A Basketball Odyssey

Anybody have any idea how long it’s been since the Spurs last lost four straight? Oh, wait…the Laker series in last year’s playoffs. They didn’t lose even three straight during the regular season, even when Duncan was hurt. They do have a history of playoff flameouts, I guess, though they all seem to have come against LA. At least that’s some small pathetic hope for the Suns; they just need Kobe.

How ‘bout how long since anybody’s dropped 110 on the Pistons? Okay, trick question: Allen Iverson and the Sixers did it to them in the first round (115, in actual point of fact). That was after Iverson scored 39 with 10 assists and 5 steals against them in that ass-whuppin’ of a final regular-season matchup. They always have trouble with Iverson, but it’s unusual for anyone else to do this to them.

I’m pleased that the Heat won and looked good doing it. I was beginning to have serious fears about the possibility of a Pistons-Spurs final. I know, people who consider themselves basketball purists would love a final between the league’s top two defensive teams. Personally, though, I like a bit of scoring. Football, baseball, and hockey are defensive sports, but basketball is all about offense. I watch to see dunks and great shooters and fast breaks and mad passing and alley-oops.

At least Detroit’s defense is fun to watch, with Ben Wallace and Tayshaun Prince flying all over the place. Tayshaun’s block of Reggie’s lay-up in Game Five was easily the play of last year’s playoffs. Even at the Union, where nobody really cares about basketball, everyone came out of their seats for that one.

San Antonio is soooo boring, though. I mean, I know they’re a great team, but who gets excited watching them? Even when they win, they’re dull (well, except Manu Ginobili, who’s the absolute truth). They don’t put teams away with a flourish, the way Phoenix and Miami and even Detroit do. They just kinda strangle ‘em slowly, like a six-pack ring around the neck of a baby bird. Two minutes to go, the game’s tied…and then the other team just never scores again, and the Spurs win by five, and you just can’t understand what’s happened. How much fun is that?

* * * * * * *

With everything that’s going on at Hank’s, the weekend was kind of a basketball odyssey for me, watching the games in unfamiliar places. I caught games 3 & 4 of the West Final at the Union, on Saturday and Monday. I’m always at the Union on Monday, of course, to see Katy. But this was my first Saturday there in a long time. It’s not a bad spot for watching early on, because on Saturday it’s usually dead ‘til sometime between midnight and one. At that point, though, seemingly everyone in town shows up all at once and the place gets mad crowded. On Saturday everyone showed up with about five minutes to play, which pissed me off: I’d suffered through that abomination of a game and then, just when Phoenix came roaring back and made it interesting, I had people hanging all over me.

Last night went better. There wasn’t much going on and what was happening wasn’t directed at me, so I got to watch the game in peace. And, of course, Phoenix won, so that woulda cheered me up no matter what. It was the kind of dogfight I’d expected every game in this series to be, and Phoenix showed they were tough enough at the end to pull it out. It got a bit scary towards the end, though…Phoenix has the game in hand and then you blink and the Spurs are down one with a minute and a half to play, and you’re saying “Oh, hell, here we go again.” Amare Stoudamire wouldn’t let that happen, though. His block of Duncan late was classic. It was the kind of play that turns a series (like Tayshaun’s, mentioned above). Of course, there’s a big difference between a series-shifting play in #5 of a two-all playoff and the same play in #4 when you’re down three-love. This beautiful play probably came too late to save Phoenix. It’ll motor ‘em to victory in #5, probably, but again, four straight against the Spurs is probably too much to ask. They can use it to build on for next year, I guess.

[Oh, and to all those who thought that block should have been a goaltend: you will NEVER see goaltending called on a dunk attempt unless the defender actually sticks his hand through the hoop to block the shot, so shut up and stop whining.]

There's still hope for Phoenix, and it all comes down to that tired old cliché: take it one game at a time. Last night they were playing not to get swept. It's all about pride. Now they're playing not to lose the series at home; don't let the Spurs celebrate on your home floor. If they win that one, then it's trying to get back home one more time, and trying to tie the series up. And of course, if they win that one, it's three-all and the West championship belongs to whoever shows up in force for the Game Seven free-for-all, on their own floor. Tall order, but not entirely impossible.

In between those games was the East #3, on Sunday. Now, the Union is closed on Sundays, so I needed some other place to watch the game (plus I don’t wanna be in the same place every night, unless it’s Hank’s). When I left the library I headed for Jake’s, but I saw Remedies on the way. I’ve noticed it before, of course, because it’s on Fourth Avenue between the library and my apartment, but I’d never been in there. My friend Kyle had recently recommended it to me, and I thought, “What the hell. You live once.”

