tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88276638456029796132024-02-20T22:43:29.634-07:00The Life of a Golf MonsterThe true confessions of a hard rocking, hard living, golf pro from hell! Nickas spins his rowdy yarns of his life on the road less traveled, an occasional commentary and some other goofy stuff!Nickas!http://www.blogger.com/profile/04097270523968787259noreply@blogger.comBlogger34125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827663845602979613.post-42474107051550301422020-08-19T02:26:00.004-06:002020-08-19T16:27:24.053-06:00A Perfect Day At The Hair Farm (A Dorm Daze Prequel)<p>One of the things that drives me in life is the quest for "the perfect day." Now that means something different to everybody. For me it means a day so goddamn good, if you could bottle it up and relive it over and over again, you would. I can think of maybe three of those off the top of my head. Days where you are actually kinda sad when your head hits the pillow at night. </p><p>There was a day last Fall where after sort of knowing somebody online for over a decade and texting or talking to her every day for four months solid, I took five days off of work, blew out of town, drove nine hours and a state away and we finally met in person. Let's call her Katie. Katie and I spent a Friday (and eventually the whole weekend, where unfortunately we made one bad decision after another, not the least of which was spend entirely too much money on club seats to attend the atrocity that was my beloved <a href="https://www.espn.com/nfl/game?gameId=401128120" target="_blank">Chicago Bears taking on her Denver Broncos</a> while unbelievably hungover) together. DIAGRAM THAT SENTENCE! But that Friday, I'm telling you, that Friday was a perfect day. We met for breakfast, had our first actual golf lesson for the first time in person after several years of virtual online sessions, played eighteen holes, got dressed up (GOOD LORD, SHE'S A KNOCKOUT), shared a fancy dinner and drinks, talked about what we wanted out of life and capped it off with a warm embrace and kiss to cap the evening. I never felt more alive in my goddamn life. Now, somehow, despite my best attempts at screwing things up royally in the ensuing month and change, Katie is still as good a friend as I have, I love her to death and always will, and we at the very least message daily if not talk. I'm sure I'll write about her again some day. Things didn't turn out quite the way I pictured it in the future with her when I drove back to my hotel that Friday night. As always, I massively over-read the situation like I do the majority of putts these days. My dumb brain going places it shouldn't have and seeing things that weren't there. That tends to happen more often than I'd like. But that Friday was as perfect a day as I'd had in two decades. If I could bottle up that day and sell it, it'd fetch more on the streets than cocaine.</p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJSUIQt26UWSrMQPxr06LSRQu7HvjcDr9vcLDSWoegjUBxG1zJZGg7Avt_W1trcScrqFfhT830cMHeUlMtsK0m9FoF0uJwojd-IpWy1GJb8lEZwS2oghBYhq5csFqQ5Aqbwm6EfYo2P_pY/s1440/115928170_10224152536625138_4090129918068497438_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJSUIQt26UWSrMQPxr06LSRQu7HvjcDr9vcLDSWoegjUBxG1zJZGg7Avt_W1trcScrqFfhT830cMHeUlMtsK0m9FoF0uJwojd-IpWy1GJb8lEZwS2oghBYhq5csFqQ5Aqbwm6EfYo2P_pY/w250-h250/115928170_10224152536625138_4090129918068497438_o.jpg" width="250" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Halfway through a perfect day!</td></tr></tbody></table>Most recently, I had a day a few weeks ago where I got up, watered my garden, taught an awesome golf lesson, fired a red-number on my old golf course and spent the afternoon with a pretty special gal, let’s call her Carly, who took me shopping at one of those<a href="https://bananarepublic.gap.com/" target="_blank"> high-end clothing stores</a> that I wouldn't have ever pictured myself wandering into in a million years. I could’ve never fit in their clothes! She outfitted me with a whole new wardrobe. Stuff I never thought I'd wear, but you know what? They look fucking fantastic on the new bod! We capped the day again, with a lovely dinner and drinks at a swanky restaurant talking about how we got to where we were at. Unfortunately, I was actually successful at torpedoing that friendship royally and I still don't know if Carly and I are really friends anymore. I suspect probably not, and that really fucking bums me out. Sometimes the perfect day doesn't result in better things down the road. In fact, by definition, it's really all downhill from there. But sometimes, when you can just live in the moment of the perfect day, those things stick with you and burn a memory so vivid in your head you couldn't shake it if you try. <p></p><p>This entry covers the events of one of those days, and we're going to turn on the wayback machine. Just a little over twenty-one years ago to one perfect June day that I spent with one of my best friends before I moved away to go to <a href="http://www.thegolfmonster.com/search/label/Dorm%20Days" target="_blank">Westminster</a>. I call this one "The Perfect Day at the Hair Farm."</p><p>It was June 19th, 1999. My alarm clock blew off at 5:30 AM with my favorite Keith Richards Stones' song, "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y-P2KGiWxHs" target="_blank">You Got The Silver</a>." I had to catch my pops before he left for work so he could sign my financial aid paperwork. My whole application to college came in pretty late. I'll tell that story another day, but I was behind the eight-ball and couldn't afford to wait for the mail to deliver it, and the money was starting to run out. So my buddy Skwez and I were going to drive it up to Salt Lake and hand-deliver it ourselves to the school. Plus, I wanted him to see how good this situation was going to be. He wasn't only one of my best friends, but he was also my golf coach in Junior College at Eastern Utah. He wasn't just going to send me off into the wild without seeing the lay of the land first. And I at least wanted to introduce him to my new coach. </p><p>The old man and I sat at our ancient-ass 70's era kitchen table (yellow veneer? TACKY), hammered down some bacon, eggs and coffee and went over the paperwork for my pell grants and work-study. I think it was finally setting in for both of us, the clock was ticking on my leaving Price for good. Less than two months to go. I still miss those breakfasts. Pops Nickas was a hell of a breakfast cook. I swear it's the paprika on the hash browns. Goddamn fantastic. "You guys staying up there tonight?" he grumbled. </p><p>"I don't know pop. We're flying by the seat of our pants today. The only real item on the agenda is dropping off these papers and checking out the dorms."</p><p>"Didn't you do that three weeks ago?"</p><p>"Yeah, but this time I'm taking a camera so I can see what I've got to work with as far as space goes." I obviously needed to figure our a way to fit all of my worldly possessions into an 11'x9' space. "Have a good day at work, pop. I'll find a pay phone and let you know what we do."</p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3LCIJlRatIceCWQD-7xjdnylIhfZQKXTfiMNKdQIrKw0dRCphHubBi7yY-7u4H4YfdJq9ADg57jlNnM-Ut_-tN0ECidTIYAf6W4EA7Rq_E_XqvDObAaAHQQNz_ozSvvaRSshjCWw3OfCD/s2048/nickasansskwez.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1537" data-original-width="2048" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3LCIJlRatIceCWQD-7xjdnylIhfZQKXTfiMNKdQIrKw0dRCphHubBi7yY-7u4H4YfdJq9ADg57jlNnM-Ut_-tN0ECidTIYAf6W4EA7Rq_E_XqvDObAaAHQQNz_ozSvvaRSshjCWw3OfCD/w328-h246/nickasansskwez.jpg" width="328" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nickas and Skwez, lookin' like a couple preppy<br />assholes, circa 1999.</td></tr></tbody></table>Skwez pulled up an hour later at 6:30 in his pimp-gold 1996 Jeep Cherokee. I tossed my golf clubs and overnight bag into the back. He tossed me the keys as he filled up his CD changer with our road-trip standards. GNR's "Appetite for Destruction," Ozzy Osbourne's "No More Tears," Metallica's "Master of Puppets," and Rob Zombie's "Hellbilly Deluxe," among others. "You're driving." He hated driving that canyon. </p><p>"What's the plan?" I asked.</p><p>"I had TK call in a favor and we're teeing off at South Mountain in two hours. Fucking step on it dude." The course was roughly two hours away.</p><p><a href="https://slco.org/golf/south-mountain/" target="_blank">South Mountain Golf Club</a> was at the time (before Salt Lake County bought it) was one of the two high-end golf courses in Northern Utah in the latter part of the 90's. Carved into the hillside in Draper, it opened up in 1998 and immediately got a reputation as one of the best tests of golf in one of the best conditions in the state. And for $90.00 at the time, it sure as hell better have been. That was pretty much unheard of for a public course green fee in Utah back then. </p><p>We blasted through the canyon. Just a college dipshit and his slightly older than college buddy screaming metal tunes and power ballads at the top of our lungs. Not being my own vehicle, I drove extra carefully and we pulled into the South Mountain parking lot in an hour and twenty nine minutes. We popped the hatch on the Cherokee and started unloading our gear and changing our shoes when a bag attendant pulled up and loaded our clubs onto a cart. I damn near pulled the Happy Gilmore and tackled him when he grabbed my bag, until I remembered that yeah, nice courses have those guys. We tipped the dude and checked in where the guy informed me that I wouldn't be allowed to tee off unless I wore a collared shirt. Free golf at a swanky track though. Blew my mind, but I saw a decent looking one in a fat-kid size (MORE X'S THAN A PORNO THEATER) on the rack and bought it so we could tee off. Only $70! I couldn't believe how much of a rube I was back then. I'd like to say I still have that shirt, but no. It was in that giant tub of giant clothes I donated to the shelter last Winter. