?”
“Cause when you walked away that lady looked at me and said, ‘He’s very emotional.’ So I said to her, ‘Well, if you ask me lady, you’re kind of a cunt.’”
“You didn’t,” I said, laughing.
“Oh yes I did.”
“Thank you so much. I can always count on you to back me up.” I felt like hugging him.
“It really has nothing to do with backing you up. She got exactly what she deserved.”

The dining room manager came out and wanted to know what had caused the commotion. I tried to explain, forgetting the last part of the story. So, just as he was about to approach the offending woman my bro added, “Oh, and I called her a cunt.”

“You did?” he asked, incredulous.
“Sure did.”
“Oh, not good.”

We volunteered to leave the restaurant but he asked us to wait a moment. He returned quickly and said, “Guys, I got a lot of angry women in that room.” He was very nice so we left without a fuss. I couldn’t have enjoyed a meal there, anyway, not after what had transpired. At least he bought our drinks for us and allowed us to leave with our dignity intact.

Fifteen minutes later we were sitting at our table at Marin Joes. I was sucking down my first of several martinis which would eventually turn into a raging drunk later that night. My brother and I were rehashing events. Neither of us felt we had done anything wrong, but he put it best in words I will never in my life forget.

“You know what? If I could take it all back, I wouldn’t.”

Amen.

Feelin’ Fine

Glancing furtively at my watch for the tenth time in an hour, I knew that if I hung around for another thirty minutes and let the clock go past midnight I’d be at it till sunup, if not much later. A new bindle was tossed on the glass, even though there was a small portion still remaining in the first. A newly met companion began chopping at the powder with methodical, almost technical precision. Dr. Loud’s girl nodded off on the couch. She wanted out too. My first move was snagging the almost empty bindle. I’d need something to revive me when I got home.

“I’m gonna take this little bit and get out of here,” I announced to the group.
“Ahh, c’mon,” Dr. Loud exclaimed.
“Gotta do it. Things to work on tomorrow. You know how it is.”
“And you know I’ve gotta give you a hard time about it, too. We each have our role to play in this dialogue.”

I smiled, then said my goodbyes. It had been a good night: a cold martini at Waterbar, Thai food on Howard Street, an only twenty minute wait for the man before a short but sweet session at an apartment I had never been to before. Good people, good food, good fun: but the jig was up. It was Tuesday, after all.

Upon getting home the cat greeted me sleepily. I finished my little bit and downed a couple of Budweiser tall boys. It kept me up till 3:30 listening to Bob Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks and some other selections, which suited the cat fine. She spent most of the night on the porch pawing at an inchworm that had somehow landed there during the rain. When I went to bed I was prepared for the worst in the morning.

But somehow, I woke up at 7:15 and all was well. Huh, I thought. This can’t last. But here it is 11:45 and I’m rolling through the day. A rare reprieve from the toll taker; I think I’ll go to lunch now.

Another Festivus Miracle

Just when my bitching about the season was reaching its crescendo, Christmas came and went. And I’ve got to come out and be honest: it wasn’t so bad this year. The presents were purchased well in advance, my stress level was under reasonable control and I went into the day with as good an attitude as could be expected.

And a good day it was. My family does the big dinner on Christmas Eve, which I like because by the time 3:00 rolls around on the 25th, I’m about ready to pass out from exhaustion and dehydration caused by drink. What a dinner it was: we started out with an endive, avocado, cherry tomato and Dungeness crab salad – the vegetables fresh and clean, the crab impeccably sweet, pulled off the ocean floor only forty-eight hours earlier. We then enjoyed beef filet, scalloped potatoes and string beans with mushrooms. Delicious. For desert, we had a sweet fruit tart, pudding and ice cream. These delicacies, preceded by hors d’oeuvres and coupled with a boatload of beer, booze and wine, left me afterwards feeling weak and satisfied beyond expectation.

On Christmas day, there were no arguments and my inevitable depression was muted compared to years past. Looking back, it was a lovely thirty hours spent with the most important people in my life. It just goes to show: sometimes, mentally preparing for the worst sets the stage for a pleasant surprise.

Number One Pusher

I parked the car in the already crowded lot and began walking toward the strip mall. The ubiquitous green sign beckoned in the distance. Time was pressing against me; I prayed there would not be a line. A car cut in front of me and came to a stop in a red zone adjacent to the mall. A woman jumped out and began running toward the Starbucks while her companion waited, smoke billowing out of the tailpipe, doubly full in the cold morning. A man walking toward the storefront quickened his step, then broke into a jog to beat her to the door. She looked frustrated and offended.

Inside, the line was ten deep. Expectation rattled and buzzed in the eyes of the patrons who waited. The woman who had run in front of me was tapping her foot impatiently. The man who had beat her to the door sighed deeply and rolled his eyes.

“Double tall macchiato for Jim,” the barista called out. A man in a suit hustled to the counter to receive his blessing. I thought how there should be a separate line for people who just want coffee, not some specialty drink. But this thought had no relevance to my situation other than the fact that I wanted my coffee immediately.

The Winter of My Discontent

It’s the same every year, every year it’s the same…to paraphrase rapper Too $hort. The forces are identical as in the past: the grinding financial pressure that isn’t really related to purchasing holiday presents but still reveals itself at just this time in the year; the growing, often illogical resentment I feel at people around me, and the equally illogical solutions I seek to quell these burgeoning pressures and feelings, which, of course, only exacerbate them in the end.

And it’s very strange, because I like Santa, Jesus, Christmas trees, decorations and lights. I was raised Catholic, and though I have my serious doubts about eternal salvation I do feel strongly that this season is supposed to evoke those good values that Christianity purports to champion. I see glimmers at times, short bursts of clarity which warm me. But generally speaking, this is a month of tribulation that can’t end soon enough.

Viva los Patos!

Ladies and gentlemen, tonight the historic match up takes place and the great enmity is renewed. Yes, it is time for the west coast’s oldest rivalry game, the 113th Civil War: the revered, beloved Ducks of Oregon versus the much maligned when not ignored Oregon State Beavers. For the first time in its storied history, the winner of the Civil War – either team – will be going to the Rose Bowl to face off against the Big Ten representative Ohio State Buckeyes.

The Addict, as a graduate of the U of O, has been present for two Civil Wars during his lifetime and has watched every other on television. There have been so many memories made and lost around this game it is hard to keep track of them all. None were more important, however, than 1994, where our victory over the Beavers secured us a berth in the January 1995 Rose Bowl, where I personally witnessed Joe Paterno’s Penn State Nitanny Lions decimate the Ducks, despite a co-MVP performance by Oregon quarterback Danny O’Neill. (I remember I lost $250 on that game, even though I was getting 17 on the spread.)

I won’t boast up my team any more, for fear of the reprisal of the sporting Gods. I can only hope and pray for victory tonight, my friends. For those of you who have no feeling for the game, no interest one way or another, would you please give us a little quantum physics burst of energy and find the time today to say to yourself or another, “Go Ducks!”

The game is on ESPN and ESPN360.com at 6:00 pacific time.