LOOSE SLOTS AND PARTING SHOTS

Following my relaxing, game-playing, whale-watching week on Cape Cod, My Girl and I hopped back in the rental car and drove to Uncasville, Connecticut. Now, besides going to the movies and watching TV, there isn't a lot to do in Uncasville, except go to this gigantic Vegas-like casino called Mohegan Sun. We drove our Toyota Corolla through some nasty Providence, Rhode Island traffic and connected to a couple of other non-descript freeways, and then all of the sudden this black glass hotel tower rises out of the ground and instantly conjures up a Vegas flashback. Upon entering the hotel lobby and taking in the Native American-themed version of the Bellagio, I suddenly remembered that I hate casinos. But, we were meeting up with two groups of family, one carload from the Cape Cod house (including my mother, grandmother, and aunt) and one from New York, and I was going to have a good time regardless of my disdain for gambling institutions. We went out to a couple of extremely good dinners and continued to celebrate my mother's birthday and spent some real quality time with my cousins and great aunt from New York, that is, when they weren't pouring money into those evil slot machines. My favorite spot in the entire place was in front of a giant acquarium in one of the casino mall stores called OdySea. They had one big shark and lots of little sharks and a bunch of sting ray. That was where I found peace amidst the chaos. In evaluating Mohegan Sun, I must say that the area that needs the most improvement is service. I spent a great deal of time on the casino floor watching the machines mesmerize My Girl and My Family, on Saturday and Sunday mind you, and I don't recall seeing even a single cocktail waitress. The chip/coin redemption stations seemed to be placed well throughout the massive casino, but whenever we went to cash out we had trouble finding the one that we needed -- be it chip or coin -- or one that was open. I was frustrated and I wasn't even gambling! The best thing that came out of the Mohegan Sun portion of the vacation was my mother's admission of her gambling addiction. As of today, she has sworn it off. Not that she gambles that often, but when she does, she has absolutely no self-control. My mother and I have a very strong connection and the only times in my life I can remember feeling alienated from her, even for a moment, occurred while she was gambling. She gets this wild look in her eyes and can't tear her attention away from those dizzying devils. I hope she stays true to her word and I hope to never see that look in her eyes again.

PIKER RETURNS TO LITTLE FANFARE

I am back on the tainted soil of Los Angeles and happy to be here. I think I may finally be vacationed out. Although, I'm considering taking a trip down to Mexico for the upcoming Labor Day weekend. You'd venture I would go just to squeeze one last drop out of this whirlwind summer, but I'm actually starting to think like a rational adult. I believe it's time to stay in one place and attack my personal challenges head on -- namely acquiring a vehicle, obtaining a job, receiving health benefits, consolidating my debt, reinstating my subscription to The New Yorker, going off the dole, and work my way back into a life that includes disposable income.

My recent journey East included an amazing week on Cape Cod with most of my immediate family and My Girl. We rented this great house close to Skaket Beach in Orleans, where we played tons of games -- Dominoes, Rummikub, Phase 10 -- completed and shallacked a very difficult puzzle, and spent lots of time at the beach. Skaket Beach is unique. You can only swim at high tide because at low tide, the water recedes about a mile away from the beach, creating sandbars in its wake. Even when you walk the mile out to the water, it's too shallow to swim, you can only wade in it and try to avoid stepping on crabs. We also took a day and drove to the very tip of Cape Cod in Provincetown and went on a whale watch. The boat found a young humpback whale just outside the harbor and followed it for three hours or so as it breached, or leapt out of the water, over and over again. The highlight came as the whale, clearly aware of our presence, swam up to the boat just under where we were standing on deck, rolled over onto its back, gave us a close-up view of its belly and fins, then swam under the boat and came out the other side. I was tres mellow from the dramamine, but enjoyed the touristy three-hour tour much more than I thought I would.

Travelogue to resume later, as I must go tend to my neglected LA piker social life.

THE END OF AN ERA BUT AN ENDLESS SUMMER

Pounding my head on the desk in an attempt to gain some insight into my current dilemma is apparently not working. These are serious issues I'm confronting -- "What is the future of Piker?" "How the hell am I going to get a car without any money?" "What kind of job can I get that won't make me feel like a drone?" "How am I going to get to work if I actually manage to find a job?" "How can I realistically expect the Dolphins to make it past the first round of the playoffs with Jay Fiedler as the quarterback?"

It's too much. I'm not going to figure it out while sitting in this empty office at a quarter to six on Friday afternoon. To hell with it! I'm closing down the office and going grassroots. Before I get too deep though, I think I'm going to have to take one last summer vacation. I'm off to Cape Cod.

Birthday shout-outs to Babs and Norms!

AMERICAN IDOLIZER

So both of you who’ve been reading this fledgling blog are probably asking yourselves the same questions I’m asking myself, “Hey piker, what’s next for Piker?” Obviously, Piker sits at a crossroads. With no staff and no deconstructed post-post-post-modern office space, I once again have the opportunity to seize total control. Finally, I can return to the implementation of my initial vision. It’s a blessing, really. In a sense, I fired the whole company because they were doing shoddy work and displaying a subpar attitude. Accounting – gone. Publicity – gone. Marketing – sayonara. Design – seeyalata. Now it’s just me again. The way it was meant to be.

So I revamped the look of the site and I set out to read that shortlist of blogs that you hear about most often and you see mentioned in any article written about blogging. And you know what? They’re good. These people can write. I found most of them extremely informative, if not overwhelming, mainly because I don’t read the newspaper. In fact, I don’t pay a whole lot of attention to the news in general. Call me ignorant. Color me a coward. I’ve tried for years to get into world news and politics, and now fear that I may be chronically apathetic. The local news either depresses me or creeps me out. When I do get a hold of a newspaper, I go for the Sports section first, then the Entertainment Section, then the crossword, then I’m out. But these warbloggers and others who pay attention to what’s going on in the world and have strong opinions about it may finally be the key to unlocking my political potential. The blogs I gravitate to naturally are the ones that are most original and the ones that make me laugh. My first move as head of marketing was to link to the blogs that I enjoy the most. I only hope that as a tiny one-man outfit I can be as prolific as some of the these blogs that clearly have tremendous writing staffs and large-scale operations.

THE BOTTOM RUNG

Sometimes I suspect there’s a Practical Joke Crew on the clock, working their asses off to make sure that a plethora of obstacles prevents me from making any forward progress.

I had writer's block all day long. Late in the afternoon, I finally broke through and went to post what I had written, only to find a roadblock Blogger message: "Sorry, publishing is temporarily unavailable."

Of course, if I wasn't such a piker, I would've paid the twelve bucks to remove the ad and summarily end my association with the lowest form of bloggers.