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI_rJvflv8ihNLENihdovr7ZhfAJ37FZGlAsA1l1YS0RM1pWREUREOhKqB8TYPjJ1_-i3YWBVQKkT8p6r8zZxmvv6ficCcGF-x6KMgGt5b2Z1nqltu5pkVGw3wAFIeRKy2B-FqAuvg_FSW/s320/SouthMountainL_fb46f8f3-acdf-429f-b043d7cc5acdd036.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="195" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI_rJvflv8ihNLENihdovr7ZhfAJ37FZGlAsA1l1YS0RM1pWREUREOhKqB8TYPjJ1_-i3YWBVQKkT8p6r8zZxmvv6ficCcGF-x6KMgGt5b2Z1nqltu5pkVGw3wAFIeRKy2B-FqAuvg_FSW/s0/SouthMountainL_fb46f8f3-acdf-429f-b043d7cc5acdd036.jpg" /></a></div>We teed off and this track was better than advertised. Super long from the tips, tight, with trouble everywhere. The greens were slick and the wind was whipping. Birdies were hard to come by, but we both made a few. Our scoring was pretty unspectacular, we both shot 75, but we had a damn blast and took a hundred bucks off the suckers we got paired with in a best ball match. We thanked the Director of Golf for being an awesome host and said hello for TK. "Come back anytime," he said. I don't think he lasted more than a year in the job.<p></p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqxRXrN5szdNZ-WH0N5KdS5I-jKc9xhuQgdgs9YozVQRoXs740art4GLq3SJTp-a5yGIvcctRP4w8BOca9nNLIcF91BOA9rQAO7wKPJNp-ghR0pO0xf86rKIDIJqeGaNhjYGw5yXDumZ7s/s604/222855_1039577193670_1931_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="407" data-original-width="604" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqxRXrN5szdNZ-WH0N5KdS5I-jKc9xhuQgdgs9YozVQRoXs740art4GLq3SJTp-a5yGIvcctRP4w8BOca9nNLIcF91BOA9rQAO7wKPJNp-ghR0pO0xf86rKIDIJqeGaNhjYGw5yXDumZ7s/w309-h209/222855_1039577193670_1931_n.jpg" width="309" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">DJ for a Day!<br /></td></tr></tbody></table>We dropped our gear off at Skwez's sister's place, got cleaned up and I got my paperwork together. We still had to make my meeting with Financial Aid at 2:00. We jumped back in the car and headed for downtown, switching this time to the radio. It was no secret, radio in Price Utah in the 90's was liquid shit. Radio in Price is STILL liquid shit. We had three country stations, two right-wing talk stations, a pop station, and an oldies station that I probably listened to more than anything. In fact, I can still sing along to almost any 60's song on Sirius Channel 6. I heard them all a thousand times. Liked them, but we were hurting for variety. But Salt Lake had the mighty <a href="https://www.kber.com/" target="_blank">KBER 101.1</a>. Still, for my money the greatest radio station in the history of this state. We flipped it on just as the last refrain of Tesla's "Modern Day Cowboy" blasted out and the DJ, Hammer (who I got to actually host a show for an afternoon a few years later) came on. "Let's check in with Helmut over at Rocky Mountain Raceway getting warmed up for the big Poison/Ratt/Great White/LA Guns show tonight!" </p><p>We looked at each other, "Dude, no way we're driving home tonight. We've gotta go to this. There won't be twenty people there, they might let us play in the band." Don't get me wrong, we still loved those bands. We grew up in the timewarp that was <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OgIEv_EL_90" target="_blank">Carbon County</a>, where it was still 1988, but we both knew most of those acts hadn't been heard from in years. Thankfully, the legendary Heavy Metal Shop was in the Sugarhouse neighborhood within walking distance to Westminster so we popped in and managed to snag their last two tickets. We were gonna rock our dumb asses off that night. </p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU37Nc9-rYKUpLOKyt0YV_XcV8yT1UvSTEPe409xeaHwDti5UAyXmTjDEEwhuQy1QqHhOCp7cB-J_nlBVV2mOT-7SB8nBwZtPq7E7Eovf2afNz92axnYD-z6xwalbXvUGg8mrgi6CjIYkc/s266/WCdorm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU37Nc9-rYKUpLOKyt0YV_XcV8yT1UvSTEPe409xeaHwDti5UAyXmTjDEEwhuQy1QqHhOCp7cB-J_nlBVV2mOT-7SB8nBwZtPq7E7Eovf2afNz92axnYD-z6xwalbXvUGg8mrgi6CjIYkc/s0/WCdorm.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Formerly known as Res.3<br /></td></tr></tbody></table>The college visit was every bit as good as my initial one, if not better because one of my best pals was there with me this time. We met with my new coach, DP, briefly and it was like a passing of the torch. We took another dorm tour. And this time I got to see my actual room. Res. 3, Room 302. The Penthouse of the new building. And I didn't know it at the time, but I also met one of my future roommates, Jerry Flynt. I took a few photos of my bedroom to get some idea of what I had to work with space-wise. Not much, but at least I got my own room. I was going to have to stack some furniture, or do some "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ulwUkaKjgY0" target="_blank">Step-Brothers</a>" shit. Skwez was impressed. "This dorm is nicer than Harvard!" he said. I have no idea if that's true. We stopped over to the Campus Patrol office so I could pick up my residential parking permit, made one more trip by admissions to say goodbye to DP and my admissions counselors Kenny and Clint and booked it over to <a href="https://www.treshombrescantina.com/" target="_blank">Tres Hombres</a> for some dinner before the show. </p><p>Over giant smothered burritos and for him a margarita, for me a Sprite (I was still 20 years old and the DD for the trip), we talked a bit about what I was about to dive into. He asked me, "What do you think about your coach?"</p><p>"Seems like a nice guy. And this is the chance to get in on the ground floor of something. Yeah, we're probably gonna get our asses kicked, but at least this is a chance to play. I mean, I won our Conference last year and I couldn't get a look from any of the big schools. I just want to play man. I know I'm not D1 talent. But I think I can hang in the NAIA."</p><p>"I think you're making the right move man.That campus is awesome." he said</p><p>"Yeah, and not a ton of rules when you live there. Just enough rules. And I kinda like the idea of living in the dorms. I kinda need rules and structure to bend and push!"</p><p>We finished eating, paid the bill, I hit up a pay phone (REMEMBER THOSE?) to call Pops Nickas to let him know I was staying up there that night, and we lit on out of there towards <a href="https://www.deseret.com/2018/9/30/20654850/racers-bid-sad-adieu-to-rocky-mountain-raceways-after-50-years" target="_blank">Rocky Mountain Raceway</a>. After driving for what felt like a goddamn eternity we approached the 5600 West exit off of the 201 freeway. Felt like we were basically in Wendover, kind of funny to think that’s pretty much where Casa de Nickas is now. But about a half mile from that exit we ran into bumper to bumper traffic. “Shit, maybe there’s more people that remember this stuff than we thought.” </p><p>It was a half hour before we reached the venue to find an absolutely jam-packed parking lot. We got out of the car just as the opening bars of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/L.A._Guns" target="_blank">LA Guns</a>' (Jizzy Pearl Version) "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s6198qSm0Y0" target="_blank">Ballad of Jayne</a>" echoed across the property. Bummer, we'd missed most of their set while stuck in traffic, but managed to clear security just in time to see them blast through "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qmYt0e88ANo" target="_blank">Never Enough</a>" and "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mvh0n3Gfq7c" target="_blank">Rip and Tear</a>" to close out their set. The infield of the racetrack was packed wall to wall with people. There might've been 13,000 people there. Which considering it had been nearly a decade since any of those bands have had a hit, really said a lot. </p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6m8zrCkDUQRLEzpjy-EMRAU4-yZFkac-xGerp4k34k_Uky_1poUjmTeD9QmVFzTOXz_IGWGMeHq7fpUegZ8eooXfyo3-Fvh96FaGYsp-8fp4mwjABuczXplSPSPY2suOkxgIYogytt0uT/s225/kalodner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6m8zrCkDUQRLEzpjy-EMRAU4-yZFkac-xGerp4k34k_Uky_1poUjmTeD9QmVFzTOXz_IGWGMeHq7fpUegZ8eooXfyo3-Fvh96FaGYsp-8fp4mwjABuczXplSPSPY2suOkxgIYogytt0uT/s0/kalodner.