A MIXED BAG
I'm in my own personal sports hell with both the Florida Gators and New York Yankees suffering season-ending losses today, the Gators figuratively, the Yankees literally.
But on the bright side, I had my first job interview in ages yesterday and I borrowed money to buy a 1989 Toyota Celica convertible. I'm back on the road to normalcy.
Saturday, October 05, 2002
NO MERCY, SENSAI
There are still two outs in the fifth inning of game four in the Angels-Yankees series. A nightmare inning for the Yankees. Another base hit. Mercifully, the runner is held at third. Ten hits in the inning. Wells has been yanked. Mendoza has been yanked. This is what losing feels like. Last year, it wasn't until the very last moment of the World Series when the Yankees and their fans tasting losing for the first time in four years. Now I can identify with the feeling of getting beaten around and thoroughly outplayed in a series. Hats off to the Angels, they've hit the crap out of the ball and gotten the majority of the breaks. I feel blessed to have experienced so much victory as a Yankee fan, and while I may be in severe sporting pain at the moment, I applaud the excellence that's required to defeat such a dynastic team. Finally, the third out, the Yanks are out of the inning. It's not looking good, but the Yankees still have twelve outs left. Posada just hit a home run to lead off the Yankee half of the sixth.
There are still two outs in the fifth inning of game four in the Angels-Yankees series. A nightmare inning for the Yankees. Another base hit. Mercifully, the runner is held at third. Ten hits in the inning. Wells has been yanked. Mendoza has been yanked. This is what losing feels like. Last year, it wasn't until the very last moment of the World Series when the Yankees and their fans tasting losing for the first time in four years. Now I can identify with the feeling of getting beaten around and thoroughly outplayed in a series. Hats off to the Angels, they've hit the crap out of the ball and gotten the majority of the breaks. I feel blessed to have experienced so much victory as a Yankee fan, and while I may be in severe sporting pain at the moment, I applaud the excellence that's required to defeat such a dynastic team. Finally, the third out, the Yanks are out of the inning. It's not looking good, but the Yankees still have twelve outs left. Posada just hit a home run to lead off the Yankee half of the sixth.
Friday, October 04, 2002
A PAUSE… FOR DRAMATIC EFFECT
To conclude the comprehensive three-part review of the first two weeks of the fall television season, let us turn our attention to the best genre that TV has to offer – the one-hour drama. Now sampling one-hour shows is a much more daunting task than planting yourself on the couch with some 3-D Doritos to check out the latest shitcom. For one thing, you have to pay attention. There is no laugh track to use as a guide in deciding what is entertaining and what is not. Also, you run the risk of getting attached to a show and having to block off a whole hour to watch it each week. But, these dramas do offer the greatest potential rewards on the tube.
Thus far, I’ve caught episodes of “Push, Nevada”, “That Was Then”, “American Dreams”, and a portion of the premiere of “CSI: Miami.” The first episode of “Push, Nevada” captured my attention. I thought the writing was crisp, the casting was pretty good, and the thing was dripping with style. Call me an idiot, but I don’t really get the whole “solve the mystery and win a million bucks” gimmick. Maybe it will become clearer with time. I missed the second episode, but watched the third. By the end, my enthusiasm had waned. This obvious Twin Peaks wannabe had yet to give me enough clues as to what was going on. It didn’t draw me in, and there was nothing to keep me in, so I exited “Push, Nevada.” Judging from the ratings of the first few airings against heavy competition, if you’re curious at all, you better check it out fast.
Being a sucker for all things 80s, I had to watch “That Was Then.” The premise, ripped directly from “Back to the Future,” has the main 30-something character transported back to his high school days in the “Me Decade.” At the end of the somewhat amusing hour, he finds himself back in the present day, which has been altered to reflect the changes that he caused by reliving that portion of his life. Essentially, they boiled down "Back to the Future" into a pilot episode, but the reduction is not quite as tasty as the plot in its organic form. In fact, this whole metaphor has turned sour, because to create a reduction one removes the water, to create a television show one must water down a movie premise. "The In-Laws" has applied the same water-heavy formula to "Meet the Parents" and after airing four episodes in two weeks, I'd say it's already drowning creatively. I'm on the fence with "That Was Then," that way I'll be safe if the water level keeps rising.
I've never watched an episode of "CSI: Crime Scene Investigation" all the way through. But, being from the South Florida area, naturally, I tuned in for the premire of "CSI: Miami." I caught the first two scenes and thought it was highly stylized and well-produced but not my type of show. However, I will be watching this coming Monday because my friend, G-Style, wrote the episode. It's his first produced hour of television, so a hearty Mazel Tov goes out to G-Style.
The brand new one-hour I like the best is “American Dreams.” It’s a period piece set in the early 60s, another decade I can’t get enough of. It centers on a white family in Philadelphia. The teenage daughter wants to change her goody-goody image by appearing on “American Bandstand” as a dancer. It’s a soft show with a hint of an edge. When the teenage boy of the family, a high school football star, goes to tell his coach he doesn’t want to play football anymore, the Priest/Head Football Coach is smoking a cigarette and dispensing advice much more as the Football Coach than the Priest. The ending was emotional, as we see each member of the family react to the news that President Kennedy had been assassinated. But I felt a bit manipulated. I thought the use of Kennedy’s death to signal the loss of innocence was a little too on the head, a little too easy. I’m anxious to see what the tone is like in episode two, which airs this Sunday night, because I think this show has real potential.
All talk of potential is inconsequencial when referring to shows already operating their at their peak levels. "The West Wing" and "The Sopranos" are such shows. Sure, the Wing beats you over the head with it's self-righteousness unto you submit to its liberal leanings, but the dialogue crackles, the cast is sensational, and the production values are top notch. The storyline involving the fallout from the assassination of a Middle East leader and suspected terrorist has launched this season into high drama from the get go. With the presidential campaign acting as a frame for the season, the Wing just might be propelled into that rarified air occupied by television's all-time best dramas.
"The Sopranos" is already there. I'm still pissed that they took a year and half off after its only sub-par season and left us twisting in the wind, but I can't stay mad at this masterpiece. If it wasn't for "Six Feet Under", who knows, I may not even have a subscription to HBO anymore. That show rose to the top in the absence of TV's most beloved Mob family, pushing the boundaries of the medium in its two seasons since "The Sopranos" last aired original episodes. But now that lovable henchman of a show comes storming back to take back it's rightful place at the apex of the televised universe. The first three shows have been fluid and challenging, constantly shape-shifting and forcing you to have faith and flow with it. There is a tremendous confidence in the execution of this exalted program and an unpredictability that never lets you get settled and never lets you know what's really going to happen until it fully unfolds. Most of TV bores us by telegraphing their outcomes. We're too savvy. We've seen too much TV. But we've never seen anything like "Six Feet Under" and we've never seen the likes of "The Sopranos." Let's call a spade a spade: It's not TV, it's HBO.
To conclude the comprehensive three-part review of the first two weeks of the fall television season, let us turn our attention to the best genre that TV has to offer – the one-hour drama. Now sampling one-hour shows is a much more daunting task than planting yourself on the couch with some 3-D Doritos to check out the latest shitcom. For one thing, you have to pay attention. There is no laugh track to use as a guide in deciding what is entertaining and what is not. Also, you run the risk of getting attached to a show and having to block off a whole hour to watch it each week. But, these dramas do offer the greatest potential rewards on the tube.
Thus far, I’ve caught episodes of “Push, Nevada”, “That Was Then”, “American Dreams”, and a portion of the premiere of “CSI: Miami.” The first episode of “Push, Nevada” captured my attention. I thought the writing was crisp, the casting was pretty good, and the thing was dripping with style. Call me an idiot, but I don’t really get the whole “solve the mystery and win a million bucks” gimmick. Maybe it will become clearer with time. I missed the second episode, but watched the third. By the end, my enthusiasm had waned. This obvious Twin Peaks wannabe had yet to give me enough clues as to what was going on. It didn’t draw me in, and there was nothing to keep me in, so I exited “Push, Nevada.” Judging from the ratings of the first few airings against heavy competition, if you’re curious at all, you better check it out fast.
Being a sucker for all things 80s, I had to watch “That Was Then.” The premise, ripped directly from “Back to the Future,” has the main 30-something character transported back to his high school days in the “Me Decade.” At the end of the somewhat amusing hour, he finds himself back in the present day, which has been altered to reflect the changes that he caused by reliving that portion of his life. Essentially, they boiled down "Back to the Future" into a pilot episode, but the reduction is not quite as tasty as the plot in its organic form. In fact, this whole metaphor has turned sour, because to create a reduction one removes the water, to create a television show one must water down a movie premise. "The In-Laws" has applied the same water-heavy formula to "Meet the Parents" and after airing four episodes in two weeks, I'd say it's already drowning creatively. I'm on the fence with "That Was Then," that way I'll be safe if the water level keeps rising.
I've never watched an episode of "CSI: Crime Scene Investigation" all the way through. But, being from the South Florida area, naturally, I tuned in for the premire of "CSI: Miami." I caught the first two scenes and thought it was highly stylized and well-produced but not my type of show. However, I will be watching this coming Monday because my friend, G-Style, wrote the episode. It's his first produced hour of television, so a hearty Mazel Tov goes out to G-Style.