It isn’t a bad place. It’s a little more well-lit than I’m used to, because it’s also a pool hall ($2 per person per hour, if you’re interested), and every night they have a particular beer going for $1 a bottle (and they have a Rolling Rock night, so I’m gonna be there for that). It’s the first bar I’ve been into in a long time that doesn’t have a wood bar, but really that makes a nice change. I don’t know from building materials, but I think this stuff is called Formica. And it’s green, of course; green furnishings aren't unusual around here because of Marshall.

The bartender was someone I recognized; he’d been a regular customer of mine when I worked at the Union, but I don’t remember his name. I didn’t see anyone else I knew, except that Kyle came in for about five minutes on his way to Goodfellas. I did meet a couple of people, though, including an art student named Lisa who saw me proofreading work for this blog. She read a bit of it and liked it, and I gave her the URL, so hopefully she’s reading this now. Hello, Lisa! Anyway, she says that Remedies is the best bar in town and I should come in more often. I’ll make an effort.

It has occurred to me that my trouble with Hank’s might be good news for everyone reading this thing, though, because I’ll be scoping out new bars all the time. This blog might become more of a critical appraisal of local watering holes, and those of you from out of town will visit already knowing where you want to drink. Wouldn’t that be something? Maybe I can eventually trade free drinks for positive mentions. ‘Cause believe me, I’ll be as corrupt as you can imagine. I will definitely abuse my power.

* * * * * * *

There’s something I love about walking alone into a new bar. Not going into a place with someone else, especially if that someone has been there before, but alone. It feels like starting a whole new life, really. Maybe that’s just me, though; back when I was buzzing around the country, the first thing I did in every new town was find a likely-looking bar. They’re the best places to find temporary work and pointers about cheap places to eat; and there’s always a chance you’ll find someone who’s willing to put you up for a few days or weeks or whatever, depending on how well you get along.

Anyway, yeah, walking alone into a new bar feels like starting a new life. Probably, though, that’s because, for the last sixteen years, every time I’ve walked alone into a new bar that is exactly what I was doing.

There’s a town in Ohio called Yellow Springs. It’s a little ultra-liberal enclave in the southwest corner of the state, near Antioch University. A guy I knew, a very astute Political Science professor, referred to it as “The People’s Republic of Yellow Springs.” The college, incidentally, was attended by Charles Manson, or at least he spent a lot of time there. I used to get drunk and walk around the campus checking the trees and anything else that might have been carved by young Manson with a pocket-knife; “Charlie was here,” or a heart that said “C.M. + J.H.” or whatever. No luck, though.

Anyway, this was early in my traveling days, and I didn’t have any skills for it. Certainly, I didn’t know how to do it alone, going to a place where I knew no one. But I got cleaned up and walked around town, checking everything out. Yellow Springs is very small, and you can walk the whole place quicker than you’d expect.

I would eventually discover that the town had an excellent deli, and a Dairy Queen-type place which sold wonderful banana milkshakes. There was a surprising little grocery (Weaver's) that didn’t look like much but had a fantastic array of imported foods (one of those places that are bigger on the inside than on the outside). There was Ha-Ha Pizza, where you could get a regular old pepperoni-and-sausage pie but which specialized in obscure toppings (bean and alfalfa sprouts, spinach, artichoke hearts, apple and pineapple; I know you see more of that nowadays, but in 1991 it was kinda shocking). Best of all, there was a little comic book/used bookstore called Dark Star. I used to go there every afternoon, buy a fifty-cent paperback that could be anything from Agatha Christie or Conan to Camus or Flannery O’Connor, read the whole book that night and come back the next day for another.

But I didn't know any of that the first night (except the banana milkshake thing), and the place that drew me was the Gulch, a little bar with a pool table in the back and an old jukebox that played 45’s. The bartender was a terrific flamer; he was wearing a shirt that said “I’m not A bitch, I’m THE bitch, and that’s MISS bitch to you.” I struck up a conversation with him about his shirt, and we talked most of the night. He took a shine to me, poured my whiskey sours extra strong, only charged me for about half of them, and (most important) never ID’d me. I was at the Gulch every night after that until I left town (which was only about three or four weeks).

I had felt, walking around that evening, the thrill of being out on my own for the first time. It’s an elating feeling, a feeling that you’re larger than life and the whole world belongs to you. But it’s kinda scary, too; very unsettling. I felt more alone than I ever have, before or since. I had wanted to feel alone, I guess, and I felt strong and brave and grown-up, but still, the loneliness was very heavy on me.

By the time I walked out of the Gulch, very drunk and with some new friends, all the loneliness was gone. Really, from that day on, I never looked back, even though I moved back home for a couple of years later on. The nervousness of a new place was always tempered with the knowledge that I could walk into a bar in any town in the country and meet people and find what I needed, and make for myself something that was a little bit like home, and reinvent myself however I needed to be. All the fear drains away when you first feel at home in a new bar, and that was what kept me moving, and what makes me regret being semi-settled now.