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This dude was put in charge<br />of reviving the unrevivable</td></tr></tbody></table>Next up was <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_White" target="_blank">Great White</a>. I know, I know, but this is pre-Station fire. We were at the same time both struck by how good they sounded and how awful they looked. This was a weird era for rock music, Sony had created a label called <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Portrait_Records" target="_blank">Portrait </a>that summer and tabbed producer John Kalodner to revive the careers of these old glam rock and blues metal acts. I bought a couple of those albums that year and while they sound pretty good, don't exactly hold up to the older material. But there's a couple gems on each. Great White recorded one of those albums in which they pretty much re-recorded most of their old hits along with a new song or two. It was pretty stereotypical, when the new songs came out, that crowd made a mass exodus for the john or the beer line. It was uncanny. </p><p>Their set wrapped up, and I was really most excited to see <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ratt" target="_blank">Ratt</a>. So Skwez hit the beer line, and I hit the restroom. When I came out he was talking to these two fairly attractive women who immediately ran up to me and asked if I'd buy them a drink. I'm an idiot, so dumbfounded, I obliged and they planted a kiss on each side of my face like to freaking <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7sefHatyheE" target="_blank">Doublemint Twins</a> and disappeared into the crowd. Skwez was ten feet away laughing his ass off. "The fuck was that all about?" I asked.</p><p>"Oh, I told them you were one of the promoters and loaded. But you 'don't like to make a big deal out of it.'" </p><p>"Thanks pal, I've barely got a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of. Especially now that I'm going to that school!" Still, at the time, that was pretty damn funny.</p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTOkKqcRTWYtXfBY9Yiw3auOt-v7FZueESqhwHMusMyzI97p4-be6w8AmapiY0GbFNsZZY4CRXfHbv-XDuIySy7zAW6mPREd_LKgT8Quk9g5-529E4WDrpbsb4vJq-59WlKoHmG3LiHi29/s298/pb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="169" data-original-width="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTOkKqcRTWYtXfBY9Yiw3auOt-v7FZueESqhwHMusMyzI97p4-be6w8AmapiY0GbFNsZZY4CRXfHbv-XDuIySy7zAW6mPREd_LKgT8Quk9g5-529E4WDrpbsb4vJq-59WlKoHmG3LiHi29/s0/pb.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Utah! Get me two!<br /></td></tr></tbody></table>We waded back into the crowd just as the opening riff of "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kTi-XP1swI0" target="_blank">Lack of Communication</a>" brought Ratt out onto the stage. They sounded great, and unlike about 2/3 of the times that I've seen them live since (6 or 7 times in various clubs and bowling alleys) actually put some effort into the performance. They blasted through all the songs you recognize and a few only us heshers recognized. For us, the highlight was easily "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q_WMP1gebP0" target="_blank">Nobody Rides For Free</a>," just because it was the closing credits song on one of the two movies (the other being <i><a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0092099/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1" target="_blank">Top Gun</a></i>) that we'd watched over and over again that summer, <i><a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0102685/?ref_=nv_sr_srsg_0" target="_blank">Point Break</a>. </i>Bottom line though, Ratt sounded fucking awesome that night. That tour might've been the last time they were really at their best and the crowd was shit hot. I had no clue this many people even still liked this music, but this crowd was genuinely into it!</p><p><a href="https://www.poisonofficial.com/" target="_blank"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC8801FMdIz7p6grpdG-NCjFamYAaW3oecNHiU_p8qKGX296zrJs1cjO9ItGr9aYzLGC7xGzgs-XewQaRrxW0T5aFAw6mWZrvZcTIo0F3mYdiSt_dyWi-bNXGP9RrO8oRqbmPt7H0PK3Xb/s2048/CCDeVille.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1592" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC8801FMdIz7p6grpdG-NCjFamYAaW3oecNHiU_p8qKGX296zrJs1cjO9ItGr9aYzLGC7xGzgs-XewQaRrxW0T5aFAw6mWZrvZcTIo0F3mYdiSt_dyWi-bNXGP9RrO8oRqbmPt7H0PK3Xb/w254-h328/CCDeVille.jpg" width="254" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And now Tan Mom plays the hits!<br /></td></tr></tbody></table>Poison</a> was Poison. Even if you're the type that thought of them as "metal for chicks," you still couldn't help but have a great time jumping around to their songs. They basically blasted through their entire greatest hits record, which for a nostalgia tour, should be an actual law. Played pretty much every recognizable song they had. About halfway through the set, I got bumped into by a guy absolutely flying on grass, hobbling around on crutches. "Dude, you look sturdy, I need a favor!"</p><p>"Uhhh, whatcha need?"</p><p>"Put my lady up on your shoulders man!"</p><p>Hey, who am I to say no to a man in need. Up she went for "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G5uamDMoW4o" target="_blank">Something To Believe In</a>." I managed to catch a glimpse of Skwez's face. He had a mixture of bemusement and a bizarre pride when she handed me her tube top. It was funny at the time, but there's a good reason you don't see that too often at shows anymore. And that's definitely for the best. </p><p>They wrapped up the show with "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wn0zGhoei_c" target="_blank">Rock and Roll All Nite</a>" from the legendary <i><a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0093407/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1" target="_blank">Less Than Zero</a></i> soundtrack. A hell of a good time was had, and as we filtered our way out of the racetrack and back to the car, Skwez and I just looked at each other like, "did that day just happen?" We ran pretty much nonstop from 6:30 that morning until now at 12:30 at night. And everything we did tangentially hit on just about every aspect of our friendship. From playing golf (where we first started hanging out), to touring the halls of academia, to blowing our eardrums out with a bunch of obnoxious hard rock tuneage. It was a the fullest of days with one of my best friends, dare I say "perfect." Because while life has moved on for us both, and we're still pals and have had many good times since, that day was pretty much our apex mountain. And I'll remember that forever.</p><p>Epilogue:</p><p>Two months later, I left Price for the last time as a full-time resident. In fact, outside of the summer after my first junior year, I've only popped in for a few days here and there to visit the family and a few friends. Skwez got married, moved to Colorado, divorced and married again, adopted a couple kids and now is a domesticated family guy. Neither one of us are fat kids anymore. My history in the years since has been pretty well documented here on the 'Monster. But that perfect day will stand out as a real turning-point in my life. That day, moving to the city became real.</p><p><br /></p>Nickas!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12544223109298156827noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827663845602979613.post-15286676827360302382019-11-02T00:30:00.000-06:002019-11-02T00:33:44.881-06:00Dorm Days - The Penthouse Chronicles Part 7: Beer Money Part 1The weather is slowing things down a bit at ol' Rosie, so it's time to bust off another entry before things get busy! After a few years of personal reflection on this blog, as well as a couple goofy stories and ranting about football, I figured that it's time to get back to my roots, dumb, boozy college stories. And since I'm closing in on twenty years gone since that era, I've got to get a few more out before I lose those memories forever. Anyway, after a seven-year absence, here is the latest installment of The Dorm Days...<br />
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Dorm Days: The Penthouse Chronicles ~ Part 7 </div>
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"Beer Money, Year 1 ~ "<br />
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Folks, this one takes you back to the earliest days of a three-year stretch at Westminster. I'd been on campus for two days and I received a phone call from my golf coach DP, he wanted to see me in his office. "Shit, I'm already in trouble? I just moved in!" was my thought as I took the two minutes to walk across campus to his office. Clearly, my mental state was setting me up for academic success. I popped into his office and sitting next to him was TC, our esteemed college's new (and first in about fifteen years) head Basketball Coach. I'd recognized him from several great University of Utah basketball teams from several years previous.</div>
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"Nickas, have you nailed down an on-campus job yet?" DP inquired.</div>
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"I've just kinda gotten settled, coach. I've only put on a couple decent twisters since I've moved in. Haven't really thought about a gig yet, we haven't even started class." I replied.</div>
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"Smart-ass. You're getting work-study money right? You do know, they don't just give you that cash don't you? You kinda have to earn it."</div>
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"Really?" My dipshit punk side started to show.</div>
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"Any thoughts as to what you want to do?"</div>
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"Well Coach, let's just say, I'm probably not too cut out for a librarian gig. Is there anything in the athletic department available?"</div>