The brand new one-hour I like the best is “American Dreams.” It’s a period piece set in the early 60s, another decade I can’t get enough of. It centers on a white family in Philadelphia. The teenage daughter wants to change her goody-goody image by appearing on “American Bandstand” as a dancer. It’s a soft show with a hint of an edge. When the teenage boy of the family, a high school football star, goes to tell his coach he doesn’t want to play football anymore, the Priest/Head Football Coach is smoking a cigarette and dispensing advice much more as the Football Coach than the Priest. The ending was emotional, as we see each member of the family react to the news that President Kennedy had been assassinated. But I felt a bit manipulated. I thought the use of Kennedy’s death to signal the loss of innocence was a little too on the head, a little too easy. I’m anxious to see what the tone is like in episode two, which airs this Sunday night, because I think this show has real potential.
All talk of potential is inconsequencial when referring to shows already operating their at their peak levels. "The West Wing" and "The Sopranos" are such shows. Sure, the Wing beats you over the head with it's self-righteousness unto you submit to its liberal leanings, but the dialogue crackles, the cast is sensational, and the production values are top notch. The storyline involving the fallout from the assassination of a Middle East leader and suspected terrorist has launched this season into high drama from the get go. With the presidential campaign acting as a frame for the season, the Wing just might be propelled into that rarified air occupied by television's all-time best dramas.
"The Sopranos" is already there. I'm still pissed that they took a year and half off after its only sub-par season and left us twisting in the wind, but I can't stay mad at this masterpiece. If it wasn't for "Six Feet Under", who knows, I may not even have a subscription to HBO anymore. That show rose to the top in the absence of TV's most beloved Mob family, pushing the boundaries of the medium in its two seasons since "The Sopranos" last aired original episodes. But now that lovable henchman of a show comes storming back to take back it's rightful place at the apex of the televised universe. The first three shows have been fluid and challenging, constantly shape-shifting and forcing you to have faith and flow with it. There is a tremendous confidence in the execution of this exalted program and an unpredictability that never lets you get settled and never lets you know what's really going to happen until it fully unfolds. Most of TV bores us by telegraphing their outcomes. We're too savvy. We've seen too much TV. But we've never seen anything like "Six Feet Under" and we've never seen the likes of "The Sopranos." Let's call a spade a spade: It's not TV, it's HBO.
Thursday, October 03, 2002
I WANT A NEW DRUG
I overdosed on reality television this summer by religiously following "American Idol." Now I need to get my ass into a rehab program good and quick because I'm finally ready to quit. By the end of its run, I hated "American Idol." Don't get me wrong, I knew it sucked from the very beginning, but I was having some campy fun watching it and making fun of it and I enjoyed hating it. But after Christina Christian and Tamyra Gray were beaten out by the highly untalented Nikki McKibbin, all pleasure was gone, only pain remained. Now the fall season is underway and offering a serious dosage of reality TV and I have to admit to having some cravings. I see the promos and I feel the itch. I want to make fun of real people making asses out of themselves on television again. I had one relapse. I watched the second episode of "Survivor:Thailand" and that was enough to convince me that I can kick the habit. Last season's finale of “Survivor: Marquesas” was one of the worst television programs I have ever seen, with two extremely boring contestants I didn’t care one iota about vying for the million bucks and Rosie O’Donnell singing the Gilligan’s Island theme with Survivor lyrics. That should have been it for my tenuous association with the "Survivor" franchise right there. But I gave it one a shot, praying for another Colby or Elizabeth or even Richard Hatch. No such luck. More droning on about so-and-so not pulling their weight and should we vote out this poor schmuck or that whiny bitch. I liked both The Amazing Race and The Bachelor last season, but now they’re going up against each other and, more importantly, The West Wing. That makes it easy to just say no to those two tempting programs. All in all, I'm pretty hopeful that I can put the reality television addiction behind me. I'm just taking it one time slot at a time.
I overdosed on reality television this summer by religiously following "American Idol." Now I need to get my ass into a rehab program good and quick because I'm finally ready to quit. By the end of its run, I hated "American Idol." Don't get me wrong, I knew it sucked from the very beginning, but I was having some campy fun watching it and making fun of it and I enjoyed hating it. But after Christina Christian and Tamyra Gray were beaten out by the highly untalented Nikki McKibbin, all pleasure was gone, only pain remained. Now the fall season is underway and offering a serious dosage of reality TV and I have to admit to having some cravings. I see the promos and I feel the itch. I want to make fun of real people making asses out of themselves on television again. I had one relapse. I watched the second episode of "Survivor:Thailand" and that was enough to convince me that I can kick the habit. Last season's finale of “Survivor: Marquesas” was one of the worst television programs I have ever seen, with two extremely boring contestants I didn’t care one iota about vying for the million bucks and Rosie O’Donnell singing the Gilligan’s Island theme with Survivor lyrics. That should have been it for my tenuous association with the "Survivor" franchise right there. But I gave it one a shot, praying for another Colby or Elizabeth or even Richard Hatch. No such luck. More droning on about so-and-so not pulling their weight and should we vote out this poor schmuck or that whiny bitch. I liked both The Amazing Race and The Bachelor last season, but now they’re going up against each other and, more importantly, The West Wing. That makes it easy to just say no to those two tempting programs. All in all, I'm pretty hopeful that I can put the reality television addiction behind me. I'm just taking it one time slot at a time.
Wednesday, October 02, 2002
COMEDY OR TRAGEDY?
I’ve been watching a lot of television the last week and a half, sampling the new season’s offerings. I’ve seen a slew of sacrificial sitcoms, some potentially intriguing dramas, and a bunch of rapidly decaying reality shows. Every year the fall television season brings with it the hope of the new. Hope that a new story will capture our imagination, that new situations will make us laugh despite the annoying laugh track instructing us to do so, and that new characters will make us identify with them, care for them, and live vicariously through them. A very small percentage of shows are successful in accomplishing these lofty goals, leaving us with a scrap heap piled high with disappointment. Yet, being the gluttons that we are, we keep coming back for more. Stubborn. Curious. Hopeful.
As far as comedy is concerned, there hasn’t been a whole lot of it. That’s not to say that there aren’t many attempts at comedy. It seems like someone was shaking the death rattle for sitcoms a bit prematurely. They’re everywhere. So far I’ve watched Curb Your Enthusiasm, Everybody Loves Raymond, The In-Laws, 8 Simple Rules For Dating My Daughter, Life With Bonnie, Hidden Hills, Friends, Will & Grace, Scrubs, part of Good Morning Miami, and part of Less Than Perfect. And there were a bunch that I missed! There is no comedy on TV that consistently cracks me up. I’ve had sporadic laugh-out-loud moments while watching Curb, Raymond, Friends, Will & Grace, and Scrubs. I enjoy those shows, but I don’t love any of them. I’ve given my best effort in trying to love Curb Your Enthusiasm, really, I have. But too often I find that Larry is simply too much of an asshole… and I like him! Sometimes he's such an asshole it’s unrealistic, and with it’s improv methodology and stolen-from-life storylines, Curb is heavily reliant on realism. I do love how ballsy and daring the show can be, but when you have an editor, it’s improvisation with a net. I believe the show would be even funnier if it was scripted. As far as the new sitcoms go, I think Life With Bonnie is kind of funny and Hidden Hills gets some points for style, but The In-Laws, 8 Simple Rules…, Good Morning Miami, and Less Than Perfect all feel like stale soundstage-bound sitcoms that aren’t nearly as funny as the cranked up laugh track would lead us to believe. Frasier I could give two shits about.
There haven’t been many funny films lately either. What happened? Where did the funny go? The third installment in the Austin Powers series was funny, but I’m hard-pressed to name more movies this year that made me laugh. Thank God for “My Big Fat Greek Wedding.” That movie is pretty funny and very charming and it’s a runaway hit. It’s easily the most profitable film of the year. People can’t get enough of it. They’re going back to see it three and four times. People are starving for a good laugh. These days, it seems like good comedies are as rare as honest corporate accountants.
I’ll continue with reality TV and dramas tomorrow.
I’ve been watching a lot of television the last week and a half, sampling the new season’s offerings. I’ve seen a slew of sacrificial sitcoms, some potentially intriguing dramas, and a bunch of rapidly decaying reality shows. Every year the fall television season brings with it the hope of the new. Hope that a new story will capture our imagination, that new situations will make us laugh despite the annoying laugh track instructing us to do so, and that new characters will make us identify with them, care for them, and live vicariously through them. A very small percentage of shows are successful in accomplishing these lofty goals, leaving us with a scrap heap piled high with disappointment. Yet, being the gluttons that we are, we keep coming back for more. Stubborn. Curious. Hopeful.
As far as comedy is concerned, there hasn’t been a whole lot of it. That’s not to say that there aren’t many attempts at comedy. It seems like someone was shaking the death rattle for sitcoms a bit prematurely. They’re everywhere. So far I’ve watched Curb Your Enthusiasm, Everybody Loves Raymond, The In-Laws, 8 Simple Rules For Dating My Daughter, Life With Bonnie, Hidden Hills, Friends, Will & Grace, Scrubs, part of Good Morning Miami, and part of Less Than Perfect. And there were a bunch that I missed! There is no comedy on TV that consistently cracks me up. I’ve had sporadic laugh-out-loud moments while watching Curb, Raymond, Friends, Will & Grace, and Scrubs. I enjoy those shows, but I don’t love any of them. I’ve given my best effort in trying to love Curb Your Enthusiasm, really, I have. But too often I find that Larry is simply too much of an asshole… and I like him! Sometimes he's such an asshole it’s unrealistic, and with it’s improv methodology and stolen-from-life storylines, Curb is heavily reliant on realism. I do love how ballsy and daring the show can be, but when you have an editor, it’s improvisation with a net. I believe the show would be even funnier if it was scripted. As far as the new sitcoms go, I think Life With Bonnie is kind of funny and Hidden Hills gets some points for style, but The In-Laws, 8 Simple Rules…, Good Morning Miami, and Less Than Perfect all feel like stale soundstage-bound sitcoms that aren’t nearly as funny as the cranked up laugh track would lead us to believe. Frasier I could give two shits about.