I didn’t get quite that feeling at Remedies, of course; I was a block and a half from the apartment I’ve lived in for over a year, maybe a hundred feet from the library I work in and the campus where I’ve attended classes, and a block from Calamity, which along with the Southern Belle is as close as I’ve had to a home since I left home. It wasn’t nearly as powerful a feeling, and there’s no reason it should have been. But it was an echo of that feeling: It made me glad, and a little wistful, too; and it made me homesick for being homeless, if that makes any sense.

I will definitely have to go to new places more often. Though for tonight, I just need a spot to watch the East #4, and Remedies is awful close. I wonder if Tuesday is Rolling Rock night?

The Big "Fuck Off"

I originally published this post in the middle of the night on Wednesday the 25th (that was the 25th, wasn't it?). I came back the next day and deleted it. Perhaps I was being unreasonable. I was certainly in a bad mood. It had been a bad night (though it was gonna get worse, but I didn't know that yet). I closed with this: "I feel like the world just sent me a big FUCK OFF. And this is me sending it right back. I'm motherfucking done."

* * * * * * *

However, I am not, in fact, done. Not with this, anyway.

This post, in its rewritten form, is dedicated especially to the people here who actually, personally know me. If you don't, I don't know that this post will be interesting to you, but you're welcome to read it if you like.

When I got home after writing the deleted post I found a voice mail waiting for me. It was from a good friend who had seen me earlier that night. I thought she was calling to check up on me. I thought, "How sweet; she knows I'm in distress and wants to make sure I'm alright."

That, however, was not at all the point of her message. She had called to yell at me over this blog. She objected to her full name being used. I understand her concern in this area, and have deleted her Character page.

Mostly, though, she yelled about my characterization of another person. I've since deleted that reference, too, even though what it amounted to was that this person (not a friend; a former employer) was a kind and generous person who genuinely wanted everyone to be happy, but who had two character flaws that made him extremely difficult to work for. In other words, that he was more or less like every other business owner, only perhaps more so. And I provided examples, because you don't just want to say something like that without being able to back it up. Also, I said that the manager was high-strung and obsessed over things; however, in the very next sentence I said that I liked her and hoped that, once we weren't working together anymore, we could be friends again (and in fact we hung out together and watched the basketball game Friday night, so apparently we can).

I don't know exactly what my friend objected to on this page (it wasn't a post here; it was a Set page you had to link to), because after a few seconds of her yelling at me when I was already upset, I deleted the message. That's piling on; I didn't feel like being kicked when I was down.

But apparently she's REALLY pissed off. And so, as I understand it, she's been going around telling everyone what's been said about them on this blog and trying to make me a whole bunch of new enemies. I don't really understand this; it doesn't seem to me like the sort of thing friends do to each other. But I've long since given up trying to argue with, or even really understand or explain, this particular friend, especially when she's in a temper.

When I first heard of this, I remembered an incident from back when I was travelling around the country. I had kept up a correspondence with a very beautiful young lady back home named Jennifer. We wrote each other about once a week. One of my best friends, Andrea (Anj, who I'd lived with for a while) was also very close to her, and I had filled in as a sort of temp with a band made up of my friend and former band-mate Kenny and several of Jennifer's friends.

Jennifer sent me a letter telling me, among other things, that Andrea's pet ferrets had died, and that I should move back home and join her friends' band. I replied that I didn't think her friends were going to be a very successful band and I wasn't interested. About the ferrets I said that I had always hated them, because they had a bad habit of biting me, especially early in the morning when I was hung over; and that although I was very sad for Anj, I personally wasn't gonna miss those damn ferrets one bit.

Jennifer, in a fit of pique, showed the relevant portions of this letter to her band friends and to Anj, which got me in a bit of trouble. Anj forgave me once I'd apologized. The band and I had never been close friends (except Kenny, who wasn't mad anyway), but I apologized to them, too. And I told myself that I'd learned a valuable lesson: never put anything in a letter that you wouldn't want the whole world to read, because you can never be sure they won't.

So, when I first heard about all this, I thought, "Well, guess I didn't learn my lesson." But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that this isn't the same situation at all. In the first place, this isn't a letter; it's a weblog, for fuck's sake. I not only knew the whole world might read this, I was hoping that they would. So it wasn't as though I had any expectation of privacy anyway.

More important, I didn't think I'd need it. I will admit that I've been mean to some people on this blog: to the woman who chastised me for smoking at Hank's; to the frat boys at the Union after mysogynistic episodes; to people who babble about politics without understanding politics, etc. But to my friends, I think I've been very kind on this blog. I have pointed out various quirks in their makeup; it makes them more interesting characters to people reading this who don't know them (and there are, believe it or not, many people like that). But I do it gently and with great affection. Any serious character flaws I ignore. I love these people very much, and any reasonable person, I think, reading these posts and the Character pages that they link to, could see that I loved them, and could tell exactly why.