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"That's why I called you. This is TC, We're coaching basketball. The first team this school has had in twenty years, and I think we've got something for you with the team if you're interested."</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That head still looks weird on that old logo.</td></tr>
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"Absolutely." I'd only ever really had jobs in recreation and athletics up to that point, running a driving range right up until the day I had moved up to Salt Lick. Little did I know, I'd probably never have a regular-grown-up-people's 9-5 gig ever. I still had some inkling about being a (probably terrible) therapist at that point. But a chance to get in on the ground floor of a new athletic program was intriguing. And I knew how sports on this campus were looked on by the community as a whole. There hadn't been anything but soccer on that campus for nearly twenty years and even that program was kinda hidden away from the campus at large. Athletics were just kinda getting going there. And were kinda looked at by the campus community as a whole as the bastard child of Westminster. As a new athlete myself, I was pretty excited to have a chance to be a bigger part of the department as a whole. Kind of that "whole world's against us" kind of ethos that was embraced by folks like myself made this offer very tempting. </div>
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"Good." DP said, "You're going to be our new Video Coordinator. You'll be filming practices and the games as well as running our film exchange program with other schools. You've run a video camera before have you?"</div>
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"Uh, yeah Coach." I really hadn't, and I had no idea what I was getting into, but hey, as my favorite Flintstones character, that weird pterodactyl that did the dishes and and served as a record player would say, "SQUAWK! It's a living."</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'd be this guy's secret service agent.</td></tr>
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Coach TC was oddly silent, but as he rose to shook my hand, he said a few things that I'll never forget and always take with me and treasure. "Nickas, I can't understate how important this job is. This is something you're going to need to take tremendous pride in because if you do a shit job, we'll lose." So, no pressure, huh?<br />
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After a solid weekend of drinking and sort of bonding with my new roommates, "The Zoo" from the Scorpions blasted into my brain via clock radio at 5:00 AM the following Monday. I threw on a tracksuit and schlepped across campus to the Payne Gymnasium. Payne was one of the oldest buildings on campus and it showed. The pipes clanked, somehow it was freezing-ass cold in there at 5:00 AM in early September, and there was zero in the way of acoustics, so every ball hitting the floor thundered through the building. My kinda joint. The guys were warming up for the last unofficial practice before formal sessions were going to begin the next day. I met Justin, the team manager and he helped me run the cable from the film room to my video pit way up in the corner of the gym. A little unconventional but the bleachers weren't high enough to film from the side. This was the best spot to capture everything. Rather than scrolling back and forth, I'd have to shoot and zoom from the far end of the floor to up close. "Nickas, get down here," TC hollered. I wandered down to the floor as he gathered the team around. "Guys, this is Nickas. He's gonna be our new film guy. So he's gonna capture every screwup, loaf, or mistake you make in every practice and every game. He's the eye in the sky and he'll see it all which means I'll see it all." Now, I'm getting nervous. I'm gonna be Public Enemy #1 with a bunch of 6'8 guys. "But he's committed. He's every bit a part of this team as you guys are. So welcome him." That was kinda nice. The guys all shook my hand and introduced themselves. I felt better.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An unconventional game film angle, to say the least. But at<br />least there were some steps to sit (and pass out) on.</td></tr>
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Those early 5:30 AM practices were brutal. We weren't going to be able to start practicing in the afternoon until Volleyball was done at the end of October, so every day, my ancient-ass clock radio would startle me awake at 5:00. Barely enough time to get a coffee in me and get set up before the guys started the first Celtic Drill of the morning.<br />
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My birthday that year fell on a Wednesday night and I had the dubious honor of turning twenty-one that day. With Big Nick, The Nate, Dowder and all the other maniacs I was running with at the time rooting me on, I took part in an unofficial 21-shot tradition after after my "History of the World Wars" class. For some reason, me turning 21 was a big deal. Besides Jerry, who was like 40, I was the first one to hit that magical age. This was like an event. I could hook up the younger fellas, and even the mormon girls down the hall got in on the act and baked me a cake in the shape of a Michelob bottle. Pretty hilarious when I think about it actually. Anyway, that night I got, as the kids these days say, "pretty faded."<br />
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"HELLO ME! MEET THE REAL ME!" bellowed Dave Mustaine out of my cranked-to-eleven clock radio at 4:45 AM the next morning. I hit snooze one and a half times before taking a 30-second cold shower to wake up and busted my ass down to Payne. I got my gear set up and the fellas were up and running. With our first games coming up in a week and a half, TC was installing new offensive sets at a rapid pace. The whole team lingered at the far end of the floor for most of the morning so I didn't have to do much. My mind started to drift to things like helping my coach recruit me some new teammates, midterms and fall-break coming up, and whether that cute girl from Alaska that lived across the hall from us was single or not when suddenly the shout of "TEAM TOGETHER" startled me to alertness. I looked at my watch, 7:52 AM. I'd passed out. The team ran their last sets at the basket underneath me, my camera was still focused on the far end of the gym. I tore down my gear, rewound the tape, labeled it, plopped it on Coach's desk and scooted off to the student center for coffee and breakfast. "Maybe he won't watch the whole thing." I (rather poorly) tried to convince myself, "After all, we were at least 25 practices in already. He wouldn't still be breaking down 2 1/2 hours of PRACTICE tape a day still, right?" My thoughts drifted back to that first meeting in DP's office. "IF YOU DO A SHIT JOB, WE'LL LOSE." I was screwed.<br />
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Two days went by, and everything was business as usual. I had kind of forgotten about the incident and had shot a couple of my best practices yet. I was kind of in "game-prep" mode as well, getting used to smoothly following the ball up and down the court and being able to widen the shot enough to see the whole half-court on both ends. Maybe I should've gone to film school. The end of practice hit and to close each session, coach would pick one of the players to hit two foul shots. If he made them, practice was over, if he missed one, the team would have to run a sprint up and down the court. Before he picked the player, coach bellowed, "NICKAS, HIT STOP ON THE TAPE AND COME ON DOWN!" I hustled into my office, hit the clicker and jogged down the stairs. "Goddamn, Nickas is doing a great job for us. He's turning into a regular Scorcese with that camera in his hands. Isn't he Daron?" Coach DP nodded. I started to smile a little bit. "...Until two days ago. Did the tripod get stuck or something?" He looked at me with those steely blues. He knew. "There was a good 45 minutes of the shot locked in on an empty far-end of the court there."<br />
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Old punk asshole Nickas would've tried to make something up on the spot, but I was really enjoying this job and I really felt like I was improving and bringing something important to the table for the first time in my life. I manned up, "Coach, Wednesday was my birthday and I had a few too many. I fell asleep at the wheel. I apologize."<br />
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"Thanks for being honest. Line up with everybody. Charlie is gonna hit two free throws. If he makes them, all is forgiven, if he misses, you're sprinting too." He tossed the ball to Charlie and gave him a nod. I knew what was coming, And fuck it, I'd earned it. Charlie never missed foul shots, but the first one went up and CLANK! Off the front of the iron. I finished a good five seconds behind our slowest guy, but I did my sprint. My new buddy Dane had his name called and made the first one. Coach gave him the staredown. Number two went up...CLANK. Up and back again. I haven't sprinted since the baseball days. I was already getting gassed. But the guys were clapping for my fat ass as I waddled over the line. He called Mitch up and mercifully he swished them both. Mitch never missed. Ever. I started back up the stairs to disconnect my gear. Coach yelled at me, "Where you going? You just ran with these guys, I told you that you were part of this team, get in the huddle. Also, never do that shit again. 1-2-3,"<br />