There haven’t been many funny films lately either. What happened? Where did the funny go? The third installment in the Austin Powers series was funny, but I’m hard-pressed to name more movies this year that made me laugh. Thank God for “My Big Fat Greek Wedding.” That movie is pretty funny and very charming and it’s a runaway hit. It’s easily the most profitable film of the year. People can’t get enough of it. They’re going back to see it three and four times. People are starving for a good laugh. These days, it seems like good comedies are as rare as honest corporate accountants.
I’ll continue with reality TV and dramas tomorrow.
Tuesday, October 01, 2002
POST-SEASON PRESS CONFERENCE
The major league baseball regular season has come to an end and once again I am extremely proud to be a fan of the most fabled franchise in all of sports -- The New York Yankees. The Bronx Bombers finished with the league's best record and home field advantage throughout the playoffs. Tonight, the Yanks set their sights on yet another championship, as they begin the AL Division Series against the surprising Disney-owned Anaheim Angels. Not only did the Yankees have a tremendous season as a team, but second baseman Alfonso Soriano exploded and established himself as a legitimate superstar, falling one home run shy of a 40 homer-40 stolen base season. Soriano was arguably the most valuable fantasy player in the league this season. Unfortunately, he was not on my team. Which brings me to the real reason why I called this press conference.
As co-owner of Yozanger, the troubled IBL franchise, I, along with my partner, endured a lot of heartache this past season. After extensive pre-season preparation and the good fortune of selecting A-Rod with the first pick in the draft, we fully expected Yozanger to challenge for the league title. That did not happen. Our team chemistry was a problem from the very beginning. The team suffered a few injuries, highly touted prospects struggled, and a few of our big guns got off to slow starts. Manny Ramirez was out for a significant stretch during the middle of what could have been an unbelievable year for the slugger, who wound up winning the batting title. Yozanger got sub-par years from Jeff Bagwell and J.D. Drew, both high draft choices and major disappointments. On the subject of disappointment, our scouts were very high on Toby Hall and Jose Ortiz heading into the draft, but both players turned out to be complete duds and sucked a lot of life out of our club. Paul LoDuca and Adam Dunn, two players who may turn out to be great one day, showed promise at various points of the season, but faded at the end, with Dunn in particular going into a horrible slump where he forgot how to hit a baseball. We made a few good pickups along the way, namely Randy Winn, Jacque Jones, and Junior Spivey, but those positive moves did not outnumber the negative ones. Frankly, our team was unbalanced. Our hitting was atrocious and our pitching was fantastic. We won the two most telling pitching categories, earned run average and WHIP ratio (walks plus hits to innings pitched), finished fourth in saves, and tied for fourth in wins. We had a twenty-three game winner in Barry Zito, a twenty game winner in Pedro Martinez, and a nineteen game winner in Roy Halladay. One of those three will assuredly win the Cy Young award. In contrast, the team finished the season fourth in home runs, last in RBI, last in stolen bases, last in average, and sixth in runs. Anemic. Overall, Yozanger ended the season cemented in sixth place out of eight teams, neither challenging for fifth nor being challenged by the bottom two teams.
Looking back on this exasperating season, my first back in the game after a ten-year layoff, I cannot say that I got that much pleasure out of playing. In fact, I think I followed baseball less and less as the season wore on because of the fantasy stress. Despite some questionable rules which led to some heated controversy in the league this season, I think the other owners in the league are a great group of guys. Although some might raise an eyebrow at the commissioner's team finishing in first place, I believe everything was on the up-and-up and I congratulate him on a well-played game. And while I thoroughly enjoyed working with my partner and life-long friend in the day-to-day operations of Yozanger, it is with great regret that I announce my decision to sell my interest in the team and retire from the game. To paraphrase Lou Gehrig, one of the all-time Yankee greats... Today, I consider myself the unluckiest rotisserie baseball owner on the face of the earth.
The major league baseball regular season has come to an end and once again I am extremely proud to be a fan of the most fabled franchise in all of sports -- The New York Yankees. The Bronx Bombers finished with the league's best record and home field advantage throughout the playoffs. Tonight, the Yanks set their sights on yet another championship, as they begin the AL Division Series against the surprising Disney-owned Anaheim Angels. Not only did the Yankees have a tremendous season as a team, but second baseman Alfonso Soriano exploded and established himself as a legitimate superstar, falling one home run shy of a 40 homer-40 stolen base season. Soriano was arguably the most valuable fantasy player in the league this season. Unfortunately, he was not on my team. Which brings me to the real reason why I called this press conference.
As co-owner of Yozanger, the troubled IBL franchise, I, along with my partner, endured a lot of heartache this past season. After extensive pre-season preparation and the good fortune of selecting A-Rod with the first pick in the draft, we fully expected Yozanger to challenge for the league title. That did not happen. Our team chemistry was a problem from the very beginning. The team suffered a few injuries, highly touted prospects struggled, and a few of our big guns got off to slow starts. Manny Ramirez was out for a significant stretch during the middle of what could have been an unbelievable year for the slugger, who wound up winning the batting title. Yozanger got sub-par years from Jeff Bagwell and J.D. Drew, both high draft choices and major disappointments. On the subject of disappointment, our scouts were very high on Toby Hall and Jose Ortiz heading into the draft, but both players turned out to be complete duds and sucked a lot of life out of our club. Paul LoDuca and Adam Dunn, two players who may turn out to be great one day, showed promise at various points of the season, but faded at the end, with Dunn in particular going into a horrible slump where he forgot how to hit a baseball. We made a few good pickups along the way, namely Randy Winn, Jacque Jones, and Junior Spivey, but those positive moves did not outnumber the negative ones. Frankly, our team was unbalanced. Our hitting was atrocious and our pitching was fantastic. We won the two most telling pitching categories, earned run average and WHIP ratio (walks plus hits to innings pitched), finished fourth in saves, and tied for fourth in wins. We had a twenty-three game winner in Barry Zito, a twenty game winner in Pedro Martinez, and a nineteen game winner in Roy Halladay. One of those three will assuredly win the Cy Young award. In contrast, the team finished the season fourth in home runs, last in RBI, last in stolen bases, last in average, and sixth in runs. Anemic. Overall, Yozanger ended the season cemented in sixth place out of eight teams, neither challenging for fifth nor being challenged by the bottom two teams.
Looking back on this exasperating season, my first back in the game after a ten-year layoff, I cannot say that I got that much pleasure out of playing. In fact, I think I followed baseball less and less as the season wore on because of the fantasy stress. Despite some questionable rules which led to some heated controversy in the league this season, I think the other owners in the league are a great group of guys. Although some might raise an eyebrow at the commissioner's team finishing in first place, I believe everything was on the up-and-up and I congratulate him on a well-played game. And while I thoroughly enjoyed working with my partner and life-long friend in the day-to-day operations of Yozanger, it is with great regret that I announce my decision to sell my interest in the team and retire from the game. To paraphrase Lou Gehrig, one of the all-time Yankee greats... Today, I consider myself the unluckiest rotisserie baseball owner on the face of the earth.
Sunday, September 29, 2002
BLOODLUST AND THE NFL
The Miami-Kansas City game mercifully ended moments ago. As a fan, the Dolphins are a painful team to watch when they're trying to come from behind. Jay Fiedler is not a good quarterback. He is adequate at best, and that's mostly when he's handing the ball off. Although it was working, the 'Phins abandoned the running game early and got into a shootout with the emotionally-charged Chiefs. They paid the price. The Chiefs displayed an explosive offense and a lot of heart last week in coming back to take New England to overtime before losing. I had a feeling this would be a tough early season road game for Miami. Kansas City is always a loud and difficult place to play and I was worried the New England game left the Chiefs with the taste of blood in their mouths without the satisfaction of making a kill. Well, they got their kill in the form of an alpha dog named Jay Fiedler. Fiedler was pressured and knocked down and confused throughout the game and heeved up a couple of passes in the fourth quarter that made you question whether or not he was on the take. He just threw 'em up for grabs. Fiedler threw four interceptions in all on the day, two of them might be blamed on receivers not holding on to the ball, but even those seemed to be forced throws. The Dolphin defense did not play well by any stretch of the imagination, but they did do a decent job of containing Priest Holmes, one of the leagues best backs. However, their secondary was pushed around and physically dominated by the Chief receivers, namely Tony Gonzalez, who had a big big day. That, in turn, had the effect of making Trent Green look like one of the better quarterbacks in the league, which he is not. Patrick Surtain, one of the Dolphins' starting cornerbacks was out and his replacement, second year player Jamir Fletcher, looked lost out there, making a bunch of mistakes and giving up several big plays. But it was the Dolphin offense that set the defense up for failure by turning the ball over often and at key points in the game when momentum was there for the taking. The previously unbeaten Dolphins came into this game leading the league in turnover ratio and had only given up 37 total points in it's first three games. Today, they turned the ball over five times and allowed 48 points in a 48-30 loss. You have to question why Norv Turner and Dave Wannstadt decided to abandon the gameplan when what they were doing was working. And, once again, you have to wonder whether this team can beat anybody in the playoffs if they fall behind.