I think this is best illustrated by something I noticed when Christy was talking to me about the current mood about my writing at the bar where this friend works: the people who had read the blog thought this was getting blown out of proportion (Bader called it "bullshit"), but the people who haven't are getting angry, which leaves me unwelcome in my two favorite places. Given what I wrote in the last paragraph, I have to think that if this stuff makes them mad, then my friend is misrepresenting the contents of these pages to them. And, since the people involved trust her and are now mad at me, they probably never will read them, which robs me of my only effective defense. Clever girl.

Still, I'm going to try to get everyone to read this for themselves and then decide whether I've been unkind to them or not. This post is especially dedicated to those people. Read all the posts on this blog, 'cause that's where most of the stories are. Also, if I've written a Character page about you , it will be here: http://ogrecharacters.blogspot.com/ (temporarily the links in the posts will be out of order). It usually only shows one post, but I've set it, temporarily, to show all the posts on it; and if I have time later I'll alphabetize the list. Read these things, and tell me if you think I've been unfair to you. You can call me, come see me, or e-mail me (my e-mail adress appears on my profile), and I will be happy to discuss any concerns you might have. If worst comes to worst, I'll delete your Character page altogether, like I did for the person who made that late-night phone call.

One thing I am absolutely not going to do is to stop writing this thing. Like I said in the first-ever post, I created it by accident, but I've tried to do a good job. And you know what? I think I have. I think that some of these posts have been damned entertaining, and that I'm getting better as I go. I haven't written on a regular basis in probably seven or eight years, and I'd forgotten how much I enjoy it. Now that I'm writing again, I am not going to give it up. I hope no one (else) minds.

Sex, Finally

I did promise in the description of this blog that sex would be among the topics discussed, didn't I? Haven't yet, though, outside of my story about Rhonda and her creepy friend Denny (which you can read here if you missed it), and that was about hypothetical sex rather than the real thing (about which, I'm sure, Denny is still disappointed).

Anyway, got thinking about sex because I was at the Union on Monday where a deep philosophical discussion was taking place. One of the bartenders was considering having sex with someone, but was concerned that his penis was...insufficiently large for her purposes, shall we say. So she started a sort of round table discussion. Morgan pointed out that, if you can get off on a finger, then probably even a small dick can do the job if used properly. One of the regular customers disagreed; his take was that having sex with a small-dicked man was the equivalent of sitting down to a sumptous dinner but only taking one bite. It's bound to leave you unsatisfied.

[On a related note, I remember hearing a lesbian once explaining why a woman would prefer sex with another woman to sex with a man. “How long can your dick stay hard?” she asked. “Because mine’s hard right now, and it’s at home in a box under my bed!”]

The discussion ended when Matt, who worked the door on Monday, was asked whether sex with small-dicked men could be good. "Hell yes it can," he replied immediately. "Believe me, I know!" Which sent everyone into peals of laughter.

Discussions of sex at the Union often turn on nice points like these, of course. And not much else ever gets discussed there, except sports and (rarely and in a very juvenile fashion) politics. But it hasn't only been the Union. Sex, it seems, is in the air. That's not unusual this time of year; the Spring Festival is more than anything a celebration of sex. The weather gets warm, we start taking off clothes, and once we get started undressing we don't wanna stop.

* * * * * * *

Another discussion I’ve had this week involved the relationship between sex and love, which is a sticky subject for me. The young woman with whom I had this discussion wishes to remain anonymous, so I can’t tell you her real name. We’ll call her Ophelia, because I like that name, although in this case it could probably be more accurately applied to the young man in question. I suppose, though, for the sake of continuity we’ll call him Hamlet.

Hamlet and Ophelia have been friends for a long time, but Hamlet wants Ophelia to become his lover. She loves him but isn’t sure if she’s in love with him. So her brilliant plan is to have sex with him to find out. She asked if I thought this was terrible. I told her no, I thought she should definitely do it. I said this for two reasons: first, because the young should have sex at every opportunity; and second, because she desperately needs to get her ex-boyfriend out of her head, and this might shake him loose. There is, of course, the possibility that she’ll screw him, decide she isn’t interested, and break his heart. However, this young man is not my responsibility; I am looking out for Ophelia, and counseled her toward what I perceive as her best interests, regardless of what happens to Hamlet.

Upon reflection, though, I am not sure this was the best advice. Part of the problem is where we live. Huntington is a very backwards, conservative town. One way that this local mass-consciousness reveals itself is in sexual relations. Folks around here are very possessive sexually. They have sex with you once and think they own you.