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"TEAM TOGETHER" we all shouted. I should've just been happy he wasn't going to fire me, but right then, I fully bought in. Whether I liked it at the time or not, I really needed that. Coach had a way of making you want to take a bullet for him. And I would never put any hint of risk to the job again. </div>
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A week later, Justin quit as team manager, and we hired my buddy and fellow three-time intramural football championship winning quarterback teammate, Sean to take over, but it was clearly a job for more than one guy. So my job started to evolve a little bit. I'd still be doing the occasional practice tape, and handling film exchange with other schools, as well as shooting all the game film, but now I was down on the floor handling half the manager duties as well. This included prepping mock opponent jerseys with athletic tape so we'd get the numbers right, sweeping the court, mixing the gatorade, getting guys ice during film sessions, rebounding during shooting drills and so on. I started working pretty long hours. My work-study agreement called for fifteen a week, but there was just too much to do in that timeframe. The season was imminent. Coach like the work I was doing and gave me a couple extra bucks an hour for the effort. I'd worked golf jobs back home for six years at that point and the only raise I'd ever gotten was when they raised the minimum wage to $5.15 an hour right before I moved. It was nice to feel rewarded.<br />
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We'd finally moved to afternoon practices, and thankfully I was able to adjust my class schedule to accommodate it, transferring one of my history classes to the morning session. One afternoon, I was filling the water jug about a half hour before practice when Coach Steinke asked me to come and rebound for him for a minute. Coach Steinke was a legend at that school. He'd coached about every sport the college had for fifty years, hung around through the hiatus, and from what I could gather was about the only member of the athletic department that was universally loved college-wide from the maintenance guys, to the faculty and all the way through administration. I stood under the hoop and he worked a half-circle from fifteen feet. I was just trying to hit him in the hands with my shitty passes, but he worked that circle for a good ten minutes, must've take 150 shots and I think I can count the amount of times he even drew iron on my fingers. Swish after swish. I think he was 70 years old at the time and that still might be the goddamndest thing I've ever seen. </div>
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One of my duties was running the film exchange program. I'd contact schools with which we had common opponents and swap game films with them. It got me in really good with the folks down in the school mail room. And they'd take extra care even when I had a personal package get shipped my way, sometimes keeping the mail room open an extra ten minutes so I could still pick up my stuff after practice. We were about three weeks into the season, and despite being a brand-new team, we were holding our own, sitting at 3-3 as our non-conference season got going. We had an exhibition game against Weber State coming up, and since we were just small potatoes and all, I contacted their film guy directly. The guy's name was just Smoke. At least that's all I knew him as, I'd actually known him for a couple years. He worked in a similar capacity at my JC, Eastern Utah. First met the guy at my cousin Gus' house during the Mike Tyson vs. Evander Holyfield fight. Yes, THAT Mike Tyson vs. Evander Holyfield fight. Anyway, we shot the shit over the phone about that and two days later, I got two packages from the film department at Weber State. A game film of a game they'd played against Montana Tech (One of our conference teams, so it was a two-fer) and another tape. This one was just labeled "Motley Stuff For Coach Nickas." I wasn't a coach of anything, but I am a Motley Crue fan. Maybe it's just a bunch of videos or a concert film or something. I took that one home and jammed it in the dorm VCR. It was the Pam Anderson/Tommy Lee porno. Needless to say, I didn't edit any clips of one of the greatest drummers of all time steering a boat with his dong while saying "It's all good" into our game prep clips. The roommates got a kick out of it though.<br />
<br />
We stormed into Winter Break with pretty good non-conference record all things considered at 6-7. Coach asked me if I was planning on going home for the break. "Just the same, as long as we're still practicing, I kinda want to stay here and work for you guys."<br /><br />"You're not obligated to stay, you don't get many breaks at this school, but if you stick around, we can use you."<br /><br />Since they kicked us out of the dorms for a month, because can't have a bunch of lunatics unsupervised, after all, I moved in with my Aunt's family on the other end of town and commuted to Westminster every day. My uncle was happy to have another snow-shoveler around, my cousin Pete had his big brother hanging out, and my Aunt had someone she could make fun of the Chicago Bears to. I was just happy to still be in the city. I was going to go to Price for a couple days right around Christmas, but I was really enjoying the job up to that point and didn't want to ruin the momentum. But the job was tougher this time of year. Coach wanted a little practice tape and our other manager had gone home, so I would be busting my ass up the stairs to change the camera angle and then back down to take care of my duties on the floor. And those increased as well. It snowed a shitload that Winter, and Payne Gym was like a hundred years old. The roof leaked and there was more than one occasion that I'd have to actually run out on the floor in the middle of a play with a big-ass towel to dry the floor so someone wouldn't slip and hurt themselves and somehow avoid getting trampled by a 6'8" dude. I'm just happy I paid attention to the play design so that I could pick my spots.<br />
<br />
The season stormed on, and while I struggled a bit in school, I only got better at the job as things went on. The team seemed to hit its stride too. We got to Frontier Conference play and were actually holding our own. We started the first half of conference play with a winning record at 4-3 and word was spreading around campus that we had a pretty good thing going here. Our first home games were sparsely attended by more than the guy's folks and wives/girlfriends, but students actually started showing up and our tiny little gym would at least sound loud. Anyway, a local cable outfit in Montana used to show FC games on Thursday nights and word got out that they were going to broadcast from Salt Lake as we took on the #5 team in the NAIA at the time, Lewis-Clark State. They stomped us pretty good up at their place in the first half of conference play, but Coach had a plan. And we were going to announce our presence that night.<br />
<br />
L-C had the frontrunner for Frontier Player of the year, a dude by the name of Franklin, on their squad. Coach theorized that if we could render him ineffective, our defense would match up well with the rest of their squad. So he put one of the more soft-spoken guys on our team, Pierce, the job of getting in his head. "He'll never see it coming," he said. From the opening jump, the game was highly competitive, and the crowd was the biggest we'd seen so far. Mostly because the Cable company had to build a rather large platform covering a good chunk of our bleachers displacing a good chunk of our burgeoning "Sixth Man" fan group to other sections. But they were into it, they were talking shit and clearly L-C had looked past us. From under my video perch, I could hear Pierce's version of running smack on Franklin, which pretty much amounted to corny dad jokes, but it must've been working because halfway through the second half, he was only 3-13 from the field with two boards.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfjyESuDcRUvSgiSQiwkdMvlfasJEn0mza1pMa6XMZJCeRbFBdKVI8IXxey1BAXHqDjh8T-hJSWY8ZHrO51YVLf1-I_fh5Vy3SVXsDzpqNLlh5K47kf5L1-nS8cOVojeqNURxGuRYS6Efr/s1600/10917870_10155159722310637_2955100457203466379_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="584" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfjyESuDcRUvSgiSQiwkdMvlfasJEn0mza1pMa6XMZJCeRbFBdKVI8IXxey1BAXHqDjh8T-hJSWY8ZHrO51YVLf1-I_fh5Vy3SVXsDzpqNLlh5K47kf5L1-nS8cOVojeqNURxGuRYS6Efr/s320/10917870_10155159722310637_2955100457203466379_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The fellas.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