I THINK I CAN, I THINK I CAN, I -- I’M REALLY NOT SURE I CAN

“And then... depression set in.” Bill Murray’s prophetic words from the comedy classic “Stripes” vividly capture my current state of mind. I sit here at my desk, which now has a giant hole burned through the center, in what used to be my office until three of the walls were unceremoniously blown out. It’s quiet. Too quiet. The phones aren’t ringing, the fax machines aren’t beeping. No longer is there a buzz in the office air. No commotion. No palpable sense that we all just might be on the ground floor of something that could be really great someday. In fact, there’s nothing left at all, save for the remnants of what must have been The Party of the New Millennium. I sit amongst the ruins, alone.

I suppose it’s back to the proverbial drawing board for me, even though I can’t draw a lick. Back to square one. Most likely that square will closely resemble a claustrophobic cubicle in some non-descript office at some lame company that I could give two shits about.

I’m sulking. Really I have no one to blame but myself. I was the one who decided to go on vacation, even when I wasn’t absolutely sure I had earned one. I knew it was a risk. But I did it anyway and I don’t regret it. I created this thing in the first place. It was my energy that fed the great Piker machine. I did it once and I can do it again. I alone am responsible for the ultimate fate of Piker.

I know it’s steep, but I’m headed back up that mountain. Climb on. I’ll take you to the top.

WHAT THE...

Well... I suppose this is what you get for taking a summer vacation and leaving the keys to the candy store in the hands of true pikers. I just returned from five wonderful weeks on the East Coast to find the Piker headquarters in shambles. The place smells like the basement of a fraternity house. Actually, it's much worse. I just gagged and swallowed back some throw up after getting a whiff of stale beer mixed with stale vomit and what I think is either curry or cumin. God only knows how long "Copacabana" has been spinning on the record player, stuck in a warped groove, repeating "and do the cha-cha" over and over again. How the hell did they get enough sand in here to make a beach volleyball court?

Everything I built before I left is gone. Readership had climbed into the high seventies, low eighties pre-summer sojourn. Now I'm damn lucky if I get twenty visitors a day. I am depressed. I poured at least a fraction of my heart and soul into Piker and this is what I get? Couldn't someone at least have tipped me off to what was going on? Some friggin' courtesy, please! Oh great... I just stepped on the Rubik's Cube that was sitting on my desk before I took off. I almost had two sides. Could it get any worse?

I'm not going to stick around to find out. I do want to detail my travels to the Sweltering South, but I'm afraid I'm going to be sick if I sit here for any length of time longer than one minute. I want all twelve of you loyal readers to know that I will not give up on Piker. I intend to see this thing through. To finish what I started. To return Piker to it's previous glory! Ugh-oogh-brrrp... Right after I ralph.

COUP D'ETAT

We haven't heard from The Boss in quite a while now. The inmates have most definitely taken over the asylum. I am crouching under my desk typing this report as the Piker offices are in a state of utter chaos. Most of the cubicles have been connected together to form a sort of net in the middle of a makeshift office volleyball court. I'm not sure, but I think the Budweiser Girls are playing the Swedish Bikini Team. Don't ask me what the score is, as I'm afraid to poke my head above the desk line. Some crappy song by The Tubes or Wang Chung is playing on a continuous loop and it's driving me mad. We think that The Boss is still somewhere in South Florida, but apparently he is stranded with no cell phone service and some sort of antiquated dial-up connection. I just got hit in the head by a frisbee with a picture of Eddie Munster on it. I want to be loyal to The Boss, but I don't how much more I can take. I'm going to make one more attempt to re-establish contact with him before -- Oh no! Something just exploded. I smell smoke. That's it, I'm out of here. I'm making a run for it. I just pray I can make it to the door...

HOT ENOUGH FOR YA?

The Piker's Piker here, reporting from the field. Things move rather slowly down here in South Florida. I think it's the humidity. Here we are in the dog days of summer and it's hot everywhere, but the humidity is what makes it difficult to breathe, especially while exercising outdoors. This past weekend, in a fit of selflessness, I woke up at seven in the morning, on Sunday mind you, to drive my brother to work. My plan was to return home and go right back to sleep, but on the way home I realized it was too late, the damage had been done. I was up for the day. So I decided I'd take advantage of greeting the day about four hours before I normally do and go on a run. My temporary headquarters is about two miles from I595. Wearing my fancy brand spanking new running shoes, I set out to reach the highway. I was feeling light and springy with my now-cushioned soles and I set a torrid pace. The road was quiet, the sun was boiling, and sweat was dripping off my body as if I had just stepped out of the shower, but I managed to reached the stoplight at the entrance to the 595 and headed back. I usually don't run along a straight path, but I was on this day, and it made things very clear cut. I tried to pace myself so I could reach what I thought was the traffic light before headquarters. But, I miscalculated and started my sprint too early. I wound up at a different ligth, seven-tenths short of my goal. However, it was for the best, as I was dangerously close to enterting a state heat exhaustion. After fighting it for a few moments, I leaned over and gagged, resigned to tossing my cookies. But there were no cookies to toss. I hadn't eaten anything since I woke up, so there was nothing in my system to regurgitate. I walked on and tried to regain my composure, gagging a few times on the way, but I never threw up. Seven-tenths of a mile later, I was back at headquarters, exhausted, thirsty, and very very wet. I replenished my fluids by drinking some delicious and nutritious Orange Ice Gatorade, ate a little something, and made sure not to sit on anything. Eventually, I stopped sweating and took a shower. But, as soon as I stepped out of the shower, I starting sweating again. I think it was the humidity.

SUMMER HOLIDAY

Ever since The Boss left town on summer holiday, the staff of pikers here at Piker has been scrambling to prepare the next installment of Piker. Information has been extremely difficult to come by, as The Boss has cut off his normal lines of communication with the outside world. From what we could gather, The Boss is visiting family and relaxing somewhere in South Florida. One of our resourceful staff writers, using The Weather Channel website, has learned that the weather down there is an extreme mix of sunshine and thunderstorms, which appears to be par for the course. According to one source, The Boss was spotted at The Oasis section of the Sawgrass Mills mall, taking in a matinee with his father, his father's girlfriend, and My Girl! When reached for comment, The Boss replied that Men in Black II contained some solid laughs but didn't add up to much. To celebrate the 4th of July, The Boss' mother hosted evening festivites at her new home. The Boss shared in the cooking duties on a scrumptious meal of salad, salmon, and scallops, topped off with good old fashioned apple pie a la mode. Strangely, upon tasting the scallops without sauce, The Boss' maternal grandmother requested leftover pizza. After dinner and several intense games of Rummy-Q, the family ventured out of the development and enjoyed a brilliant display of fireworks emanating from the park across the street. Other than that, The Boss has reportedly been dining out frequently, most notably at La Spada's Sub Shop and a hibachi meal at the Japan Inn. The Boss also acquired some much-needed running shoes at a local specialty store and tested them out on a relatively short job around the neighborhood. The Boss plans to do some bookstore browsing in the coming days, as he just completed the Alan Glynn book "The Dark Fields." The Boss raves about the work of fiction centering on a mysterious smart drug called MDT-48 and said it was a must-read for any self-respecting Gen Xer. By all accounts, The Boss' family has welcomed My Girl with open arms and the power couple has apparently been spending a great deal of time with The Boss' eccentric and entertaining brother. The Boss did sound concerned, however, that his mother has passed on her addiction to several computer games to My Girl.