Hamlet has already demonstrated an inclination towards this way of thinking. One night several weeks ago, he and I were sitting at opposite ends of the bar, and Ophelia was there. She spent time talking to both of us, which was fine with me.

I noticed, after a while, that every time she came down to talk to me, he would stare at us. Then, when she was talking to him, he kept looking at me and asking her questions about me (Hamlet and I know each other only vaguely). This was laughable. Was he jealous? If so, it was a particularly stupid jealousy. In the first place, of course, Ophelia and I have been friends for a while now, and if anything was going to happen it already would have.

But more important, it bothers me when someone’s worried that I might take from them something that they do not, in fact, possess (not that people should possess each other, anyway). Even if I had snatched up Ophelia, it wouldn’t be a theft. It would be more like I sat on his favorite bar stool before he got to it.

So, anyway, he was acting like a jealous teenager before she was even considering taking him as a lover. What’s he going to be like if she fucks him? Even if she decides to keep him, he’ll probably be one of those hovering losers who has to know where she is and who she’s with every second of every day. Having her sure isn’t gonna make him less jealous.

And if she rejects him after, that’s just worse. Then we enter stalker territory. I can see Hamlet, hanging out and mooning over her at the bar, calling her all hours, leaving pathetic notes on her car, calling her friends to find out why she doesn’t want to see him. He might possibly be the type who’s cool with going back to “just friends,” but I doubt it.

So, yeah, more to it than just sex. That’s unfortunate. I hate it when people talk disparagingly of “meaningless sex.” In my opinion sex is supposed to be meaningless, in the sense that it shouldn’t imply or symbolize anything outside of or larger than itself. It is an extremely enjoyable activity and should be regarded like anything else that’s fun (provided you’re clever enough to protect against disease and pregnancy). I don’t want all the other things attached to sex. No other human activity carries this kind of baggage. If I throw darts with you or have a drink with you or watch a Presidential debate with you, you don’t expect anything of me. If we have sex, though, I’m supposed to rearrange my life around you. It doesn’t make sense.

I think of having sex kinda the same way I think about shooting pool. If you shoot pool with me, it’s nice if you're fond of me, but frankly as long as it’s a good game I don’t really give a shit whether there’s any mutual affection. You have a good time, and then you check to see who has the next set of quarters up. Sex should be like that.

I’ve always felt that there needs to be a kind of crowbar separation between love and sex. For a while I believed this so strongly that I actually had a rule against having sex with anyone I cared about. I’m not quite so hard-core now, but it’s still a valid philosophy.

So, basically my advice to Ophelia should have been this: go find someone attractive and experienced who doesn’t give a shit about you; have a blast for a couple of weeks; move on. Simple as that (and it would be simple for her; she’s a lovely young woman, and could get guys lined up anytime she wanted). And Hamlet, well, he should probably do the same, but first he’s gonna need a serious attitude adjustment. Either that or he should save everyone some trouble and throw himself in a lake.

Incidentally, I should probably take my own advice, as well. Been a while. Anyone out there interested?

* * * * * * *

Overheard at Hank's last night: a discussion between Allison and Christy about how drinks are named. Allison had just had a “pineapple upside-down cake” and was remarking on how it actually tastes like a pineapple upside-down cake. “Why,” she asked, “aren’t all shooters like that? Most of ‘em don’t taste at all like what they’re called. A blowjob sure doesn’t taste like a blowjob!” Everyone hearing this said, in unison, “GOOD!”

What would be the point of a drink that tasted like a blowjob anyway? I mean, most folks don’t really relish the flavor, do they? And even if you did, you don’t need a drink to taste a blowjob, right? The real thing is pretty easy to get. Walk into any bar and say, “I really want to taste a blowjob” and you’ll get more volunteers than you could…well, a whole lot of volunteers, basically. I know I'll be in line.

* * * * * * *

This has nothing to do with sex, but it’s important news that I really should have put in the last post, so I’m including it now. Dawn has quit Hank's. Eden worked for her last week, and Sheila has now taken over as the regular Saturday bartender. I love Sheila, of course, and am very pleased to be working with her again, but I hate to see Dawn go. Dawn, I love you and I’ll miss you. Come see us now and then, will ya?

Oblivion In A Bottle

NOTE: Just a short post tonight. This one is especially for Megan, who reads this stuff to perk her up in her cubicle and got brought down by the last post on May 12th. Hope this is better. It might be a little goofy, but at least it isn't sad.

* * * * * * *

I got feeling a little nostalgic last week, which is why the last post was such a downer. I decided to wallow in the nostalgia by drinking some Wild Irish Rose, the mind eraser I was fond of in my early 20’s. I am fortunate in that one cannot buy the real, full-strength Rose in West Virginia, so I had to settle for the watered-down pansy-ass version. Perhaps I’ve developed a sensitivity to it, but I blacked out the last several nights, even when I wasn’t drunk. So, I suppose I should let that be a lesson to me.