The Miami-Kansas City game mercifully ended moments ago. As a fan, the Dolphins are a painful team to watch when they're trying to come from behind. Jay Fiedler is not a good quarterback. He is adequate at best, and that's mostly when he's handing the ball off. Although it was working, the 'Phins abandoned the running game early and got into a shootout with the emotionally-charged Chiefs. They paid the price. The Chiefs displayed an explosive offense and a lot of heart last week in coming back to take New England to overtime before losing. I had a feeling this would be a tough early season road game for Miami. Kansas City is always a loud and difficult place to play and I was worried the New England game left the Chiefs with the taste of blood in their mouths without the satisfaction of making a kill. Well, they got their kill in the form of an alpha dog named Jay Fiedler. Fiedler was pressured and knocked down and confused throughout the game and heeved up a couple of passes in the fourth quarter that made you question whether or not he was on the take. He just threw 'em up for grabs. Fiedler threw four interceptions in all on the day, two of them might be blamed on receivers not holding on to the ball, but even those seemed to be forced throws. The Dolphin defense did not play well by any stretch of the imagination, but they did do a decent job of containing Priest Holmes, one of the leagues best backs. However, their secondary was pushed around and physically dominated by the Chief receivers, namely Tony Gonzalez, who had a big big day. That, in turn, had the effect of making Trent Green look like one of the better quarterbacks in the league, which he is not. Patrick Surtain, one of the Dolphins' starting cornerbacks was out and his replacement, second year player Jamir Fletcher, looked lost out there, making a bunch of mistakes and giving up several big plays. But it was the Dolphin offense that set the defense up for failure by turning the ball over often and at key points in the game when momentum was there for the taking. The previously unbeaten Dolphins came into this game leading the league in turnover ratio and had only given up 37 total points in it's first three games. Today, they turned the ball over five times and allowed 48 points in a 48-30 loss. You have to question why Norv Turner and Dave Wannstadt decided to abandon the gameplan when what they were doing was working. And, once again, you have to wonder whether this team can beat anybody in the playoffs if they fall behind.
Saturday, September 28, 2002
BOILING THE FAT OFF
Just finished reading Fast Food Nation, after slogging through it for the past three weeks. Eric Schlosser, the author of this finely crafted expose, has awakened something within in me that has been lying dormant for some time -- anger at multi-national corporations. I won't profess to having anything of value to add on the subjects Schlosser so thoroughly covers, but I strongly recommend reading the book, if you haven't already, to educate yourselves on just how the fast food industry works and how it affects what you put into your body, if you haven't already.
Just finished reading Fast Food Nation, after slogging through it for the past three weeks. Eric Schlosser, the author of this finely crafted expose, has awakened something within in me that has been lying dormant for some time -- anger at multi-national corporations. I won't profess to having anything of value to add on the subjects Schlosser so thoroughly covers, but I strongly recommend reading the book, if you haven't already, to educate yourselves on just how the fast food industry works and how it affects what you put into your body, if you haven't already.
Friday, September 27, 2002
SAWADIKAP, PIKERS
My good friend John E. Slapperstein, a.k.a Johny Ratchet, returned this morning from a month-long sojourn to Thailand. He seems refreshed and inspired and is thinking about teaching English in Chaing Mai for a year. His rough plan is to work for a year here and save a few thousand dollars to pay for the flight and supplement his Thai teaching salary. I must say, it’s quite ingenious. But when I think about it for me, all kinds of thought bubbles rise to the surface. Bubbles about accepting responsibility, settling down, forging a career. Bubbles about the kind of life I’d like to lead. Bubbles about whether or not I want to live a life of nine to six with an hour off for lunch. Bubbles about what the hell I’m doing with my life. If I go there and teach, I could potentially use that experience as a springboard to dive into a career as a teacher here at home. In turn, that brings up bubbles of where home should be. Do I really want to build a life here in Los Angeles or is there somewhere else I’d be happier? You know, I came in here expecting to take a quick shower, not a bubble bath!
Reviewing the photo album that Slap put together this afternoon after picking up his pictures, I’m reminded of my lone excursion abroad to Europe in the summer of 1999. I felt so alive during that time and I want to preserve the memory and share it at the same time. So I have decided to create another blog which will feature my journal and photographs from that trip. Details available soon at your local Piker dealer.
My good friend John E. Slapperstein, a.k.a Johny Ratchet, returned this morning from a month-long sojourn to Thailand. He seems refreshed and inspired and is thinking about teaching English in Chaing Mai for a year. His rough plan is to work for a year here and save a few thousand dollars to pay for the flight and supplement his Thai teaching salary. I must say, it’s quite ingenious. But when I think about it for me, all kinds of thought bubbles rise to the surface. Bubbles about accepting responsibility, settling down, forging a career. Bubbles about the kind of life I’d like to lead. Bubbles about whether or not I want to live a life of nine to six with an hour off for lunch. Bubbles about what the hell I’m doing with my life. If I go there and teach, I could potentially use that experience as a springboard to dive into a career as a teacher here at home. In turn, that brings up bubbles of where home should be. Do I really want to build a life here in Los Angeles or is there somewhere else I’d be happier? You know, I came in here expecting to take a quick shower, not a bubble bath!
Reviewing the photo album that Slap put together this afternoon after picking up his pictures, I’m reminded of my lone excursion abroad to Europe in the summer of 1999. I felt so alive during that time and I want to preserve the memory and share it at the same time. So I have decided to create another blog which will feature my journal and photographs from that trip. Details available soon at your local Piker dealer.
Thursday, September 26, 2002
I WANT A MEAL NOT A SNACK
Quick tidbits from the scraps of Piker's table:
My favorite beverage is now the Arnold Palmer -- half lemonade, half iced tea.
Ate last night at a place in Burbank that calls itself a churrascaria. I know it as "The Meat Place." You help yourself to the fixins buffet of salad, garlic mashed potatoes, fried bananas, and olives, then a variety of waiters, known as gauchos, repeatedly bring skewers of meat over to your table until you turn the little wood thing from green to red. There was the house steak, filet mignon, tri-tip, chicken wrapped in bacon, parmesan chicken, Brazilian sausage, and more. Insanity. But delicious.
Hiked yesterday at Paseo Miramar, my favorite trail in the Santa Monica Mountains. I've been hiking there for a number of years and hiked with dogs many many times. Yesterday, my friend got a ticket for having his dog on the hike. Tool, his most excellent, most obedient canine, was on his leash at the time and no one else was in sight. The State Park Ranger could have easily given my friend a warning, but insisted that the park has adopted a "zero tolerance" policy because too many folks have ignored the "no dogs" sign on this trail. Then we went to the Reel Inn, my favorite seafood place in Malibu, only to find a sign on the door that said "no dogs allowed on the patio." I have personally eaten there with dogs at my feet in the past and was shocked to find this new policy posted on the door. So then we drove along PCH until we hit Ventura County because we wanted to take the dog to the beach and L.A. County doesn't allow it. Bogus.
You must read this profile an amazing writer and LA personality from the LA Weekly. Ain't she pretty.
Quick tidbits from the scraps of Piker's table:
My favorite beverage is now the Arnold Palmer -- half lemonade, half iced tea.
Ate last night at a place in Burbank that calls itself a churrascaria. I know it as "The Meat Place." You help yourself to the fixins buffet of salad, garlic mashed potatoes, fried bananas, and olives, then a variety of waiters, known as gauchos, repeatedly bring skewers of meat over to your table until you turn the little wood thing from green to red. There was the house steak, filet mignon, tri-tip, chicken wrapped in bacon, parmesan chicken, Brazilian sausage, and more. Insanity. But delicious.
Hiked yesterday at Paseo Miramar, my favorite trail in the Santa Monica Mountains. I've been hiking there for a number of years and hiked with dogs many many times. Yesterday, my friend got a ticket for having his dog on the hike. Tool, his most excellent, most obedient canine, was on his leash at the time and no one else was in sight. The State Park Ranger could have easily given my friend a warning, but insisted that the park has adopted a "zero tolerance" policy because too many folks have ignored the "no dogs" sign on this trail. Then we went to the Reel Inn, my favorite seafood place in Malibu, only to find a sign on the door that said "no dogs allowed on the patio." I have personally eaten there with dogs at my feet in the past and was shocked to find this new policy posted on the door. So then we drove along PCH until we hit Ventura County because we wanted to take the dog to the beach and L.A. County doesn't allow it. Bogus.
You must read this profile an amazing writer and LA personality from the LA Weekly. Ain't she pretty.
Monday, September 23, 2002
AUTUMN AT LAST
Although you wouldn't know it by the 102-degree mercury reading here in Los Angeles, today is the Autumnal Equinox, the first day of Fall. It is a day of balance, as the sun shines on both hemispheres in equal measure. Balance is exactly what I need. So far this year, I've ventured to Pittsburgh, Ft. Lauderdale, Durham, Emerald Isle, Cape Cod, Seattle, and San Francisco. I've spent time of the highest quality with My Family, My Girl, My Girl's Family, and friends both old and new. I attended weddings on both coasts and I swam in the Atlantic and the Pacific. I've read a bunch of books back to back, I've launched this blog and written part of a screenplay, I've gotten myself into outstanding cardiovascular shape by hiking and running, and I've entered my first serious relationship in quite a while. All this while earning a fixed income of 330 dollars a week on unemployment.
After spending the Spring and Summer unemployed and roaming the nation, I now must settle down and work in order to retroactively earn the vacations I've already taken. I'm ready to work. I'm ready to earn money. I'm ready to have disposable income again. I'm ready to sit on the couch on the weekends and watch football. I'm ready for the new TV season. I'm ready for less extreme heat and cool, crisp evenings. Indeed, I'm ready for Autumn.