With about six minutes to go, something set Franklin off. Nobody has any idea what it was, and I doubt it was racial or anything, because none of those guys were that type, but Franklin took a swing at Pierce and it was on. Benches cleared, you could hear the TV guys losing their shit, I may or may not have attempted to wade into the fray myself. When I saw the TV tape, you could see me in the background sprinting down the stairs. It took a couple minutes, but the refs restored order after ejecting both guys. But L-C was now down their best player and six points on the scoreboard and the upset was in play. Mitch hit two clutch threes down the stretch and we'd beaten the at the time unbeaten best team in the league. The few students there, rushed the court, Matt, our new PA guy blasted his Pearl Jam tunes on the sound system and as a program we were on the map.<br /><br />We finished conference play at .500 that year, bowing out in the conference quarterfinals, but the groundwork was laid for what was going to be a Frontier and NAIA basketball contender for years to come. It was awesome to be a part of getting on the ground floor of something good. And for the first time in awhile, I felt like a part of something bigger than myself. There's a lot of stories from those three years with the team and there will be a "Beer Money Year 2" in the future.<br /><br />And even though he eventually moved on to bigger and better things, I'd still take a bullet for Coach.</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
Nickas!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12544223109298156827noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827663845602979613.post-70873837030578445382018-07-28T22:46:00.000-06:002019-03-16T00:41:27.159-06:00Into The Great Wide Open, Finale': The Bridge To NirvanaIt's time we put a bow on this stupid little travelogue. Again, all apologies to the tens of you who still read my incredibly infrequent stuff. Thanks for sticking with it though. Now, who knew I could get four posts worth of material out of an eleven day road trip? Certainly not me. Maybe I'm a little long-winded, I guess. Check out <a href="http://www.thegolfmonster.com/2017/11/into-great-wide-open-part-one-from-salt.html" target="_blank">part one here</a>, <a href="http://www.thegolfmonster.com/2017/12/into-great-wide-open-part-two-mudslide.html" target="_blank">part two here</a>, and <a href="http://www.thegolfmonster.com/2018/06/into-great-wide-open-part-three-saint.html" target="_blank">part three here</a>. Now that I've seen my old college roommate and seen how he's found satisfaction in life, caught up with some long-time friends, and experienced the beauty and the excesses of what California had to offer, all while getting laid emotionally low, it's time to wrap it up. In this installment, I hit up a stupid landmark from a twisted movie I saw as a kid, make my way into the Valley of the Sun to spend a couple days with my little "brother" and meet a new little buddy, end the season with some bad golf, and maybe figure out the key to life on the drive home. Let''s rock!<br />
<br />
I didn't set an alarm the next day, and I finally found something that overpowered my Golf Professional Circadian Rhythm: three gin mules the night before. After a week and a half of managing to not sleep past 7:00 AM, regardless of whether I set an alarm or not, sleeping in was a welcome change. I rolled out of bed at 9:30 and packed up my shit. It was time to hit the road again. Thankfully, I'd slept past rush hour. Also, I think subconsciously, something in me didn't want to leave California. Outside of a protein shake, I skipped breakfast, checked out of my swanky hotel and made my way to a thinning I-10 freeway. I had one more stop on this spastic odyssey, a couple days with my "Little Brother" Pete and his little family in Phoenix, AZ.<br />
<br />
Pete isn't really my brother, he's my first cousin, but growing up, we were as close as two guys that lived a hundred miles apart could be. Once a summer, I'd blow out of Price and spend some time with his family up in Salt Lick. Oddly enough, those trips always seemed to take place whenever Pete's dad needed a major project done in their yard. Funny how that works out. Those Summer days digging trenches in the yard, playing baseball and committing general mischief forged a hell of a bond. There still isn't a day that goes by that we don't at the very least fire off a "Wazzup" text to each other or argue about the Bears or Yankees. He's still the closest thing I've ever had to a brother, and now he lives five hundred miles away, so any chance I get to spend any time with him at all, I gotta take it.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicwzEG6Ygc-OW4R8bvyrQ3UVHFRfo30GjCv5ueMtI3KIGY5rpPzj_EtzpfyzDeZgTLIK-0RDhRn9qLDF2yc2FcxU_WMc0YVwPO1F4IG4JN0fZ4AzHLJqY5szryCc2MlnOXg3A9idCLog5s/s1600/PeeWee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicwzEG6Ygc-OW4R8bvyrQ3UVHFRfo30GjCv5ueMtI3KIGY5rpPzj_EtzpfyzDeZgTLIK-0RDhRn9qLDF2yc2FcxU_WMc0YVwPO1F4IG4JN0fZ4AzHLJqY5szryCc2MlnOXg3A9idCLog5s/s320/PeeWee.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There's things you wouldn't understand,<br />
things you couldn't understand,<br />
things you shouldn't understand.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But getting there is half the fun. After a stop for gas and lunch in Palm Springs, I saw a giant billboard. "The World''s Largest Dinosaurs in Cabazon!" OH SHIT! It's the statues from <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0089791/?ref_=nv_sr_1" target="_blank">Pee-Wee's Big Adventure</a>! Whoa! There they were, off in the distance, aaaaaannnnd, not nearly as large as they were in the movie. But still, you gotta check out the roadside attraction when you can, right? I wrestled Giselle off the freeway and pulled into the parking lot. There was a giant "Closed for Renovation" sign hanging from the gate. They needed to remodel the dinosaurs? They also wanted $13.00 just to walk in the door. Just as well, at least I wouldn't have to dodge <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5YHyIsn8ffY" target="_blank">Big Andy</a>. Besides, you wouldn't want to get mixed up with a guy like me. I'm a loner. A rebel. Wait, what? Oh yeah, road trip. Anyway, I snapped a photo from a low angle to capture their slightly underwhelming majesty and hammered the gas pedal.<br />
<br />
I contemplated taking a detour a little south to the <a href="http://www.slate.com/blogs/atlas_obscura/2014/02/04/the_salton_sea_in_california_turned_from_a_relaxing_resort_to_an_apocalyptic.html" target="_blank">Salton Sea</a>, because clearly I hadn't seen enough dead things on this trip. Or north to see Huell Howser's <a href="https://la.curbed.com/2015/9/3/9924128/huell-howsers-volcano-top-saucer-house-is-for-sale-and-its" target="_blank">crazy house on top of a Volcano</a> in Twenty-Nine Palms, or even have a vision quest in <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IIEkOPmd7Bk" target="_blank">Joshua Tree</a>, but really at this point in the trip, I no longer really had no concept of time or distance. It's weird how two weeks with little-to-no responsibility can warp any sense of schedule, but I'd told Pete I'd be getting to his hood around 4-ish. He's a family man, and on a pretty strict, regimented schedule. It wasn't on me to disturb that. And really, a part of this trip was to see how the other half lived, so to speak. So those other stops on the road, well, I'm going to have to hit them up next time. But that's the nice thing about having a little bit of that freedom. I'll always have another chance.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE4QncbBjBvHkkuNx12rAfuKTgyx1_KNUNW1R2z1XU1PPSrBMdQiqKIA2_9diMBujiXwSnqddKVfUOgkxRRFEgSMXHDl2e3-3tLrL7vTC3Pi9Exhwfg_I_on1vfWgF3EHwCSMRvnkGfLG9/s1600/WelcomeToArizona.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE4QncbBjBvHkkuNx12rAfuKTgyx1_KNUNW1R2z1XU1PPSrBMdQiqKIA2_9diMBujiXwSnqddKVfUOgkxRRFEgSMXHDl2e3-3tLrL7vTC3Pi9Exhwfg_I_on1vfWgF3EHwCSMRvnkGfLG9/s200/WelcomeToArizona.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Grand Canyon State<br />
welcomes you!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The vastness of the Mojave Desert spread out before me as I tried to make up time wasted. Nothing but straight highway all the way to the horizon. If you lose it out here, you're in a world of hurt. Thank god the car was fairly new and it was November. Driving across that stretch of desert whether it be on the 15 as you would heading from Vegas to LA, or where I was on the 10 from LA to Phoenix, you just end up happy you made it with no problems. I'm pretty sure a lot of people have just vanished on this stretch of highway.<br />
<br />
I crossed the state line early in the afternoon and stopped at a rest area in Ehrenberg, AZ to stretch my legs. The desert panorama that lay before me was quite impressive. Arizona really is quite beautiful with a a lot of vistas that reminded me of the San Rafael Swell not far from where I grew up. The colors and the cacti and buttes had me in rapt attention until out of the corner of my eye, I saw a sign posted just a few feet away "Rattlesnake dens nearby, exercise caution." Well, that's as good a sign as any to get me back on the road. Giselle may have laid a patch of rubber in the parking lot as I punched it back down the highway. Eff snakes!<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI8SBhqbiH2_S8QOYP3_y6XmgBXmLpnm4iSsS8xViNMt9ec1Oa_I93TOkGx_XygAV-tsWm4xTeybCZ-tnWGpnuZckqGZw-04kGQXacQ5ONz3m7YHNVRqToy2gVA3E0nCrTziuziralpS5o/s1600/BadInfluenceUncle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI8SBhqbiH2_S8QOYP3_y6XmgBXmLpnm4iSsS8xViNMt9ec1Oa_I93TOkGx_XygAV-tsWm4xTeybCZ-tnWGpnuZckqGZw-04kGQXacQ5ONz3m7YHNVRqToy2gVA3E0nCrTziuziralpS5o/s320/BadInfluenceUncle.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Milk Drunk vs. Drunk Drunk (WHO YA GOT!?)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I pulled up to Pete's house in Phoenix around 4:30 and nobody was home yet so I swung by the grocery and liquor store to pick up some supplies. I got back to find Pete opening a box with a cooler in it. "You're just in time dude," he said, "Blue Apron just showed up. Lets go change the munchkin and get dinner on." Literally my first "how do you do" to my brand spankin' new nephew, Niko The Greeko was wiping his little ass. And really, I wouldn't have it any other way. Pete and I did a faithful re-creation of that episode of "Saved By The Bell" where <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LofzfxhyV5Y" target="_blank">Zack and Slater</a> had to change Kelly's little brother, with the "awww god" and everything. He might've been the happiest baby I'd ever seen though. We put him on the floor and watched him play with his dog, Lia the Labradoodle. She'd come a long way from her days as a puppy, and her patience with the little drool machine was both awesome and pretty beautiful in its own right.<br />