If any of you are considering drinking this garbage (which a wonderful website accuses of being part of a conspiracy to exterminate the homeless á la Street Trash), I can give pointers about it. No one alive knows more about drinking Rose than me, because everyone who drinks more of it than I do is already dead. So, helpful hints:

1. Don’t
2. No, seriously. Just too fucking don’t.
3. Okay, if you must. But for God’s sake drink the red, not the white. Even in my long and chronically misspent life I’ve never had anything worse in my mouth than Rose White or Platinum. I’d rather drink Everclear cut with bleach.
4. Be sure to drink it from the bottle. Under no circumstances should you pour it into a glass or cup, unless the vessel has a lid and straw. The reason for this is that, if you can smell the stuff, your body’s gag reflex will absolutely prevent you from swallowing it. And don’t use a soda cup, because this stuff will eat through, say, a McDonald’s cup in under five minutes. It’s gotta be plastic or Styrofoam.
5. Drink it room temperature. I know the bottle says “serve very cold.” This is part of the aforementioned conspiracy against the nation’s homeless. At room temperature Rose is toxic; cold, it will actually eat through the lining of your esophagus, leech into your lungs, and possibly drown you (or at least, it feels like that’s what’s happening). If I bought Rose in a place that kept it cold, I’d take off the cap and microwave it for 20 seconds or so to take the chill off.
6. The best thing to do with Rose (if you’re drinking the genuine article; this is unnecessary with the pansy-ass version) is to drink lots of water WHILE you drink it. Surprisingly, rinsing your mouth out with water after a slug leaves a not-unpleasant aftertaste.
7. If you don't want to carry around two containers (as per #6), I have a recipe for making full-strength Rose nearly tasty and slightly less deadly: dump a handful of watermelon-flavored Nerds into it. The Rose will dissolve the Nerds in about ten minutes. Then cut it with water, about one part water to two parts Rose. I do this with my canteen for long walks. It works wonders, and the water still stops you getting too awful dehydrated.
8. Don’t mix it with anything but water. I have the world’s most alcohol-resistant tummy, and I routinely mix, say, scotch and rum. But if you mix anything else with Rose, it’ll come back up…and since the vomit will be red, if you’re drunk enough you’ll be convinced you’re coughing up blood and fixin' to die. Believe me: I speak from experience.

* * * * * * *

The NBA Playoffs are getting exciting now, in case you haven't noticed. The first round was dull as dishwater, outside of Allen Iverson and Tracy McGrady, but the second round has not disappointed.

I want to state publicly, by the way, my willingness to marry Dwayne Wade if he'll have me. I may not be much in the looks department, but I'm a hella cook and I travel well, and I'm downright ravishing in red and black.

I was gonna put something in here about Amare Stoudamire after the smackdown he laid on Dallas in Game 3. Something along the lines of "Dallas has got NOTHING for Stoudamire," or "It's Amare's world and we're all just living in it." Then he went 3-for-8 from the floor in game 4. So I guess I won't.

Still, barring the odd speed bump, it looks like Stoudamire and Wade are on a collision course in the Finals. The game's two most exciting young players squaring off for the world championship...what could be better? And while I know Stoudamire can't defend Shaq, don't forget that Shaq can't defend Stoudamire, either.

Incidentally, why do we say, when a player is playing defense on someone, that he's "defending" that person? Isn't he in fact defending against that person? Saying (for example) that Gilbert Arenas is defending Dwayne Wade (HAH!!!) makes it sound like he's protecting Wade from something. I don't think that's the case. I'm pretty sure that if someone came out of the stands with a baseball bat and went after Wade, Arenas would just stand back and watch. Probably he'd say to himself, "Damn, wish I'd thought of that." That's always bothered me. Is that pedantic?

* * * * * * *

Favorite sign of the NBA weekend, seen at a Pacers home game:

Pursuing
A
Championship
Especially for
Reggie
See you there

Good luck, Reggie, you goddamned lousy Knicks-killer.

The Spring Festival

Ah, spring. After a long cold winter, followed by a long cold April (I was pissed off all month), spring has finally come to…well, to whatever the hell valley I live in. The Kanawha Valley? Maybe. Sounds familiar.

Anyway, yeah, the Spring Festival has begun. And each of us celebrates spring in his own way. For me, the celebration involves the ceremonial closeting of the long underwear and shaving both face and head. I always enjoy the spring shave, because it gives me a chance to find out who actually knows me, and who just remembers the beard. I can say that neither Mary nor Allison recognized me last night (Allison’s reaction, when she did realize who I was, was priceless), but Gates, Brett, Tackett, and Beth Anne all did. So did Christy and Kendall this afternoon. That’s better than it was two years ago, when I sat in Calamity unnoticed for almost two hours before Neal finally recognized my voice while I was talking to myself about what I wanted to drink next. Only Gates knew me right away; he recognized my eyes, but I think he was the first to see me without sunglasses that day, so he had an unfair advantage.