THE GOOD, THE BAD, THE YOUNG AND THE RESTLESS

First the good. They very very very good. I saw “Space Station” last night at the IMAX in 3-D. If the movie was just a short film, composed only of the opening credits, I’d still recommend it strongly. But it was so much more than that. For forty-five blissful minutes, “Space Station” takes you behind the scenes at NASA, places you next to the launch pad for takeoff, rockets you up into space, shows you how the International Space Station is built module by module, and then lets you hang out at while the astronauts live there… in space. And let me tell you, these astronauts are impressive individuals with tremendous coordination, composure, and skill. Unfortunately, watching them operating to their fullest potential and risking their lives every day left me with the distinct feeling that I’m not doing anything worthwhile with my life. Viewing the movie projected in three-dimensions on the immense IMAX screen was enough of a challenge for me. Many times, I had to crane my neck to take in the infinite detail of the film. Whether it was scanning up and down the length of the space station or pivoting side to side to look down on the surface of the Earth, the giant movie forced me to stay alert and continue to interact with it. I heard one astronaut who saw the movie said “Space Station” comes the closest to simulating what it actually feels like to be in space. Now, I can’t vouch for that because I haven’t actually been to space yet, but I can say that the movie is extremely visceral and it feels like you’re up there with these amazing astronauts, looking down on our beautiful blue planet. For anybody who has ever dreamed of becoming an astronaut when they grow up, this is the movie for you.

Now for the bad. The very very very bad. “American Idol” may be the worst show I’ve ever seen on television. Every moment is excruciating and it gets worse and worse as it goes along. It's so FOX. It all starts with the co-hosts – Ryan Seacrest and Brian Dunkleman. There’s a palpable irony present while watching this show – two talentless individuals hosting a talent contest. They pander to the audience, the contestants, the judges, and anybody else unlucky enough to be associated with this dreadful show. They’re slow-witted, unfunny, and entirely unaware of how bad they really are. The contestants are all super skinny and remind of those people you see on Melrose Avenue who seem like they never leave the ultra-hip strip. The production design appears to be influenced by horrid 80s office spaces, the product placement by Coca-Cola and Ford Focus is obnoxiously obvious, and Paula Abdul doesn't belong on TV. The best portions of these shows, now that they’ve reached “The Finals,” is the “reaching into the vault” segment. This is where we get to see what we’re really tuning in to see, which is the world’s worst performers embarrassing themselves on national television. If only this was the premise of the show… The only redeeming quality of the show is Simon Cowell, one of the judges. He’s British and mean and doesn’t pull a single punch in telling these wannabees what he thinks of them. He is the only element of the show that is genuinely entertaining. The rest of it is a train wreck and I can’t look away.

As for the young and restless… I’m leaving on a jet plane this evening. Taking the red eye to my hometown of Fort Lauderdale, Florida. And My Girl’s coming with me. She’ll be meeting the folks and My Brotha for the first time and I’m sure everyone will get along swimmingly. I’ll be spending an additional couple of weeks in SoFla before venturing up to NC to celebrate a very special event in My Girl’s family. I can’t reveal specifics because My Girl will have me tarred and feathered. At least, that’s what I think the standard punishment is in that part of the country. I’m leaving my zone of safety and I’m not going to lie, posting to this blog consistently will be a tall order. But, by golly, I’ll find a way to keep this thing going by hook or by crook. At least, that’s how I think they get online in those parts.

FIVE, er, TEN GREASY PIECES

1. Roscoe's
2. Zankou
3. Versailles
4. Reel Inn
5. Bay Cities
6. Phillipe's The Original
7. Yang Chow
8. Hot Wings
9. Fatburger
10. Poquito Mas

This is the previously promised list of my favorite non-fancy LA restaurants. I encourage all Los Angelenos who disagree with my choices or dispute the order they're in to show me the error of my ways. I'm always willing to try new places, and if I think you're right, I'll revise the list accordingly. If anybody else anywhere in the world wants to send me their city's ten greasy pieces list, I'll read it, but I can't get too excited 'cause I don't live there.

Bon appetit.

SCATTERSHOT

It's five in the morning. What am I doing up watching soccer? The United States is out of the tournament, I don't particularly care for either of these teams, and I'm exhausted. I am also addicted. I can't get enough World Cup. There are a total of four games left, one of them being a consolation game for third place, and I don't want to miss any of them. Besides, it'll be another four years until I have to set the alarm to wake up in the middle of the night so as not to miss a match. Incidentally, it's halftime, with the Germans and South Koreans locked in a scoreless tie.

I don't have much in the way of consistent thoughts right now. I have that unsettled feeling in my stomach that I always associate with waking up at five in the morning to get ready for school trips to DisneyWorld. It's as if your stomach is speaking for your whole body when it says, "What the hell are we doing up?" My head is cloudy in that "neither here nor there" kind of way. I'm not sleeping, but I'm not really up. Sometimes, in this condition, you can slip into a state of heightened clarity and inspiration. Now is not one of those times. To quote REM, "My mind is racing, as it always will. My hand is tired, my heart aches. I'm half a world away." However, that's no excuse, so I'm going to attempt to scatter my thoughts on the page as they are in my mind.

I saw "Minority Report" on opening day, which was Friday, the first day of summer, my birthday. Before I get into the actual film, I must urge all those who have not seen a movie at the Cinerama Dome to do so immediately. This was the third blockbuster ("Lord of the Rings" and "Spiderman") I've seen at the newly-revamped Dome, now part of the Arclight theater complex, which now boasts 14 additional theaters, a lobby that resembles a futuristic airport and includes a gift shop and cafe, and the best concession stand in movie theater history. I am now convinced you have to see big movies there. The theater requires an event film to best utilize its tremendous accoutrements. "Minority Report" is an ideal movie to see at the Dome, a visual feast that makes use of every inch of the massive curved screen and takes advantage of the phenomenal sound system to showcase its superior sound design. "Minority Report" can be described as a futuristic Hitchcockian version of "The Fugitive", and a worthy cousin of "Blade Runner." If you are anywhere near Los Angeles, I highly recommend paying a visit to The Dome, grabbing a gourmet sausage, some caramel popcorn, and a mango smoothie from the snack bar, and taking in the gripping sensation that is "Minority Report."