<br />
With everybody freshened up, I retreated to the kitchen to prep some dinner. I'd never cooked anything from one of those meal-delivery things, but after constructing a passable version of pozole, I can certainly understand their appeal. It almost made it too easy. The ingredients were quality and they actually had some peppers with some heat to them. Pete's bride Rachel made it home from work and we all sat around the table. They even let me feed the kid. And holy Moses, that little dude will hoover up anything you put in front of him! Gotta love a kid who isn't a fussy eater. Of course, I wasn't either, and <a href="http://www.thegolfmonster.com/2017/10/emotional-wreckage-and-actual-wreckage.html" target="_blank">look what happened to me</a>. Anyway, we put the kid down to bed, had a couple glasses of whiskey and I called it an early night.<br />
<br />
The next day was a nice little whirlwind of some yard work in the morning (some things never change), and a killer lunch at a nearby <a href="https://losdosmolinosphoenix.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/09/Menu_Aug2018_SC.pdf" target="_blank">Mexican joint</a> where I got my palate blown sky-high by an Adovada burrito and my liver utterly destroyed on a giant margarita. We trucked our drunk asses back to the house. Rachel left for a haircut, and Pete and I calmed down little Niko and got him ready for his afternoon nap by introducing him to some of the watershed moments of our childhood, old pro wrasslin' promo videos from an <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xaE_6rRHmd0" target="_blank">unbelievably high on coke Macho Man Randy Savage</a> and an equally beaked-up <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q46l70mNmCw" target="_blank">Ultimate Warrior</a>. What can I say, little kids will surprise you with what catches their attention!<br />
<br />
Later that evening, Pete and I barbecued some burgers and dogs, and a couple of their friends came over for dinner and drinks. It was nice to meet some new folks. They'd worked college jobs for a long time and as y'all well know, I've kind of been around that world for a long time. So at least there was plenty to talk about. After awhile, the baby monitor flickered to life, the kid was having a tough time settling in the crib for the night. So I drunkenly volunteered to try and calm him down. "Be my guest, and good luck," Rachel waved me into the room. Crying babies tend to freak me out a little bit. Poor little kids can't communicate what is wrong, you have to guess and it usually ends up being a case of throwing a bunch of shit against a wall to see what sticks. But I was bound and determined to get him to sleep. I picked him up and rocked him a little bit, his diaper wasn't mushy, but that didn't stop him from howling in my ear. I tried to calm him down to no avail. Finally I put him back in the crib and just kinda rubbed his belly while singing <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_NWjehpGSO0" target="_blank">"Ball and Chain" by Social Distortion</a>, a Capella, lullaby-style. He just kinda giggled a little bit, turned his head and passed out. I'm still convinced he was just fucking with me.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRuNsdw5SSU2LZpGwJ1CpbMAVlx0myiZ-JWejvMEqs942QHg2mapywMDBNiq0lCfdLn1w26tuYOrLPlyqn1mghfrfRKDtenJXzCAAT4y8FtLBfEWOfGigR9A7alxS4DuAM5Ks_DwI8Qhnc/s1600/Papago+Park.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRuNsdw5SSU2LZpGwJ1CpbMAVlx0myiZ-JWejvMEqs942QHg2mapywMDBNiq0lCfdLn1w26tuYOrLPlyqn1mghfrfRKDtenJXzCAAT4y8FtLBfEWOfGigR9A7alxS4DuAM5Ks_DwI8Qhnc/s320/Papago+Park.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the few I managed to pipe that day</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
For my last full day on this trip, Pete and I played golf at a spectacular course called <a href="https://www.papagogolfcourse.net/index.php" target="_blank">Papago Park</a>. Now, I consider it a great professional and personal failure that virtually every one of my non-golf-world friends are pretty terrible at the game. I really need to do a better job as a teacher and a friend in that regard. Pete, like me, was primarily a baseball player for the bulk of his life, and it shows. The kid handles a club like it's an axe, but he's got potential. He also has an advantage in that every time I upgrade my gear, he gets my hand-me-downs. At least I know they're going to a good home that way. Now, I hadn't picked up a club in a little over a week and it showed as I struggled to a 78. That track was long and narrow and my hungover ass had no pop left in the bat. But it was great to get out with the kid, and he hit the new driver I gave him better than any I'd seen him hit before. All in all, a great capper to this visit with my brother, despite the shitty scores we posted.<br />
<br />
I got up pretty early the next day, I was going to try to make it all the way back to Salt Lick by nightfall. Got one more chance to hang out and feed my little nephew. I found that the "airplane" method was, tried and true as it is, the single most effective way of getting mushed-up apples and carrots ferried from the bowl to his mouth. I was genuinely envious of him as at least that looked like it had some flavor. My daily breakfast of Greek yogurt, or as we call it, "yogurt," and a protein shake was kind of starting to get a little stale. The kid just stared at me with a "what's with you old man?" look on his face, and believe me, I get it. This old, crazy ogre blew into town in his red death-mobile, and shook up his highly structured 7-month-old world for three days, leaving goofy punk rock songs and about a million razzberries to the belly in his wake. And I couldn't wait to do it again, but sadly, real life back home beckoned and once again, I had to take to the highway.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, the Waze app on my phone decided to send me on the "road-rage" route out of town. It sent me down surface streets, nowhere near a freeway, resulting in it taking roughly 90 minutes to finally hit city limits, but soon I was crossing the desert on a two-lane highway through Wickenburg, Wikiup and I probably passed through Wikipedia as well. I soon made my way up to Highway 93, streaking toward Boulder City. I needed to see for myself the greatest public works project in our country's history, <a href="https://www.usbr.gov/lc/hooverdam/" target="_blank">Hoover Dam</a>.<br />
<br />
The 93 soon came into view of the Colorado River, so I knew I had to have been getting close. The scenery was spectacular, with an almost bottomless canyon to the left of the highway and some crazy cliffs on the right. I passed a sign, "Hoover Dam and Lake Mead Recreational Area 1 mile" I figured, I'd better stop soon. As I neared the turnoff, I noticed that there were hundreds of people lining the right side of the road, probably looking at the dam. Sadly I couldn't see it from the road and there was nowhere to pull over, so I just kept going until the turnoff to the dam itself. I drove down a little windy road and over the top of the dam to an overlook. Unfortunately, it was getting a little late in the day for a damn dam tour, but I had to stop and admire that incredible engineering marvel.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3n0ldoR75lBEvyyluXHUvERpkztnivA9yEXpLYJ2aBTa9iCtXo9FwWfrK3qM4fwVLw_lefG-Kx1T_8OkjP9J-sgeBU67Wm-3dr_vhDjfIjUjP-m98mViSF6P3nX8oa1quM0BPBVnAoqnG/s1600/HooverBridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3n0ldoR75lBEvyyluXHUvERpkztnivA9yEXpLYJ2aBTa9iCtXo9FwWfrK3qM4fwVLw_lefG-Kx1T_8OkjP9J-sgeBU67Wm-3dr_vhDjfIjUjP-m98mViSF6P3nX8oa1quM0BPBVnAoqnG/s320/HooverBridge.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The metaphor I've been looking for</td></tr>
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It was then that I looked up and saw where all of those people that I drove past were standing. They were along the top of the O'Callaghan-Tillman Bridge. As impressed as I was with the structure of the dam, the bridge was unlike anything I'd ever seen before, just completely massive and artificial, yet somehow looked like it'd been there forever. It was then that I realized the lesson I'd been searching for since I departed on this whole stupid odyssey. Everything we experience in life is your bridge. Just like when I was in Big Sur and I drove across that massive span and didn't even realize I was on the damn thing. I'd taken so much in life for granted. Always looking dead ahead, rarely stopping to appreciate the moments I was in, and the beauty that surrounded me. I always looked at the things that happened to me over the years with a certain detachment, reveling in the story without living in the experience itself. I think about where that had gotten me and how empty I often felt because of it. I'd look back on things and think, "wow, that really happened" and never really realized the gravity or the flat-out, batshit-crazy nature of those experiences while in the moment itself. That's no good way to go through life. We need to appreciate all of it, the good and the bad while it's happening.<br />