Although you wouldn't know it by the 102-degree mercury reading here in Los Angeles, today is the Autumnal Equinox, the first day of Fall. It is a day of balance, as the sun shines on both hemispheres in equal measure. Balance is exactly what I need. So far this year, I've ventured to Pittsburgh, Ft. Lauderdale, Durham, Emerald Isle, Cape Cod, Seattle, and San Francisco. I've spent time of the highest quality with My Family, My Girl, My Girl's Family, and friends both old and new. I attended weddings on both coasts and I swam in the Atlantic and the Pacific. I've read a bunch of books back to back, I've launched this blog and written part of a screenplay, I've gotten myself into outstanding cardiovascular shape by hiking and running, and I've entered my first serious relationship in quite a while. All this while earning a fixed income of 330 dollars a week on unemployment.
After spending the Spring and Summer unemployed and roaming the nation, I now must settle down and work in order to retroactively earn the vacations I've already taken. I'm ready to work. I'm ready to earn money. I'm ready to have disposable income again. I'm ready to sit on the couch on the weekends and watch football. I'm ready for the new TV season. I'm ready for less extreme heat and cool, crisp evenings. Indeed, I'm ready for Autumn.
Wednesday, September 18, 2002
RECESS-ION
I’m feeling locked up. Paralyzed once again by financial woe. I am currently in my eighth straight month of unemployment and there is no end in sight. This is the first time during this stretch that I’ve actually spread the word that I’m looking for a job, but things are bleak. There just don’t seem to be any jobs out there. I know tons of people who are unemployed or freelancing right now. Most of the people I know who are employed don’t like their jobs. And nobody seems to know of any jobs opening up.
So I've decided to take matters into my own hands. None of this relying on friends and acquaintences and former co-workers for inside information. I'm going to read want ads and scour job listings and pound the pavement. My search began in earnest today. I started with the LA Times Classifieds. That proved to be rather frustrating and ultimately fruitless. As a matter of fact, the only job I wound up applying for all day I found at the LAUSD site. The position is called an Area Playground Supervisor. I stumbled onto that golden opportunity while researching how I would go about trying to become a teacher. After running into roadblock after stop sign after crosswalk in my attempts to re-enter the entertainment industry workforce, I've now broadened my job search to include just about anything that sounds like it wouldn't royally suck. So, in that spirit, this Area Playground Supervisor position didn't sound half bad.
Sure, it sounds like the job entails a fair amount of paperwork and responsibility, but nothing I can't handle, right? I'm now intrigued, so I read on.
Okay, nothing on my resume would suggest that I have any related experience, but I'm a fun guy who loves sports. Fine, I have no related experience. I don't have one single day of experience conducting playground programs or supervising playground workers. I've never even been a playground worker! So I try to come to terms with my not being qualified to be an Area Playground Supervisor. I gather I might be qualified to be an Area Playground Worker, but I don't find that as one of the available jobs listed. To add insult to injury, I read furthur to find a section entitled Special Requirements:
I suppose I can get the certificate all right, but right now, I don't have a car! Discouraged and depressed, I decide to apply for the APS position anyway. Maybe, just maybe, someone will take a look at my resume and contact me, if for no other reason than to ask how the hell I managed to work on one crappy sitcom after another without ever landing on a hit show.
I’m feeling locked up. Paralyzed once again by financial woe. I am currently in my eighth straight month of unemployment and there is no end in sight. This is the first time during this stretch that I’ve actually spread the word that I’m looking for a job, but things are bleak. There just don’t seem to be any jobs out there. I know tons of people who are unemployed or freelancing right now. Most of the people I know who are employed don’t like their jobs. And nobody seems to know of any jobs opening up.
So I've decided to take matters into my own hands. None of this relying on friends and acquaintences and former co-workers for inside information. I'm going to read want ads and scour job listings and pound the pavement. My search began in earnest today. I started with the LA Times Classifieds. That proved to be rather frustrating and ultimately fruitless. As a matter of fact, the only job I wound up applying for all day I found at the LAUSD site. The position is called an Area Playground Supervisor. I stumbled onto that golden opportunity while researching how I would go about trying to become a teacher. After running into roadblock after stop sign after crosswalk in my attempts to re-enter the entertainment industry workforce, I've now broadened my job search to include just about anything that sounds like it wouldn't royally suck. So, in that spirit, this Area Playground Supervisor position didn't sound half bad.
An Area Playground Supervisor's duties include:
* supervising and assisting in coordinating recreation activities on school playgrounds
* evaluating the effectiveness of recreation programs and personnel
* scheduling and supervising games, tournaments, meets and other recreation activities
* interpreting policies and procedures
* assisting in planning and conducting in-service training and in the selection of playground personnel
* assisting in the procurement and distribution of supplies and equipment
* keeping records and making reports and recommendations regarding recreation programs
Sure, it sounds like the job entails a fair amount of paperwork and responsibility, but nothing I can't handle, right? I'm now intrigued, so I read on.
You must meet the following requirements by September 30, 2002:
Experience: Nine months of experience in conducting playground programs, including three months of supervisory experience over playground workers
Okay, nothing on my resume would suggest that I have any related experience, but I'm a fun guy who loves sports. Fine, I have no related experience. I don't have one single day of experience conducting playground programs or supervising playground workers. I've never even been a playground worker! So I try to come to terms with my not being qualified to be an Area Playground Supervisor. I gather I might be qualified to be an Area Playground Worker, but I don't find that as one of the available jobs listed. To add insult to injury, I read furthur to find a section entitled Special Requirements:
A valid Red Cross First-Aid Certificate must be obtained within 90 days after employment begins.
A valid California Driver License and the use of an automobile will be required at the time of appointment. Business mileage will be reimbursed.
I suppose I can get the certificate all right, but right now, I don't have a car! Discouraged and depressed, I decide to apply for the APS position anyway. Maybe, just maybe, someone will take a look at my resume and contact me, if for no other reason than to ask how the hell I managed to work on one crappy sitcom after another without ever landing on a hit show.
Wednesday, September 11, 2002
PIKER REMEMBERS
I haven't really been able to process my feelings about September 11, 2001. I have such confusion when I begin to think about it. I know I feel the same basic things that everyone else is experiencing -- extreme sadness at the loss of so many innocent lives, pride in our American heroes, anger at the terrorists behind this massacre. But I also feel disconnected in some way, removed from the reality of it all. I wasn't there. I didn't know anyone who perished in the disaster. All I did was watch the whole thing on television from a great distance. Sometimes I feel like somehow I should have been there, or at the least, I should have been in New York. It's such a silly thought. I've seen the nightmarish footage. Why would I want to be there? What would I have done? What could I have done? Nevertheless, it's a recurring thought that I can't seem to shake.
I was in New York for most of the year 2000 before returning to live in Los Angeles in December of that year. I lived on Long Island with My Second Family and spent a lot of time in the city. It was the first time I lived there as an adult and I came to understand firsthand why it is The Greatest City in the World. In June of 2001, I went back to New York for an incredible week that included two celebrations of my thirtieth birthday and the wedding of one of my best friends. It was one of the best weeks of my life and I left New York feeling elated. I never imagined The City would be changed forever just three short months later.
I was born in New York City. I lived in parts of Queens and on Long Island until I was five years old. Then my family, like so many other New York Jewish families, moved down to South Florida. We would take an annual trip up to New York for Thanksgiving to visit my grandparents and extended family. Often, those trips included excursions into the city from the South Shore of Long Island. I remember when I was still pretty young, my family went to The Twin Towers. I never called it The World Trade Center. It was always The Twin Towers. We went up to the observation area on the top floor and took in the view. Everything was so quiet. The people looked like ants. The cars and cabs seemed to be moving in slow motion. The world was different from up there. We even ate at Windows on the World, the restaurant on the top floor. We did so many of the touristy things in New York -- The Statue of Liberty, The Empire State Building, Metropolitan Museum of Art, South Street Seaport, Central Park, Fifth Avenue, etc. -- but none left as big an impression as that visit to the top of The Twin Towers.
Granted, I am wildly nostalgiac by nature, but every single time I drove out of New York City and headed back to Long Island I had to take one last look at the skyline. In 2000 alone, I must have driven in and out of the city a hundred times and, without fail, as I was leaving, I would glance in the rearview mirror and try to take a mental snapshot. That skyline was implanted in my brain at a very early age. I could never get enough of it. To me, it was, and still is, one of the most beautiful things in the world. I think the reason I always took one last look was the fear that somehow I might not ever get the chance to see it again. And I was proven right for doing so. I'll never get to see the complete skyline ever again. I loved those buildings. I still can't believe they're gone. It pains me to try to accept that they no longer exist.
I haven't really been able to process my feelings about September 11, 2001. I have such confusion when I begin to think about it. I know I feel the same basic things that everyone else is experiencing -- extreme sadness at the loss of so many innocent lives, pride in our American heroes, anger at the terrorists behind this massacre. But I also feel disconnected in some way, removed from the reality of it all. I wasn't there. I didn't know anyone who perished in the disaster. All I did was watch the whole thing on television from a great distance. Sometimes I feel like somehow I should have been there, or at the least, I should have been in New York. It's such a silly thought. I've seen the nightmarish footage. Why would I want to be there? What would I have done? What could I have done? Nevertheless, it's a recurring thought that I can't seem to shake.
I was in New York for most of the year 2000 before returning to live in Los Angeles in December of that year. I lived on Long Island with My Second Family and spent a lot of time in the city. It was the first time I lived there as an adult and I came to understand firsthand why it is The Greatest City in the World. In June of 2001, I went back to New York for an incredible week that included two celebrations of my thirtieth birthday and the wedding of one of my best friends. It was one of the best weeks of my life and I left New York feeling elated. I never imagined The City would be changed forever just three short months later.