Different folks are celebrating the Spring Festival in different ways. Brett and Tackett are celebrating with a new spring line of serial killer T-shirts. You know, like a shirt with a picture of Charles Manson and the caption "Family Man." They’re thinking about branching out into funny and offensive shirts as well, and have enlisted the aid of my creative impulses. If I think of anything cool, I get free shirts. You can never have too many of those.

Bill and Sarah are celebrating by getting married. Actually, that isn’t true; they’re just getting married and it has nothing to do with the fact that it's spring, as far as I know. But it is spring, so as far as I'm concerned their engagement is part of the Spring Festival and I’m goddamned including it. I myself have sworn off weddings, as far as possible. Sheila and I attended Gerlach's wedding to Candace a year and a half ago, and I swore afterwards that I was never going to another wedding. Sheila laughed, and said there was no way I could avoid it. I said, “Okay, to leave myself an out, if Bill and Sarah get married, I’ll go. They’re the only couple that I love both of them enough to put up with it.” At the time, they’d only been seeing each other for a couple of months, so I felt pretty safe. But I guess I’m caught now. Who knows, when I write about the Spring Festival next year, we might be celebrating the entry of a new little Warner into the world.

Andy is observing the Festival with his annual revelation: this town sucks, and he's desperate to get out. Every year about this time he decides he's got a plan to leave. He's always almost got a job lined up. Year before last it was New York. Last year it was New Orleans. This year, I believe, it's DC. I don't expect him to ever actually escape (though his ex-wife just moved back to town, so he's got extra motivation), but it's nice that he's always trying. Hasn't given up yet. Good luck, brother.

The Spring Festival means that the frat boys down at the Union are celebrating, of course, by being incredibly stupid and offensive. I was down there tonight spending time with Katy, and let me say, I haven’t seen people behave that badly in a while barring acutal fighting. I probably shouldn't say that, though; might jinx the place. There are a lot of fights in there every spring. Herbie says it's blowing off steam from Cabin Fever. Anyway, no fights tonight, but a lot of rudeness and boorishness. And the worst thing about it was that it was the employees who were being the most obnoxious. The worst behavior was on the part of Larry, the DJ; Kyle, who works the door; and Phil, who is the cook now that Warren is gone. They were the ringleaders, and the frat boys just followed along. Larry was trying to explain to Nikki (the non-Katy bartender) that he wanted to give her a “pearl necklace” (which I’d never heard of until tonight, but he explained it graphically) while Kyle was telling Larry, who is black, to “go pick my cotton.” Everyone remarked on the state of Nikki’s breasts at great length, and Phil appeared to be considering writing a doctoral thesis on her ass, as well. He certainly enjoyed watching her mop. And Phil wouldn’t leave after closing; he kept trying to hit on Nikki by telling her what a great musician she is, and fondling her every time he got the chance. This is the ugliest side of bar culture: men getting drunk and treating women like toys.

All in all, it was an embarrassing time to be a man.

Graduation was this weekend, so a lot of people are celebrating by getting out of town, whether for good or for vacation. Mary and Beth Anne are going to Beth Anne’s cabin for a week. The other Sarah is going to fill in for them at Hank's, and it will be nice to spend some time with her before she goes to Europe for the summer. She’s studying for six weeks, and then her fiancé is going to meet her; they’re getting married in Italy or some such place and then honeymooning by backpacking across the continent, which just seems terribly cool to me.

The students are gone now, so we get our town back. I myself enjoy the summer break because I can take a canteen full of wine and walk around campus singing to myself all night, without worrying about anybody calling the police. Also, I can come sit in the computer center without having to wade through a mass of desperate teenagers, and I can work on this thing or whatever project interests me without being bothered. But right now, the walking around and drinking and singing thing is what's interesting me, so I'm gonna go. It's too pretty a night to be cooped up. Hope everyone enjoys tonight as much as I will. Happy Spring to all. Oh, and Happy Mother's Day as well, particularly to my sister Debby, who just had her first. Love to all, and especially to her.

Don't You Wish You Were Me? I Know I Do.

I’ve gotten a new job here lately. Christy has appointed me as her “life coach.” Which, what the hell a life coach is I don’t know, but the pay isn’t bad. She drives me to the store, brings me dinner sometimes, and pretends I’m funny. Also, she gave me a DVD player.