Germany just scored a goal to take a one-nil lead on South Korea. Michael Ballack, the goal-scorer in the game against the United States, sent home a rebound off the Korean keeper, just moments after he picked up his second yellow card of the knockout round. If Germany advances to the Final, Ballack will not be able to play.

My Girl and I went downtown twice this weekend for some eats. It was her first time dining at Phillipe's The Original, and she was not disappointed by the scrumptious meal of beef dip sandwiches, a bowl of chili, a side of cole slaw, and a towering slice of apple pie for dessert. It was also her first time experiencing the deliciousness that is Yang Chow in Chinatown. The two great meals have compelled me to compile a list of my favorite LA restaurants that don't cost you an arm, a leg, and your dignity. However, I need more data before I publish the list. Check back for details.

The semifinal game just ended, and so did the dream run of co-host South Korea. Germany wins 1-0 and moves on to the Final. South Korea will play in the consolation game in Korea this weekend. I am numb... Not because I am stunned at the result of the game, but due to extreme exhaustion. I'm going back to bed.

BIRTH DAY

Today is the summer solstice. The sun shines longer today than any other day of the year. Today is also my birthday.

I have already completed the first activity of the day, which entailed waking up at 4:30am PST to watch the United States battle Germany in the World Cup quarterfinal. My Girl, being the little trooper she is, woke up and watched with me. Truthfully, the alarm didn't go off and I sprung awake of my own volition at 4:45, thereby missing the first fifteen minutes of the game. Luckily, they were scoreless minutes. The first half was exciting, yet frustrating, as the United States played valiantly, controlling the ball and creating a handful of legitimate scoring chances while standing up to the bigger German team. Brian McBride embodied the underdog American spirit all tournament long, and did so again in this game, winning balls in the air from taller players and exhausting himself in the process. Oliver Kahn, the German goalkeeper, was sensational, making one great save after another and keeping his team in the game. After the Americans were whistled for yet another foul in their own end, Germany put together a terrific set piece to net a header from close range and take a 1-0 lead. A lead they would never relinquish. The second half was more of the same, with the Americans winning the time of possession battle, but failing to beat the keeper. Again, there were plenty of chances -- Landon Donovan earning a bunch of corner kicks with his blazing speed,Greg Berhalter volleying a ball that nearly crossed the line before hitting a German defender's hand which was in the goal, and finally, nearing the end of the match Tony Sanneh heading the ball just wide into the side of the net, -- but an equalizer could not be found.

Although the United States didn't earn a victory in this hard-fought game in the Round of 8, they gained the respect of the soccer world. They played their hearts out, outplaying the Germans in the process. I'll never forget the victories over Portugal and Mexico, or even the draw with South Korea, and I'm confident that their performance in this tournament will lay the groundwork for future World Cup success. I am firmly on the bandwagon and I feel no shame in saying so. I could not be more proud of the effort the U.S. Team put forth in Korea. They displayed true soccer skill and acted as worthy ambassadors of America. Despite the disappointing loss to the favored Germans, their outstanding World Cup run is to be celebrated. The United States has finally landed on the map of the most popular sport in the world. A new soccer power has been born.

BASEBALL BONDS

I weep like a lost child every time I watch the scene from “Field of Dreams” with Kevin Costner playing catch with his deceased father. This may read incredibly cliché, but baseball has forged the single strongest bond between my father and I. At age 5, he taught me how to read the box scores in the sports section of the Ft. Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel. I remember anxiously going outside to get the paper on those mornings when my Dad didn’t do it, aching to find out what my favorite players had done the night before. The day couldn’t properly start without reading the sports while I ate breakfast.

I attended my first Yankee game in 1977, the first of two consecutive championship seasons. At that age, there did not exist a more awe-inspiring structure than Yankee Stadium; the history of the building, the dominance of the ’77 team, and the electricity of the New York crowd… I was The Golden Child. I remember getting very upset that the crowd was booing Lou Pinella, but my mother and grandmother explained they weren’t booing, they were yelling “Lou… Lou…” And of course the Yankees won. I still lived in New York for the first half of my kindergarten year, and in my individual picture, although I’m looking a little femme, I’m wearing the classic navy blue Yankee hat.

My father was an assistant coach of mine during several little league seasons. Back then, I don’t think he had the free time or the energy to devote to the head coaching position, but I know he wanted it. He took great interest in my development as a ball player, helping me constantly, but not pushing me too hard. The results were mixed, as I eventually had the talent to make a very competitive high school team, but ultimately wasn’t good enough to start at my position. My father made a career change that seemed to coincide with me moving out of little league and into high school. From then on, he was the head coach of every single one of my brother’s teams. And he took it very seriously. He was the type of father who would substitute my brother if wasn’t one of the best players on the team. Other fathers didn’t do that. He would yell at his kids to motivate them, but he could also take them aside and talk to them individually in soft tones if necessary. He was well-prepared for tryouts and the draft, even trying to select players he liked over and over again. He argued with umpires, he threw his hat, and he gave inspired pep talks in the dugout between innings, all clear-cut evidence of how much he cared. At the end of one season, during the team party, the parents of the kids presented my Dad with a scroll full of sayings he had quoted or coined over the course of the season, called “Ira’s Idioms.” Some of the more memorable ones included “Always use two hands,” “You gotta think out there,” “Hustle in, hustle out,” and “When you stink, you stink, but tonight you were great.” The man loved coaching so much, he was the head coach of our family friend Michael’s team after my brother stopped playing. And he was so devoted to the PAL (Plantation Athletic League) he became Commissioner of divisions he wasn’t coaching in. That’s how much he loves baseball.

My father’s association with PAL ended with him not getting the recognition he deserved for his commitment to the organization. He lost a close race for Commissioner of the entire league, to a guy who campaigned for the job a great deal more than my Dad did. Since that time, my father has been playing Rotisserie Baseball with the same group of guys for thirteen or fourteen years. The league has been its share of personnel changes, but the core group remains. And you can just imagine, my father takes his fantasy baseball pretty seriously. He watches as many games as he can, he makes certain not to miss Baseball Tonight, and he roots for the players on his team even if they are facing the Yankees. It’s a way for him to stay connected to the game and it’s one of the few social things he does with a group. I’ve had to make a conscious decision in my early adult life to attempt to watch less sports. Therefore, I have not participated in a fantasy baseball league for over ten years. But this year, I decided to get back into the game. I co-own a team with one of my lifelong friends -- we’ll call him Yoz – who has been in this particular league for a bunch of years. In the past, he has co-owned a team with a third lifelong friend -- let’s call him Laz -- and he has owned teams on his own, always competing against my father. And now I’m competing against my father too. In fact, my father just emailed me the other day, proposing a trade. We talk baseball more now than in previous years and it seems like old times. A recent anecdote from my personal journal illustrates my point:

Today's running storyline featured a fantasy baseball league controversy. Last night, Laz was in town on business and called Yoz from my apartment after realizing that our two teams were the only ones who didn't get to participate in the first round of voluntary moves. In all honesty, I have been wrapped up in My Girl and My Writing lately and haven't been paying that much attention to baseball. However, the key issue centered on whether or not everyone in the league had been notified that the voluntary move period was beginning. The Commissioner of the league should have sent out an email newsletter to at least one member of each team thereby ensuring there would be no miscommunication. But, The Commissioner assumed that everyone would read the newsletter on the website that tracks our statistics. I haven't visited the website in weeks, Yoz missed it, and Laz missed it. Laz’s Dad, a league member who doesn't even use a computer, failed to notice the newsletter on the stat sheets he receives via fax. So, the first round of moves went by with Laz’s team and our team as the only ones not to make any moves. Laz and I seemed to have similar reactions, both feeling slighted and agreeing that what transpired was certainly not fair, but neither one of us was truly angry. Yoz and Laz’s Dad reacted more violently. Laz’s Dad apparently called The Commissioner this morning and let him have it in no uncertain terms. As I don't have a transcript of the conversation, I can't be sure exactly what was said, but I know Laz’s Dad was livid. This inspired The Commissioner to call my cell phone at 8:30 am this morning Pacific time. Barely awake, I'm listening to The Commissioner, already in the middle of his East Coast day, prattle on about the controversy and quote previous phone conversations with me, when suddenly I achieved clarity… I don't really care that much about fantasy baseball. But I heard The Commissioner out and got my two cents in and figured I'd email Yoz about it and see what he was planning to do. Later on in the day, before I talked to Yoz, my father calls to see if I've read Yoz's email to The Commissioner. I hadn't checked my email yet, so I had La Ira Bonita read it to me. In the letter, Yoz made some valid arguments citing the miscommunication, but ended it by taking an unfair stab at The Commissioner, implying that The Commissioner may have done this on purpose. My father commented that he didn't think that was a very nice thing to say and I agreed. We talked about the issue for awhile and then caught up on other things and then right before we hung up, unsolicited, my father said "I Love You." I said it back and he told me to give my best to My Girl and we hung up. A shocking breakthrough. Many times, we'll talk on the phone and I'll say "I Love You" and he'll just say goodbye, even though I know that he loves me back. I don't even really need him to say it. But this was initiated by him. Baseball has always been our bond and once again baseball brought us closer together. It's insane to think this fantasy baseball league controversy was a trigger for my father and I to further our relationship, but it was. That's the single greatest thing that could possibly have come out of playing this game.

A TOUCH OF CLASS

There is nothing better in this world than love. But the one thing that might be able to challenge it is… free stuff. Mind you, not all free stuff will be up to the daunting task of competing against mighty love. But free stuff that you actually want is currently the number one contender to Cupid’s title.

Last night, My Girl and I were flying back to Los Angeles from a short vacation in lovely Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. We returned the rental car and arrived at the airport several hours early, so as not to unnerve My Girl by cutting too close, as I am prone to do. As we were walking to the gate, she casually threw out a pointed question: “So, what's our threshold for getting bumped?” My first instinct was $400 worth of travel and My Girl seemed to think that was reasonable. So I approached the counter and asked if they were overbooked, found out they were, and immediately put our names on the volunteer list. They said there were a few people on the list ahead of us and they may not need us, so I didn’t get my hopes up too high. But, they did tell us not to board with the other passengers, so My Girl and I sat in the terminal and speculated on what our travel booty might be if we indeed got bumped from our flight. After everyone had boarded the plane, we felt it was time to ask the attendants at the counter what our status was. The attendent at the counter said they were definitely enlisting our help as volunteers and using our seats. Hooray! Naturally, our next question was: “How much is the voucher good for?” Much to our surprise, we were generously presented with travel vouchers good for one round-trip ticket anywhere U.S. Airways flies in the continental United States and Canada. No dollar amount specified. Plus, we were put on a nonstop flight leaving about three hours later. Unfortunately, they were close to being overbooked for the next flight and didn’t have any seats left in coach, so they had to put us in First Class. Hooray again! And finally, they gave us vouchers for up to $30 worth of food anywhere at the many airport dining establishments. While they were doing the paperwork, one of the attendants went to retrieve yet another passenger who had volunteered. When the young black woman got to the counter and was told that she was being bumped, she said, with attitude: “Oh yeah? And what are you going to give me for it?"” After hearing the words “free flight anywhere in the U.S. or Canada,” she quickly changed her tune and cheerily queried: “Really?!”

Luckily, Pittsburgh Airport contains a mall that proudly declares that the prices are regular mall prices, not airport mall prices. There's Victoria’s Secret, Bath and Body Works, Sunglass Hut, and of course, The Gap. My Girl and I browsed the shops, then spent a very long while in a store that sold nothing but baseball caps, trying on hats before finally buying a few. Then we settled in at T.G.I. Friday’s to relax and allow U.S. Airways to buy us dinner. We started with some Fried Mozzarella, I ate some Chicken Fingers, she had some crappy soup and beer, and by the time we looked at the clock, we had killed a couple of hours. We left the restaurant and headed to our new gate to see if we could turn the trick one more time. At the counter, we asked if they were overbooked, which they were, and volunteered once again. This time, they said they had a list of names and would find us if they needed us. In the meantime, we had ten more voucher dollars to spend. Completely full, I still could not stand to see the potential for free stuff go to waste, so I steered us in the direction of Ben & Jerry’s. My Girl was so full she wasn’t going to order anything, which led me to suggest that we buy ice cream for some other people. As I salivated over which flavor to get, My Girl looked next door and noticed the candy store. Within seconds, I had ditched the ice cream idea and we were scooper-deep in candy bins. Ten dollars worth of candy is a lot. We repeatedly went to the front counter to weigh our Hefty-bag-sized haul until we hit the magic number. Armed with more free stuff, we rushed back to the gate to find that just about everyone had boarded. We asked the ticket-taker if they still needed volunteers, but she got distracted in the middle of her response and mindlessly handed us back our stubs.

We made our way down the jetway and into our luxurious seats in the first row of First Class. There we were treated like very important people with boatloads of money for the length of our five hour flight home. I saw the young black woman from earlier one row over and across from us. She offered to let us watch Buffy The Vampire Slayer DVD’s on her laptop, but then realized her battery was dead. My Girl noticed that she had about five or six Kahlua and Creams and then passed out. Apparently, she liked First Class as much as we did. My Girl and I enjoyed a few ice cold Heinekens served in real glasses and shared a dish of cold shrimp with pasta even though neither one of us was anywhere near hungry. We watched some of the Academy Award-winning “A Beautiful Mind” before My Girl picked up "The Dark Fields," the book I had brought with me intending to read. And then I did something that I find extremely difficult to do on airplanes… I slept. Comfortably. Peacefully. Soundly. I must’ve slept for a good three, three and a half hours. Those First Class seats are just so big and comfy and delicious. And the service is top notch. The male flight attendant was so pleasant and attentive that I wondered whether he was going to ask My Girl and I if we needed to be pleasured orally. After we landed, he remarked to our section that we were the lowest-maintenance First Class group he’s ever had. My theory was that most of the people were bumped from the other flight and were just so happy to be sitting in First Class, they didn’t want to make a fuss and jeopardize their stay in Mile High Paradise. Personally, I wasn’t very demanding because I was fast asleep most of the flight and when I was awake, I didn’t want anyone to think I didn’t belong. Because I did belong. All good people belong in First Class. I told My Girl to get used to it.