I was born in New York City. I lived in parts of Queens and on Long Island until I was five years old. Then my family, like so many other New York Jewish families, moved down to South Florida. We would take an annual trip up to New York for Thanksgiving to visit my grandparents and extended family. Often, those trips included excursions into the city from the South Shore of Long Island. I remember when I was still pretty young, my family went to The Twin Towers. I never called it The World Trade Center. It was always The Twin Towers. We went up to the observation area on the top floor and took in the view. Everything was so quiet. The people looked like ants. The cars and cabs seemed to be moving in slow motion. The world was different from up there. We even ate at Windows on the World, the restaurant on the top floor. We did so many of the touristy things in New York -- The Statue of Liberty, The Empire State Building, Metropolitan Museum of Art, South Street Seaport, Central Park, Fifth Avenue, etc. -- but none left as big an impression as that visit to the top of The Twin Towers.
Granted, I am wildly nostalgiac by nature, but every single time I drove out of New York City and headed back to Long Island I had to take one last look at the skyline. In 2000 alone, I must have driven in and out of the city a hundred times and, without fail, as I was leaving, I would glance in the rearview mirror and try to take a mental snapshot. That skyline was implanted in my brain at a very early age. I could never get enough of it. To me, it was, and still is, one of the most beautiful things in the world. I think the reason I always took one last look was the fear that somehow I might not ever get the chance to see it again. And I was proven right for doing so. I'll never get to see the complete skyline ever again. I loved those buildings. I still can't believe they're gone. It pains me to try to accept that they no longer exist.
Tuesday, September 10, 2002
Monday, September 09, 2002
WILL WRITE FOR FOOD
I'm beginning to come to terms with the fact that the summer may eventually come to an end. And I talk about summer here as in the way we used to think of summer when we were little kids -- nothing but sun and fun. As I was settig up the new home office headquarters of Piker today, it dawned on me... I did not work a single day this summer. Unemployment checks, travel vouchers, my family and My Girl kept me alive and smiling. Up until last weekend, there was not one fun thing I had to say no to.
Some very good friends invited My Girl and I down to Mexico to hang out with a group of people we really like. An offer to spend a long weekend in an amazing house overlooking the ocean south of Ensenada is an incredibly intoxicating proposition, but one My Girl and I were forced to refuse. The four of us all got on the phone and My Girl and I broke the news to our friends. They did everything they could to convince us to come and even suggested we could just show up if we changed our minds. That left the door open and put us on the fence. Then, in an ironic turn of events, My Girl got a writing assignment that was due on Wednesday. Seeing as how she always likes to be highly professional by turning her work in a day early, it was adios, ensenada.
This past weekend marked the second straight weekend I had to say no to an event I very much wanted to attend. This one also took place in Mexico. "Oh Mexico... I ain't ever been, but I'd sure like to go..." A close friend got married in Cancun and had invited me to her small intimate wedding, but I simply could not afford to go. Saying no in both cases was the mature thing to do, the adult thing to do. However, the kid in me -- who had one of his best summers ever -- couldn't help but think: Two missed Mexican fiestas, mucho fun missed out on.
One would be hard-pressed to find a sporting event I missed out on. Not that I attended all of the events, that would be The Dream Summer, but I did watch almost every minute on TV. The major tournaments of Golf and Tennis bracket the summer perfectly -- each has their tease, with The Masters held in April and the French Open in late May. June contains Golf's U.S. Open and Tennis' Wimbledon. Then Golf plays through with the British Open in July and the PGA Championship in early August, before Tennis serves out the summer with its U.S. Open in late August through early September. I was able to catch parts or all of the events mentioned above, as well as nearly every match of a magical World Cup, and I enjoyed myself thorougly in the process. This past weekend saw Pete Sampras and Andre Agassi go at it once again, perhaps for the last time in a Grand Slam, on the first Sunday of the NFL season. As I watched the match, while relaxing with a bunch of friends in a hot tub in Mission Viejo, I could feel the torch being passed. Tennis was stubborn, grinding it out until the very last Sampras serve-and-volley, but eventually relented the summer and handed off the fall to Football.
So, students are back at school, the "American Idol" has been crowned, and the new TV season is right around the corner. "Spiderman", "Attack of the Clones", "The Bourne Identity", "Minority Report", "Austin Powers' in Goldmember", "Signs", "XXX", and "Scooby Doo" have all blockbusted and squeezed as many teen dollars out of the summer as possible. Soon, the weather will turn as well. For those who don't have the luxury of living somewhere like California or Florida, thoughts of sun and fun and white sandy beaches will have to wait until vacation, or perhaps even next summer. I can't help but think of Jim Morrison crooning "Where will we be? When the summer's gone?" Well, it's gone and I know where I am, but I have no idea where I'm going.
I'm beginning to come to terms with the fact that the summer may eventually come to an end. And I talk about summer here as in the way we used to think of summer when we were little kids -- nothing but sun and fun. As I was settig up the new home office headquarters of Piker today, it dawned on me... I did not work a single day this summer. Unemployment checks, travel vouchers, my family and My Girl kept me alive and smiling. Up until last weekend, there was not one fun thing I had to say no to.
Some very good friends invited My Girl and I down to Mexico to hang out with a group of people we really like. An offer to spend a long weekend in an amazing house overlooking the ocean south of Ensenada is an incredibly intoxicating proposition, but one My Girl and I were forced to refuse. The four of us all got on the phone and My Girl and I broke the news to our friends. They did everything they could to convince us to come and even suggested we could just show up if we changed our minds. That left the door open and put us on the fence. Then, in an ironic turn of events, My Girl got a writing assignment that was due on Wednesday. Seeing as how she always likes to be highly professional by turning her work in a day early, it was adios, ensenada.
This past weekend marked the second straight weekend I had to say no to an event I very much wanted to attend. This one also took place in Mexico. "Oh Mexico... I ain't ever been, but I'd sure like to go..." A close friend got married in Cancun and had invited me to her small intimate wedding, but I simply could not afford to go. Saying no in both cases was the mature thing to do, the adult thing to do. However, the kid in me -- who had one of his best summers ever -- couldn't help but think: Two missed Mexican fiestas, mucho fun missed out on.
One would be hard-pressed to find a sporting event I missed out on. Not that I attended all of the events, that would be The Dream Summer, but I did watch almost every minute on TV. The major tournaments of Golf and Tennis bracket the summer perfectly -- each has their tease, with The Masters held in April and the French Open in late May. June contains Golf's U.S. Open and Tennis' Wimbledon. Then Golf plays through with the British Open in July and the PGA Championship in early August, before Tennis serves out the summer with its U.S. Open in late August through early September. I was able to catch parts or all of the events mentioned above, as well as nearly every match of a magical World Cup, and I enjoyed myself thorougly in the process. This past weekend saw Pete Sampras and Andre Agassi go at it once again, perhaps for the last time in a Grand Slam, on the first Sunday of the NFL season. As I watched the match, while relaxing with a bunch of friends in a hot tub in Mission Viejo, I could feel the torch being passed. Tennis was stubborn, grinding it out until the very last Sampras serve-and-volley, but eventually relented the summer and handed off the fall to Football.
So, students are back at school, the "American Idol" has been crowned, and the new TV season is right around the corner. "Spiderman", "Attack of the Clones", "The Bourne Identity", "Minority Report", "Austin Powers' in Goldmember", "Signs", "XXX", and "Scooby Doo" have all blockbusted and squeezed as many teen dollars out of the summer as possible. Soon, the weather will turn as well. For those who don't have the luxury of living somewhere like California or Florida, thoughts of sun and fun and white sandy beaches will have to wait until vacation, or perhaps even next summer. I can't help but think of Jim Morrison crooning "Where will we be? When the summer's gone?" Well, it's gone and I know where I am, but I have no idea where I'm going.
Friday, September 06, 2002
THE ARRIVAL OF HENRY, DON'T CALL ME HANK, LAZARUS
I just remembered one of the good things that I thought when I hit rock bottom, or rather when the elevator hit P2... One of my greatest friends in the whole wide world and his lovely wife, who has also become a true friend, had their first child yesterday. A happy and healthy Henry Samuel Lazarus was born in New York City at 12:10 am on September 5th, weighing 5 pounds 19 ounces. I got some really cute pictures via email, but I'm a piker and I don't know how to put them on this site.
It is absolutely impossible for me to express the overwhelming joy I feel for David and Meg. I can only congratulate them on mating successfully and tell them I love them. And though I will not be flying cross-country to attend the briss, and thus cannot officially be named Godfather, I want little Henry to know that I now love him too and will always be there for him in any way he may need me.
I just remembered one of the good things that I thought when I hit rock bottom, or rather when the elevator hit P2... One of my greatest friends in the whole wide world and his lovely wife, who has also become a true friend, had their first child yesterday. A happy and healthy Henry Samuel Lazarus was born in New York City at 12:10 am on September 5th, weighing 5 pounds 19 ounces. I got some really cute pictures via email, but I'm a piker and I don't know how to put them on this site.
It is absolutely impossible for me to express the overwhelming joy I feel for David and Meg. I can only congratulate them on mating successfully and tell them I love them. And though I will not be flying cross-country to attend the briss, and thus cannot officially be named Godfather, I want little Henry to know that I now love him too and will always be there for him in any way he may need me.
THE CURSE OF THE PINK PIKER
As if things weren't going downhill fast enough for Piker, an avalanche of bad luck has come cascading down the proverbial mountain. The first sign that it was going to be one of those days appeared this morning when I showed up here at Piker headquarters to find that the lock had been jimmied and the door was unlocked. The only piece of furniture remaining in the office space before the break-in was my crappy faux-wood desk. Now there is nothing. Why someone would want to steal my desk is beyond me, but it happened, and I had to deal with the reality. The only thing of any debatable value in the desk was the Piker Files. They too are now gone. Thank God for the Piker archives.