The trips to various stores are the main component. I haven’t driven in over two years, and Huntington is an extremely inconvenient town if you don’t drive. Within walking distance of my apartment (which is, after all, downtown and less than three blocks from campus) there are exactly: 0 liquor stores, 0 coin laundries, 0 book stores (minus the two comic book stores), and 0 grocery stores (unless you count the Campus Carryout, and if you saw it, you wouldn’t). On the other hand, there are three body piercing and tattoo parlors, so that’s something anyway.

Plenty of bars, too. I live in 4½ Alley, which is right behind 4th Avenue. On 4th, between 9th and 16th Streets, the bars are: The Stadium Lounge, Remedies, TJ’s, Stumblers, Jake's (thanks, Megan), the Kit Kat, O’Barney’s, Goodfellas, the Union, Mango's, Maxie’s, Hank's, St. Mark’s, and Tapas (someone let me know if I've missed one). That’s a lot of bars in a few blocks, and it doesn’t count all the bars that are just off 4th on the cross streets, like Sharkey's. Not bad. Everything you need is nearby, except anyplace to buy groceries, liquor, or books, or do your laundry.

So, yeah, the rides are key. Every time someone wants me to go do something, the first thing we have to do is establish how I’m going to get there. Between Sheila and Beth Anne (and now Christy) I can usually get where I need to be. Still, people ask me all the time, “Why don’t you just get a car?” The ready answer is, “You buyin’?”

The actual reason, of course, is that I’m an alcoholic. And although awareness of the condition is both necessary and liberating, it isn’t enough. You have to live with it, which means making allowances for it, rearrange a bit. The principal allowance I make is not owning a car.

I am perfectly aware on an intellectual level that driving drunk is stupid and dangerous enough to damn near qualify as evil. The problem is that, when you’ve been drinking, you do not necessarily function on an intellectual level. I can go to a bar every night for a year and not drive, but that doesn't mean that I won't eventually. Sometimes I just decide that I'm invincible and infallible, and if I have a car when that happens, I'm sure to drive. I'm not the only one who has these moments; many people do, and choose not to admit it to themselves. I, however, have an avowed history of it, and that makes car ownership too risky.

So I might say that being able to reach the decision, rationally, not to drive, and to stick to it in spite of inconveniences major and minor, qualifies me to be a life coach. I've evidenced an awareness of my own weaknesses, as well as a sense of obligation to society, that I frankly find downright remarkable if not goshdarn cute.

"On the other hand," I hear you saying, "wouldn’t it have been more clever to cut back on your drinking, or quit altogether? Wouldn’t your choice of an addiction over a necessity of modern life automatically DIS-qualify you as a life coach?" To you, I say: shut up. And also: shut up.

* * * * * * *

Well, okay, yeah maybe. Unless part of a life coach’s job is to teach slavish devotion by example. I do have a knack for that, but I don't know if that's what's required.

Which brings us back to the original question: What exactly the hell is a life coach? What are the qualifications? Is there a degree program, and am I in fact a charlatan?

I don’t know what a life coach is, precisely. Actually, to be honest, I don’t know even approximately. If it means living a life worthy of emulation, then I’d have to say I’m a bad choice. Mid-thirties, chemically dependent, no career, no future or prospects…if you’re looking for the surest route to Dead End Street, Nowheresville, I can definitely draw you a map. But, you know, not many folks want that kind of guidance (and anyway, as far as this particular destination is concerned, most folks have an unerring sense of direction).

Still, I keep hearing that life’s a journey, not a destination. And I can certainly demonstrate how to enjoy the trip, no matter what kind of train wreck is waiting at the end. That kind of coaching I can do. Because, when it comes right down to it, I'm happier than anyone else I know. I've got a very simple life, and it appeals to me. Really, if you had my worldview plus any sort of ambition whatsoever, you could make quite a difference in the world.

I don't know, though, that I can teach anyone else to live like I do. The "wisdom" I've accumulated...well, #1 isn't terribly wise, although it can sound like it when the person I'm talking to has been drinking; and #2 probably wouldn't work for anyone else, because a big part of my personal sense of peace is derived just from distancing myself from things. It's easy for me to say "well, fuck this, then," because I actually don't care about the things that other people do—but I don't know that I can teach someone not to care about things. People have to learn to let things go on their own; if you make someone let go of something, it's more like taking it away from them.

Still, I have lived a good life, and maybe some of what I've learned from it might qualify as words of wisdom after all. I'll tell you what: because I'm feeling charitable, here's a freebie for you: Train yourself to enjoy bitching. Bitch about everything, whether it bothers you or not. And be funny with it, and get carried away with it, and practice so you're good at it and learn to take joy from it. Because if you're happy bitching, then you can never be completely unhappy. Bad things stop being obstacles and become opportunities to hone your craft.

There. That's a free lesson. If you want any more wisdom, you'll have to pay tuition. Except Christy, of course; hers is all settled.