MOVE IT OR LOSE IT

For as long as I can remember, I've wanted to be part of a movement. The concept of a group of like-minded individuals banding together to do something revolutionary penetrates me to the core and radiates throughout my being. I want to do something original. I want to be on the edge. I want to be where there’s a groundswell of energy. I want to be a part of something that I’m proud of. I want to participate in changing the world.

This desire was recently reawakened by a documentary entitled "Dogtown and Z-Boys". The film chronicles the acrobatic antics of a group of surfers from Santa Monica and Venice in the mid-70s who combined to redefine the sport of skateboarding. In the wake of a crumbling seaside amusement park, they carved out their territory and dubbed it Dogtown. Armed with skateboards using polyurethane wheels instead of antiquated clay wheels, these athletically gifted kids, aged thirteen to eighteen, mainly from broken homes and lower middle class families, transposed Larry Bertleman's surfing style to the pavement. With the guidance of three mentors -- Jeff Ho, Skip Engblom, and Craig Stecyk -- who owned and operated the Santa Monica-based Zephyr Surf Shop, these daredevils took the skateboarding world by storm. In preparation for a skateboarding competition called the Del-Mar Nationals, the owners of the Zephyr Surf Shop formed a team comprised of the Z-Boys. Bob Biniak, a former Z-Boy described their appearance at the competition as such: “It was like a hockey team going to a figure skating contest.” Craig Stecyk published a series of articles in Skateboarder magazine, chronicling the radical exploits of the Z-Boys, and turned them into cult heroes. The group had all the requisite characters for a movement: superstars in Tony Alva and Stacey Piralta (the director of “Dogtown”), a phenom in thirteen year-old Jay Adams, and one balls-out girl in Peggy Oki. Their revolutionary skateboard movement solidified during the drought of 1976 and 1977. In guerilla fashion, the group began seeking out neighborhood swimming pools that had been drained out from the lack of available water. More often than not, the cops would eventually catch wind of these skating sessions and bust them up. The Z-Boys became so serious about their quest to find new pools to ride that they took along their own pool pumps to drain the remaining water from an otherwise-usable skating surface. Their search for the perfect skate venue ended when a dying rich kid convinced his father to drain their pool so he could watch the Z-Boys carve it up. The pool became known as “The Dogbowl,” and it was here where the movement crested. During one momentous Dogbowl session, Tony Alva defied gravity by flying over the lip of the pool, turning around in the air, and landing his board back on the side wall. In the process, Alva completed the first frontside air and forever changed the sport. One has to look only as far as the half-pipe snowboarding competition at the Winter Olympics to see evidence of the tremendous impact the Z-Boys continue to have on sport and culture.

The Renaissance, The Beat Poets, The Hippies, Your Show of Shows, Saturday Night Live, The Impressionists, The Surrealists, The French New Wave, Independent Film, Grunge, Rap and Hip Hip… I simply love movements. When I recently communicated this to a wise friend of mine, she told me to remember that “money follows movements.” Just about all of the groups listed above eventually encountered some type of commercialization which diluted its initial intent. The most blatant example is the Internet. When it first started to blossom, I recall someone playfully referring to The Net as “the world’s largest magazine rack.” There was something about it that felt like a movement. Democracy and freedom of speech were at play in cyberspace. But, all too quickly, money not only followed that movement, but overwhelmed and drowned it like a tsunami.

I was working in sitcoms during the Internet Bubble and, for a spell, I had this unnerving feeling that I was missing out. A movement was passing me by. Of course, now that we find ourselves on the other side of the phenomenon, I’ve finally made it to the party. And I must say, better late than never, because I’m having a great time. It’s made me realize that I don’t have to wait to find a movement to be a part of, I can be my own movement.

THE WORLD CUP IS MY OYSTER

I have fallen in love with the World Cup all over again. The first time I became smitten with the month-long soccer (futbol) tournament was World Cup 1994 hosted by the United States. I had just moved to Los Angeles on June 1, 1994 to attend an acting school in Pasadena. I had no car, no job, and no money. (I’m setting the scene to give you an idea of just how far I’ve come since then.) L.A. was hosting a good portion of the event and I sat glued to the television in my overheated Hollywood apartment and watched just about every game. I was living with my brother, who was 19 years old and supporting us with his well-paying job at Alamo Rent-a-Car after I drained my savings account moving us in. He was, of course, resentful of the fact that he had to go to work and I only had to go to stupid acting school, and he was also very cheap. He wouldn’t allow me to turn the air conditioner on because it was too expensive. He threatened that if I did turn it on, he wouldn’t pay the bill and allow our electricity to be shut off. So I sat on the couch in this boiling living room with a towel around my neck to wipe the constant stream of sweat pouring off my face. Despite my struggle to breath during several extremely hot afternoons, I remained committed to watching as much soccer as humanly possible. I couldn’t get enough. I was drenched in soccer and loving it.

It’s now eight years later and I’ve had a relapse. I am addicted to the 2002 FIFA World Cup brought to you by Adidas. Strangely enough, once again, I have no car, no job, and no money. Perhaps subconsciously, when the World Cup comes around every four years, I clear my life of any and all distractions that might prevent me from committing to the tournament full force. I suppose the ultimate scenario would have me travel to the host country to physically attend the matches with actual money that I earned by working in some capacity. Ahh, someday… In the meantime, I am perfectly content to slip on my Adidas Sambas, sit back on my purple velvet couch, and watch live soccer on television from 11:30pm to 4:30am PST with the crisp night air flowing through my Westside apartment.

One element that helps cement me to the couch is some of the most colorful commentary in all of sports. Tommy Smyth, an Irish announcer, conveys such unadulterated zeal for the game that I can’t help getting excited with him. It reminds me of watching college basketball games in which Dick Vitale provides the color commentary with boundless joy and enthusiasm. Like Vitale, Smyth uses what seems like his own language to describe the game. Smyth refers to a pretty pass as a “delightful ball” and a solid defensive play as a “well-timed challenge.” After a striker made one move too many and had the ball taken from him outside the penalty box, Smyth remarked, “He needed to give it a good lash.” On the nature of Round 2, the knockout round, Tommy says, “It’s win or go fishin’.”