Feeling victimized and at the end of my proverbial rope, which was the only thing keeping me on the proverbial mountain, I thought I was headed for a complete meltdown. But once I stopped hyperventilating and bawling, I was just happy to have my breath back. Standing in the middle of the desolate office, I decided right there and then that I was going to take advantage of the fact that I could still breathe by meditating my ass off. I sat down on the floor and attempted to get into the lotus position until I came to the painful realization that the surgically reconstructed ACL in my right knee was not going to cooperate. So I sat Indian style and concentrated on my breathing, tuning out the world until I successfully reached the Alpha state. My mind, body, and spirit were at peace. No longer did I feel stress over the monumental collapse of my prized publication. No longer did I feel violated by the vicious vandals who ripped me off. I had found serenity. Just then, a small boulder came flying through one of the large Piker windows and shattered the glass into thousands of pieces. Somehow, namely the heightened spiritual state I was in at the time, I found myself unharmed. It was as if the Universe had placed a protective forcefield around me. I picked up the large stone and read the words "Piker Go Home" in black magic marker. Another sign.
As we all know, good things and bad things, mainly bad things, come in threes. Although I didn't need yet another sign to motivate me to get the hell out of the Piker offices and never return, I got one anyway. After reading those haunting words on that rock for the hundred thousandth time, I had an urge to check the Piker bank balance. I used my cell phone to call the fine automated folks at Washington Mutual and after punching in a complex set of account numbers, passwords, and the last four digits of my social security number, I got the proverbial straw that broke the proverbial camel's proverbial back -- Piker was out of money. The account wasn't even in the negative; the balance was simply zero dollars and zero cents.
Now, the handful of you that are reading this are probably thinking that this is the end of Piker. I can assure you it is not. I am going to use these heinous events as motivation to take this blog to new heights. I know I keep saying that, but really, I am. As I was sobbing in the elevator on the way down to the parking garage, before I remembered that I don't have a car, I had one of those revelatory moments that reminded me of all the good things in my life. I can't recall what they are at the moment, but trust me, they're good. And they gave me the fortitude to carry on. So despite the best efforts of some unseen cabal hell-bent on annhilating me and everything I stand for, Piker lives on! Long live Piker! Long live Piker!
As if things weren't going downhill fast enough for Piker, an avalanche of bad luck has come cascading down the proverbial mountain. The first sign that it was going to be one of those days appeared this morning when I showed up here at Piker headquarters to find that the lock had been jimmied and the door was unlocked. The only piece of furniture remaining in the office space before the break-in was my crappy faux-wood desk. Now there is nothing. Why someone would want to steal my desk is beyond me, but it happened, and I had to deal with the reality. The only thing of any debatable value in the desk was the Piker Files. They too are now gone. Thank God for the Piker archives.
Feeling victimized and at the end of my proverbial rope, which was the only thing keeping me on the proverbial mountain, I thought I was headed for a complete meltdown. But once I stopped hyperventilating and bawling, I was just happy to have my breath back. Standing in the middle of the desolate office, I decided right there and then that I was going to take advantage of the fact that I could still breathe by meditating my ass off. I sat down on the floor and attempted to get into the lotus position until I came to the painful realization that the surgically reconstructed ACL in my right knee was not going to cooperate. So I sat Indian style and concentrated on my breathing, tuning out the world until I successfully reached the Alpha state. My mind, body, and spirit were at peace. No longer did I feel stress over the monumental collapse of my prized publication. No longer did I feel violated by the vicious vandals who ripped me off. I had found serenity. Just then, a small boulder came flying through one of the large Piker windows and shattered the glass into thousands of pieces. Somehow, namely the heightened spiritual state I was in at the time, I found myself unharmed. It was as if the Universe had placed a protective forcefield around me. I picked up the large stone and read the words "Piker Go Home" in black magic marker. Another sign.
As we all know, good things and bad things, mainly bad things, come in threes. Although I didn't need yet another sign to motivate me to get the hell out of the Piker offices and never return, I got one anyway. After reading those haunting words on that rock for the hundred thousandth time, I had an urge to check the Piker bank balance. I used my cell phone to call the fine automated folks at Washington Mutual and after punching in a complex set of account numbers, passwords, and the last four digits of my social security number, I got the proverbial straw that broke the proverbial camel's proverbial back -- Piker was out of money. The account wasn't even in the negative; the balance was simply zero dollars and zero cents.
Now, the handful of you that are reading this are probably thinking that this is the end of Piker. I can assure you it is not. I am going to use these heinous events as motivation to take this blog to new heights. I know I keep saying that, but really, I am. As I was sobbing in the elevator on the way down to the parking garage, before I remembered that I don't have a car, I had one of those revelatory moments that reminded me of all the good things in my life. I can't recall what they are at the moment, but trust me, they're good. And they gave me the fortitude to carry on. So despite the best efforts of some unseen cabal hell-bent on annhilating me and everything I stand for, Piker lives on! Long live Piker! Long live Piker!
Wednesday, September 04, 2002
DOG DAY DISILLUSIONMENT
It's been a sweltering week here in Los Angeles. Call it a late summer heat wave. I sit here alone in the barren Piker offices, stripped down to my Bart Simpson boxers, unable to turn on the high-powered air conditioning unit because the revised budget won't allow for frivolous utilities like electric and phone.
The extreme temperature has me in a pensive mood, reflecting on the past week. Before the weekend started, I had a solid couple days of disillusionment. First, it was the past. Nearly a month after I started reading, I finally completed James Ellroy's "The Cold Six Thousand." The novel is the middle installment of an ambitious trilogy, the first of which I did not read and the last of which, to the best of my knowledge, has not been written yet. The story spans a roughly five year period from late 1963 to 1968 and follows the lives of three underworld figures, all of whom, directly or indirectly, play roles in the assassinations of JFK, RFK, and MLK. The Cold Six is a hard brew to swallow, in part because you can't fathom that our country, even in one of its darkest hours, could possibly operate in such a way, and in part because you know it did. There is simply too much detail in the book to even begin to dissect the intricacies of the characters and plot, but suffice it to say that moments after I read the last word, I fell into a fairly deep funk. I don't think I actually enjoyed reading it, and I'm not sure you're supposed to, but I know I couldn't get it out of my mind. It plagued me. And then I watched the Video Music Awards.
After suffering through three plus hours of pop culture torture, my fairly deep funk devolved into flat out depression. Now, I haven't watched MTV in quite some time, and I suppose I'm old, but apparently drunk and stupid is in. I may be overly nostalgiac for the musical era including the mid-sixties to the early nineties, but I remember my rock stars being drunk and stoned, yet witty and irreverant. The audience got a taste of that when Diamond Dave and Sammy Hagar presented an award and bantered for a bit, but they didn't seem to like the flavor, as nobody so much as chuckled. I'm astounded to report that the true highlight of the show was Justin Timberlake's debut solo performance. That kid can dance and the moment actually felt like something, which was more than I can say for the rest of the show. It was a whole lot of nothing. There were many lowlights, but I'll just mention a couple. Pink accepting her award and declaring that she was so drunk was one thing, but Michelle Branch, a sort of goody-goody in this crowd, accepting her award and claiming to be more drunk than Pink was like a kick in the stomach. Branch proceeded to soberly thank everyone from her record company to her entourage to her family and seemed genuine in doing so. Why did she have to say she was fucked up? She clearly wasn't and it felt like a desperate attempt for the good girl to fit in with the cool crowd, when she could have nobly distanced herself from the idiocy surrouding her. Painful. As was the far-from-triumphant return of Guns-n-Roses. Axl Rose is fat and can't sing anymore and the band sounded like shit. They were the closing act.
Luckily, that night, I only took one pain killer and not the entire bottle, because I wound up having a fantastic weekend hanging out with a variety of phenomenal people at several Labor Day events and it helped restore all of my illusions to their proper levels.
It's been a sweltering week here in Los Angeles. Call it a late summer heat wave. I sit here alone in the barren Piker offices, stripped down to my Bart Simpson boxers, unable to turn on the high-powered air conditioning unit because the revised budget won't allow for frivolous utilities like electric and phone.
The extreme temperature has me in a pensive mood, reflecting on the past week. Before the weekend started, I had a solid couple days of disillusionment. First, it was the past. Nearly a month after I started reading, I finally completed James Ellroy's "The Cold Six Thousand." The novel is the middle installment of an ambitious trilogy, the first of which I did not read and the last of which, to the best of my knowledge, has not been written yet. The story spans a roughly five year period from late 1963 to 1968 and follows the lives of three underworld figures, all of whom, directly or indirectly, play roles in the assassinations of JFK, RFK, and MLK. The Cold Six is a hard brew to swallow, in part because you can't fathom that our country, even in one of its darkest hours, could possibly operate in such a way, and in part because you know it did. There is simply too much detail in the book to even begin to dissect the intricacies of the characters and plot, but suffice it to say that moments after I read the last word, I fell into a fairly deep funk. I don't think I actually enjoyed reading it, and I'm not sure you're supposed to, but I know I couldn't get it out of my mind. It plagued me. And then I watched the Video Music Awards.
After suffering through three plus hours of pop culture torture, my fairly deep funk devolved into flat out depression. Now, I haven't watched MTV in quite some time, and I suppose I'm old, but apparently drunk and stupid is in. I may be overly nostalgiac for the musical era including the mid-sixties to the early nineties, but I remember my rock stars being drunk and stoned, yet witty and irreverant. The audience got a taste of that when Diamond Dave and Sammy Hagar presented an award and bantered for a bit, but they didn't seem to like the flavor, as nobody so much as chuckled. I'm astounded to report that the true highlight of the show was Justin Timberlake's debut solo performance. That kid can dance and the moment actually felt like something, which was more than I can say for the rest of the show. It was a whole lot of nothing. There were many lowlights, but I'll just mention a couple. Pink accepting her award and declaring that she was so drunk was one thing, but Michelle Branch, a sort of goody-goody in this crowd, accepting her award and claiming to be more drunk than Pink was like a kick in the stomach. Branch proceeded to soberly thank everyone from her record company to her entourage to her family and seemed genuine in doing so. Why did she have to say she was fucked up? She clearly wasn't and it felt like a desperate attempt for the good girl to fit in with the cool crowd, when she could have nobly distanced herself from the idiocy surrouding her. Painful. As was the far-from-triumphant return of Guns-n-Roses. Axl Rose is fat and can't sing anymore and the band sounded like shit. They were the closing act.
Luckily, that night, I only took one pain killer and not the entire bottle, because I wound up having a fantastic weekend hanging out with a variety of phenomenal people at several Labor Day events and it helped restore all of my illusions to their proper levels.
Tuesday, September 03, 2002
THE DAWN OF A NEW ERROR
Today was a tough day. Got back to the Piker offices after the long holiday weekend and was all alone. No one to share my stories with. No one to shoot the shit with around the water cooler. As a matter of fact, the water cooler was one of the few remaining items left here in the office and Arrowhead sent a guy to retrieve it today. So I talked to him for a few minutes as he was hauling away the equipment, but you can’t really count that as water cooler talk, per se.
This morning, I came into work pretty gung ho. I woke up at a decent hour, ran five miles, and had a solid breakfast. After all, this was to be the first day of a new era for Piker. But, it’s extremely difficult to generate ideas for new directions and new elements without a staff. I couldn’t have any meetings – no creative meetings, no budget meetings, no sexual harassment seminars. And I really wanted to have some damn meetings. Even if, at the very least, the purpose of the meetings was to shoot down everyone else’s crappy ideas and railroad my own. So, in lieu of meetings, you’d think I would hit the phones. That would be the case, if I had phones. Apparently, someone in operations didn’t pay the bill. I suppose after I fired everyone, or everyone quit when I went AWOL, whatever, I then became the new operations person. Fine. I screwed up. No phones. No people. No meetings. No business.
So I went home and did some laundry while watching a pretty good day of U.S. Open tennis. Last night was an amazing night of tennis, a confluence of the world’s best players playing on the same night due to almost two full days of rain. There was Pistol Pete Sampras winning a tough five-setter against that Canadian/Brit confused accent sore loser Greg Rusedski; the indefatigable 32 year-old Andre Agassi dominating the much younger American Jan-Michael Gambill in straight sets; Tommy Haas, the current most controversial player on the men’s tour, outlasting the pesky Swede Thomas Enqvist in five sets. And then, you had the most exciting thing to happen to tennis in a long time, Andy Roddick, outdueling Spanish veteran Alex Corretja, the sleek and adorable Daniela Hantuchova upsetting Justin Henin, plus victories by Jennifer Capriati, Lindsey Davenport, and world number one Lleyton Hewitt. I’ve always loved the U.S. Open -- night matches under the lights with that rowdy New York crowd… I can’t get enough.
Andy Roddick just defeated Juan Ignacio Chela in four sets to move through to the quarterfinals. At one point in the match, Roddick appeared to have a bad foot injury. Chela tried to take advantage of it by running him around the court, which opened the door for the just-turned-20 years old Roddick to produce some of the most exciting points of the tournament and get the crowd into it. As a matter of fact, after Roddick won the best point of the match, he got into the crowd, high-fiving a bunch of people in the expensive seats. Now the grizzled Pistol Pete is trying to take down the hot-shot Haas to set up an All-American quarterfinal against young Roddick. I’ve got to go watch.
Following tennis tonight, I will most definitely be watching the finale of American Idol. I honestly don’t care who wins between Justin Guarini and Kelly Clarkson. I think they should both do musical theater after this whole circus ends. The real pop star in this competition, Tamyra Gray, was unceremoniously booted out by the idiotic American public, who thought Nikki McKibbin actually had more star quality. I’ll tell you what she had more of… stretch marks! Now, I don’t think having stretch marks should prevent the girl from winning, I’m not that crass. But wearing a shirt that bared her midriff with full knowledge of said stretch marks should have disqualified her instantly. One other more-deserving performer, Christina Christian, was voted out when Nikki should have been, and it really caused me to dislike the girl. I know it really wasn’t her fault that a viewing audience of complete morons kept voted her through, but I blamed her and tuned in each week hoping against hope that she’d finally get what was coming to her. Now she’s gone and we’re left with Justin and Kelly as the final two, and I’m stuck having nothing to root for and nothing to root against. So, in order for me to get satisfaction out of the conclusion of this prolonged “talent” show, my dream finale must include a diatribe by Simon Cowell, the acerbic judge who is easily the best thing to come out of the show, putting the no-talent co-host monkeys Ryan Seacrest and Brian Dunkleman in their places once and for all. Odds are that I won’t get my wish. But, despite my previously-stated aversion to gambling, you can bet the farm that I’ll be watching tonight and tomorrow night as this addictive train wreck of a show comes to an end.
Tomorrow will be the beginning of a new era in Piker history. I’m determined to make something of this blog and make something of my life. First, I’m going to go make myself a sandwich.
Today was a tough day. Got back to the Piker offices after the long holiday weekend and was all alone. No one to share my stories with. No one to shoot the shit with around the water cooler. As a matter of fact, the water cooler was one of the few remaining items left here in the office and Arrowhead sent a guy to retrieve it today. So I talked to him for a few minutes as he was hauling away the equipment, but you can’t really count that as water cooler talk, per se.
This morning, I came into work pretty gung ho. I woke up at a decent hour, ran five miles, and had a solid breakfast. After all, this was to be the first day of a new era for Piker. But, it’s extremely difficult to generate ideas for new directions and new elements without a staff. I couldn’t have any meetings – no creative meetings, no budget meetings, no sexual harassment seminars. And I really wanted to have some damn meetings. Even if, at the very least, the purpose of the meetings was to shoot down everyone else’s crappy ideas and railroad my own. So, in lieu of meetings, you’d think I would hit the phones. That would be the case, if I had phones. Apparently, someone in operations didn’t pay the bill. I suppose after I fired everyone, or everyone quit when I went AWOL, whatever, I then became the new operations person. Fine. I screwed up. No phones. No people. No meetings. No business.
So I went home and did some laundry while watching a pretty good day of U.S. Open tennis. Last night was an amazing night of tennis, a confluence of the world’s best players playing on the same night due to almost two full days of rain. There was Pistol Pete Sampras winning a tough five-setter against that Canadian/Brit confused accent sore loser Greg Rusedski; the indefatigable 32 year-old Andre Agassi dominating the much younger American Jan-Michael Gambill in straight sets; Tommy Haas, the current most controversial player on the men’s tour, outlasting the pesky Swede Thomas Enqvist in five sets. And then, you had the most exciting thing to happen to tennis in a long time, Andy Roddick, outdueling Spanish veteran Alex Corretja, the sleek and adorable Daniela Hantuchova upsetting Justin Henin, plus victories by Jennifer Capriati, Lindsey Davenport, and world number one Lleyton Hewitt. I’ve always loved the U.S. Open -- night matches under the lights with that rowdy New York crowd… I can’t get enough.
Andy Roddick just defeated Juan Ignacio Chela in four sets to move through to the quarterfinals. At one point in the match, Roddick appeared to have a bad foot injury. Chela tried to take advantage of it by running him around the court, which opened the door for the just-turned-20 years old Roddick to produce some of the most exciting points of the tournament and get the crowd into it. As a matter of fact, after Roddick won the best point of the match, he got into the crowd, high-fiving a bunch of people in the expensive seats. Now the grizzled Pistol Pete is trying to take down the hot-shot Haas to set up an All-American quarterfinal against young Roddick. I’ve got to go watch.
Following tennis tonight, I will most definitely be watching the finale of American Idol. I honestly don’t care who wins between Justin Guarini and Kelly Clarkson. I think they should both do musical theater after this whole circus ends. The real pop star in this competition, Tamyra Gray, was unceremoniously booted out by the idiotic American public, who thought Nikki McKibbin actually had more star quality. I’ll tell you what she had more of… stretch marks! Now, I don’t think having stretch marks should prevent the girl from winning, I’m not that crass. But wearing a shirt that bared her midriff with full knowledge of said stretch marks should have disqualified her instantly. One other more-deserving performer, Christina Christian, was voted out when Nikki should have been, and it really caused me to dislike the girl. I know it really wasn’t her fault that a viewing audience of complete morons kept voted her through, but I blamed her and tuned in each week hoping against hope that she’d finally get what was coming to her. Now she’s gone and we’re left with Justin and Kelly as the final two, and I’m stuck having nothing to root for and nothing to root against. So, in order for me to get satisfaction out of the conclusion of this prolonged “talent” show, my dream finale must include a diatribe by Simon Cowell, the acerbic judge who is easily the best thing to come out of the show, putting the no-talent co-host monkeys Ryan Seacrest and Brian Dunkleman in their places once and for all. Odds are that I won’t get my wish. But, despite my previously-stated aversion to gambling, you can bet the farm that I’ll be watching tonight and tomorrow night as this addictive train wreck of a show comes to an end.
Tomorrow will be the beginning of a new era in Piker history. I’m determined to make something of this blog and make something of my life. First, I’m going to go make myself a sandwich.
Thursday, August 29, 2002
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.
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.