Another commentator I enjoy seeing in the studio is Ray Hudson. Hudson played for an old NASL (North American Soccer League) team called the Fort Lauderdale Strikers. I used to go to games regularly at Lockhart Stadium where Hudson was an extremely dynamic player and one of my favorites. I even got to meet him once when he came to my elementary school to give a soccer clinic. I remember he tried to teach the group how to do a rainbow kick, but our fourth-grade motor skills weren’t sufficiently developed yet. He brings a lifetime’s worth of experience, a storehouse of knowledge, and a touch of warmth to ESPN’s “World Cup 2Night.”

During the wee hours of this morning, I watched the match between Argentina and Sweden. Argentina, one of the tournament favorites, needed to win the game in order to advance out of “The Group of Death” and into the second round. Despite dominating the time of possession 65 percent to 35 percent, an increasingly frustrated Argentinean squad could not put the ball in the back of the net. One of their forwards, Claudio Lopez, was particularly dreadful. He had numerous scoring chances and found a myriad of ways to botch them. There were bad touches, shots sailed high over the top of the crossbar, whiffs, and a series of poorly-struck corner kicks, exasperating the long-haired attacker each time. Defensive-minded Sweden capitalized on one of its few scoring opportunities, when Anders Svensson sent home a brilliant free kick over the wall of defenders and off the goalie’s hand in the 59th minute. Argentina continued to apply the pressure, but fail to finish, until the 88th minute when they scored on a rebounded penalty kick to tie the game. And that was only their second goal of the tournament! Fittingly, in the last minute of the game, Lopez had one more golden chance to win the match and propel Argentina into the next round, but put the ball into the side of the net. As the game was winding down, the announcer summed up Sweden’s play in earning a tie as “efficient if inelegant.” So now two world soccer powers have been eliminated from the tournament in the opening round. France, the defending World Cup champions, failed to score a single goal in their three games and were summarily sent packing. There have only been seven nations to win The Cup -- France, Italy, England, Germany, Brazil, Argentina, and Uruguay. All of them qualified for these games. Out of those seven, only Italy, England, Germany, and Brazil remain. Perhaps more soccer superpowers will go by the wayside and the surprising U.S. squad, affectionately known as Sam's Army, can shock the world. Stay up late or set your alarm clocks to find out.

I am awestruck by the sheer fanaticism of soccer's followers. With a renewed sense of patriotism in the wake of 9-11, I find there's an added dimension to rooting on the United States team. I don't think I'll soon be rioting in the stands or the streets like some deranged soccer hooligan, but I'm now starting to understand and appreciate the fervor fans show in supporting their home country. After all, what makes this the world's most popular sport is that the culture, ideology, and flavor of a country is reflected in its brand of soccer. And I believe the post-game jersey exchange is the most Utopian ritual in all of sports. After watching the Winter Olympics earlier this year and now the Copa Mundial, I have formulated the following potentially profound observation:

Baseball, Basketball, and Football are sports owned by America.
Tennis and Golf are worldly sports.
Hockey and Soccer are sports that belong to the world.

HAPPY HAPPY JOY JOY

Someone remarked to me the other day that I overestimate how unhappy others are because I judge their happiness in relation to mine. Apparently, I am happier than most other human beings. I may have known this for most of my life, but I feel like I'm really processing it now for the first time. I have fun. I make people laugh a lot. I laugh a lot. I brighten peoples’ day. And I get a lot of pleasure from doing this. I want others to be as happy as I am. I feel like a lack of severe trauma has freed me up to be a well-adjusted free-spirited young adult moving through the world with great confidence.

I was having a conversation one evening with some old friends who were commenting on my unemployed lifestyle. They are the types of people who need to be working. They cannot fathom a life without the structure of a job. And they marvel at my ability to make it work against all odds. My Girl made the point that after not working for a stretch and finding you can get by, you start to see that it's possible. And life is so much better without having to go into the office. I'm not against working per se, but I am deathly afraid of the idea of working at a job I don't truly love and having no endpoint. As much as I hated working as an assistant on sitcoms the last couple of seasons, I always knew that it would end. At worst, the show would go a full season and production would cease. Otherwise, I could not have survived. I would have quit. During the last grueling week of this past season, I started to feel lightheaded and dizzy, and my vision was blurred. Thanks to my mother’s diagnosis over the phone, I discovered I had extremely high blood pressure.

Now I am at a crossroads. Out of the last two and a half years, I have only worked a total of about a year. During that time, I have a amassed a ton of life experience, a boatload of good times, and twenty four thousand dollars of credit card debt. My unemployment just went up from two hundred thirty a week to three hundred thirty a week. Without having taxes taken out, which has never come back to haunt me before, that sum of money is more than I can make temping or at some other menial job. Therefore, it would behoove me to take a job only if I was being paid the same amount of money I was making on those shitcoms or more. I am willing to gain such employment if the opportunity should present itself, but the job market is for shit right now and I know of a vast number of people around my age who have either gotten laid off due to corporate consolidation and integration or find themselves at a similar crossroads, deciding whether or not to make a career change. The fallout from the giant bursting of the internet bubble is most evident in my generation. Technology and the economy are in great flux. Consequently, so is the labor pool.

One invaluable thing I've learned over the past few years is that if necessary, I can live on very little money. That's not to say that I don't desire material possessions. I won't claim to be that saintly. But I don't need them to be happy. At the moment, I'm unemployed and broke, without a car and without any job leads. But I have fulfilling relationships with my family and friends and I've found a fantastic girl who I have a lot of fun with and who compliments me extremely well. I'm not averse to making a living, but I don't want to sacrifice this happiness for financial security. Granted, I want health insurance, I want to claw my way out of debt, I want to make a down payment on a new car, I want to travel to exotic locales, I want to take My Girl out to eat at the fanciest restaurant for her birthday, I want to upgrade my electronic equipment to take advantage of the latest advances in technology, and I want as much disposable income as possible, but those things aren't nearly as important to me as spreading love throughout the world. It's what I'm best at. Whether it brings me wealth or not, I’m confident that somewhere down the line I'll be well-compensated.

DANGLING PLUMSACK

I met the rudest human being on the planet yesterday. I suppose I was aware that that level of asshole existed, but I don't think I've ever quite experienced it first-hand before now. A friend took My Girl and I to a Sunday barbecue slash birthday party in the Hollywood Hills. He warned us before we went that the hosts would not be very welcoming, but there would be an abundance of food. So, dragging our diminished expectations with us, we entered the extravagant domicile. As we strolled in, Randy, the world's largest dillhole, greeted us wearing a XXXXL black tank top to mercifully cover his enormous torso and tiny little black workout shorts to support his dangling plumsack. Two huge black dogs greeted us with infinitely more warmth than Randy, who shook my friend's hand, shook My Girl's hand as my friend introduced her, then barely made eye contact with me. I was petting one of the black beasts at the time and had to move around him to shake Randy's hand. By the time I approached him (a matter of seconds) with an extended hand, he was already greeting another couple, shaking both their hands, as I continued to extend mine. Shockingly, Randy never made it back to my hand. An unmistakable, unequivocal, unceremonious snub. Randy clearly saw my hand out there, holding firm in the tainted air of Hollywood Hills, and he purposely ingnored it. I have no idea why.

I came to find out from my friend that Randy was a professional party planner. My friend and his partner had deejayed an overindulgent birthday party for some crappy sitcom creator, thrown by none other than Randy, the world's largest dillhole. I never did find out just how my friend knew the fake-breasted blonde birthday girl, but once he told me she lived in the house with Randy, the pieces made enough sense that I ended the line of questioning. So, with a professional party planner behind the wheel, you had to figure that this barbecue would soon kick into high gear. As more and more people arrived, I began to notice that it was mostly middle-aged gay men and their little bitch boys. There were very few girls there, and the ones who did attend weren't attractive enough to draw attention away from the big-fake-titted birthday blonde. There was a sort of buffet table set up, featuring salad and taquitos and chips, salsa, and guacamole. Outside, there was a long table with beer, soda, water, and more chips, but no dips. There were lots of round tables with blue tablecloths spread around the patio area. In one corner was a giant multi-colored inflatable Twister board. All the way in the opposite corner, a hot tub and some chaise lounges. In a room opening out onto the back patio, there sat three lonely tables draped in pink tableclothes. I did not see one person use those pathetic indoor tables once during the entire party. The middle of the patio showcased the pool, inexplicably filled with primary-colored floats and toys and gigantic beach balls.

One of the first people we met was an aggressively friendly, sexually charged bitch boy. He seemed bisexual or omnisexual, and his vibe was a bit overwhelming. We settled at one of the blue tableclothed tables on the Twister side of the pool. We ate chips and salsa and guacamole and strawberries and drank some while we gazed around the party and waited for it to take off. The more we looked around, the more we realized we were in The Land of Forgotten Fags. It was easily the ugliest crowd of people ever assembled at a Hollywood party. Nobody had any life to them either. There was no vibe at all. If this party were in Bakersfield, I would have thought it was cool. But I say with absolute confidence that this was one of the worst parties ever thrown in the glamor-filled hills of Hollywood. Nobody played Twister, barely anybody went in the pool, and for the majority of the day, the hot tub was filled with a variety of alpha fags and bitch boys. My Girl and I found solace in the chaise lounge corner during the sunny Sunday afternoon. We made each other laugh and engaged a few strange people around us in conversation. Lameness everywhere, highlighted by a surreal trip into the house to get some wine, water, and chocolate cake. From my corner of the patio, I heard some people cheering inside. Thinking a group had gathered to watch the Laker game, I ventured in to find out what was going on. A highly unattractive overweight woman with red-dyed hair was playing the piano poorly and butchering the vocals to "The Rose." Starved for any form of entertainment they could get, the faggiest of the forgotten fags stood in rapt attention, listening to this dank diva wail. Some of them may have been weeping, for I thought I saw Randy, the world's largest dillhole, tearing up as he leaned his enormous torso on the aching piano. Finally, some of my friend's friends showed up, grilled some steaks, and brought a much-needed breath of fresh air to the gasping patio party. Considering the alternatives, I was even thrilled to talk to my friend's deejay partner, who I always found to be kind of uptight. I happily hung out with he and his Brazilian wife for awhile before the sound of kids caught my attention.

I got up and walked over to find my friend jumping up and down on the inflatable Twister board with three little girls around eight to eleven years old. I immediately took off my Adidas Sambas and starting bouncing along with them. My added weight and the height of my jumps caused them to jump even higher. I continued to jump with the girls after my friend stepped off. They started baiting me and teasing me, telling me that there were no grown-ups allowed on the giant Twister. I insisted I was still a kid. They proceeded to list the reasons why I wasn't a kid: I was a hairy stinky grown-up with too much facial hair and back hair and stomach hair and not enough hair on my head and some gray hair in my beard. Kids can be so cruel. But I played along and it turned into a wrestling match. The girls climbed all over me and slapped me upside the head and in the face, with the strong one even putting me in a pretty decent chokehold. I tossed them around like ragdolls and played the grown-up villain while My Girl and my friend and some others looked on. I got my friend to spell me for a bit while I caught my breath, then went back in for more. The father of two of the girls approached them and told them they had five more minutes to play before it was time to go. The girls negotiated ten more minutes and battered my body some more until it was finally time to go. As the father led them out, one of them tapped me on the head as she walked by. The father patted me on the back without saying anything and they were gone. The little girls and My Girl and my friend and I easily had the best time of any afternoon party attendee. I chatted with my friend's friends for a little longer until they too decided to call it a day. My friend and My Girl and I were about to do the same when My Girl suggested we go in the hot tub. Within minutes, we were Jacuzziing.

Shortly after we began soaking, a late twentysomething frat boy from Manhattan Beach got in with his soft-spoken Asian friend. And then the balloon-breasted birthday blonde joined us. A couple of the bodacious co-host's friends hung out at the edges and dipped their feet in. It seemed at least two of the three girls wanted my friend, who took to rubbing the bosomy blonde's toes. My Girl and I did our best to push the boundaries and pimp out my friend, though it was pretty obvious that one of the girls with her feet in the whirlpool dug him too. The other friend on the outside seemed to be more into My Girl and I, who were clearly the two most entertaining people in the pool. One of the girls was an actress turned writer/director who was telling us all about her feature that she was premiering at Cannes. One of them was a massage therapist at a wellness center in my neighborhood. And I never really found out exactly what capacity the birthday blonde was employed by Warner Brothers, although from all appearances, it very well may have been as a floater. As the evening was winding down, I motivated everyone to quickly dive into the pool. There the primary-colored oversized pool toys finally came into play, although only long enough to have a picture snapped before we all jumped back into the Jacuzzi. After a few last minutes of luxury lounging, we toweled off and began to say our goodbyes. My Girl and I told the massage therapist we wanted to get together. After wishing the bountiful bleach-blonde a happy birthday for the last time, she hugged us and invited us to come over for a more intimate dinner party featuring a bottle of Patrone and some more hot-tubbing. Pretty hard to resist that.

On the way out the door, My Girl spotted Randy sitting on the couch talking to some forgotten faggot friends of his. There was a momentary lull in the conversation as My Girl said "Thanks for having us" to Randy. Without missing a beat, Randy dove right back into conversation, intenionally disregarding My Girl. I meekly uttered "Thanks." No acknowledgement whatsoever. Blondie walked us out and hugged each of us again as the dogs rubbed up against us to say goodbye in their own way. Those warm gestures spoke volumes considering their cold-hearted master is the biggest dillhole in the universe.