<br />
It's like I said in the last entry, absolutely nothing is forever. Everything ends. It's the First Noble Truth of Buddhism, "that to live is to suffer." Suffering is inevitable for all of us as long as we labor under the delusion that things can be permanent. When in fact, nothing is permanent. We''re all composed of a series of systems. Our culture, our relationships, our physical bodies, they're all systems and all systems have a few things in common. They all begin, grow, flourish, decay and die. Everything. Without exception. you can be a good Christian, a good Jew, a good Muslim, a good Mormon or Scientologist. You can make all the right moves and do all the right things. But your dog is still gonna die. your parents are still gonna die You're gonna fuck up your marriage. Your boyfriend or girlfriend is still gonna cheat on you. Your kids are gonna grow up and not call you as much. And you can, y'know, sit in your nice house and not sleep for three days and cry to the cats and jack off until you're raw. Or you can buck up, put on your boots and work towards achieving Zen.<br />
<br />
Zen is when abandon the concept of the past and the future and embrace only the moment. If you can free yourself from the events of the past, which is dead, and your expectations of the future, which is fantasy and embrace only the moment in which you are alive by freeing yourself from the tyranny of all of those wants that you have, then, dammit, can you finally have a taste of that state of Zen. But of course, by its very nature, it won't last.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6JhjkbLZOeXUErzitxlnGXb9L1-LlnVgF7vPnfSVc4DeEv7_GA13a_WTJ_y11zMDbTiNydxJ01FWt5Ok20j_l9poJ5Ay12sEYmLm5-0mRs7H4X8Fy8e6E_N89PS59wRWaeaiAib4Uz3f0/s1600/TheMileage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6JhjkbLZOeXUErzitxlnGXb9L1-LlnVgF7vPnfSVc4DeEv7_GA13a_WTJ_y11zMDbTiNydxJ01FWt5Ok20j_l9poJ5Ay12sEYmLm5-0mRs7H4X8Fy8e6E_N89PS59wRWaeaiAib4Uz3f0/s320/TheMileage.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Final Stats, but some things are immeasurable</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Sadly that trip couldn't last forever. I pulled Giselle into my driveway around 9:30 that night and after getting all my bags out of her, I closed the trunk and just leaned against the bumper for a minute, looking up at the starry sky and how those stars looked the same whether I was in Monterey, SLO, Los Angeles (not really, wayyyyy too much light pollution but stay with me here), the Arizona desert or even in my driveway. In the big scheme of the universe, we're not even a blip. But in our own lives, and for the people around us, well, we're all we've got. We need to take care of each other and make each other's lives the best blip we can.<br />
<br />
Thanks for sharing this dumb odyssey with me. Now I can finally write about something else! More material coming soon! I swear!Nickas!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12544223109298156827noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827663845602979613.post-27061744266242119912018-06-28T00:01:00.000-06:002019-10-27T13:20:05.925-06:00Into The Great Wide Open Part Three: The Saint of Los Angeles<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Apologize for the delay, had to work out a few things in my mind on how to approach things here, then got busy! Moving on! Check out part one of this stupid one-man odyssey right <a href="http://www.thegolfmonster.com/2017/11/into-great-wide-open-part-one-from-salt.html" target="_blank">here</a> and part two right <a href="http://www.thegolfmonster.com/2017/12/into-great-wide-open-part-two-mudslide.html" target="_blank">here</a>! In this installment, I leave the scenic stretches and California kitsch of the central coast and trade it for the ultimate concrete jungle. Along the way, I get to reconnect with some old friends that I hadn't seen in over a decade, get irrationally bummed out from a message from back home, get tailored, visit every Real Rock n' Rolla's spiritual home and start to put it all together while meditating on a beach. Let's get back on the road...</span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_CV1av_-c7Nwod0aqFDtWvqcJmMU-utamNElc1Xo-_fyzVgHtNQn_fbbEjOVl4WG3LPTieqp6amyfZxKG-qYiBgtk61n7bQmDYGYVF4eXLA3KT0byowM3bz1sb0u_s2lZV2_3lR_EHbCw/s1600/set_fast_and_furious_stunts_640.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="546" data-original-width="970" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_CV1av_-c7Nwod0aqFDtWvqcJmMU-utamNElc1Xo-_fyzVgHtNQn_fbbEjOVl4WG3LPTieqp6amyfZxKG-qYiBgtk61n7bQmDYGYVF4eXLA3KT0byowM3bz1sb0u_s2lZV2_3lR_EHbCw/s320/set_fast_and_furious_stunts_640.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The alignment on that car had to have been pretty great</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">After a quick stop back in San Luis Obispo at the <a href="https://www.firestonegrill.com/" target="_blank">Firestone Gril</a>l for one of their famous Tri-Tip sandwiches, I was back on Highway 1 heading south. The road weaves in and out of its ocean view and I made one more stop in Pismo Beach, just to see what Bugs Bunny was making such a fuss about. It was kinda nice, well worth taking that right turn in Albuquerque. I blasted through Santa Maria and found myself nearing Lompoc, where Mia, O'Conner and the fellas once sprung Toretto by wrecking his prison bus and somehow didn't kill everybody aboard. There were no prison buses on the road, but traffic was starting to build, and by the time I hit Santa Barbara, it was stop-and-go time. For the next two hours I probably averaged about five miles an hour as we crawled along the 101 through Ventura. It kinda blows my mind that the beautiful vistas of the chaparral that I was "forced" to look at (along with about ten thousand tail lights) pretty much went up in smoke last Winter. Eventually, I got through whatever it was that was throttling down traffic to two lanes, split from the 1 and managed to hit the Valley just as it was getting dusky and the famous LA rush hour traffic was starting to build up. The Waze app is a godsend in places like this, and even though game 6 of the World Series was going on just adjacent to my route, I was able to find my <a href="http://www.sheratongrandlosangeles.com/" target="_blank">hotel</a> downtown without a crazy amount of trouble.</span><br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvCATBpI62iW1ma95y_wT-OYowG-p3ognmINCJoX4cS9vSgG3zWnFiONPFJFKOgm6Al1MK6VGcTviFQ4PAIaW8nDbe0pcUtAZAIgEemDuu3zcBTVYKjLmbDlhyJGE0xtB5EgJv3rl0AWmQ/s1600/shrimptaco.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="562" data-original-width="1000" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvCATBpI62iW1ma95y_wT-OYowG-p3ognmINCJoX4cS9vSgG3zWnFiONPFJFKOgm6Al1MK6VGcTviFQ4PAIaW8nDbe0pcUtAZAIgEemDuu3zcBTVYKjLmbDlhyJGE0xtB5EgJv3rl0AWmQ/s320/shrimptaco.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My tongue is LAVA!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">After stowing my gear and a quick freshening up, I took a walk to find some dinner, stopping off for some tacos at a little place down the street. It was Halloween night and pretty busy, but there was an open seat at the bar in the rear of the place and I struck up a conversation with the bartender while he was pouring. He'd come to LA from the midwest to try and get into the film business and figured out he had it a lot easier slinging drinks and living in an apartment the size of a closet downtown. NOT STEREOTYPICAL WHATSOEVER. Still, there's something to be said about actually taking the leap when you've got nothing to lose. Now, I can't eat quite what I used to these days, so I settled on just three small tacos, (carnitas, chicken and shrimp) as well as one of the better margaritas I've had in quite some time. The carnitas and chicken were both outstanding, the shrimp had to have been one of the top-ten hottest things I've ever eaten. Just blew my already-fried palate all to hell. I'm glad I saved it for last. Just as the Dodgers were putting the finishing touches on forcing a game 7 in the World Series, I paid for my meal and walked back to the hotel. The streets were a lot more crowded both with people in costumes heading to the bars for a wild night and ecstatic local Dodger fans, with visions of a possible championship dancing in their eyes.</span><br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6v1mUr5q0GCxEVcq1SGBgWVQYv-mpZNKFHnV3ofOj5Z0pUIc7oRnFZVv9GhnXH-CD6w2Y1WJHKqXPGRnflyCtE4QW2BUbcMXKkbH3SY24aBg6HXdDn0NlwiVW5CNssU_kLmsgMl_00u_Q/s1600/butters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="960" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6v1mUr5q0GCxEVcq1SGBgWVQYv-mpZNKFHnV3ofOj5Z0pUIc7oRnFZVv9GhnXH-CD6w2Y1WJHKqXPGRnflyCtE4QW2BUbcMXKkbH3SY24aBg6HXdDn0NlwiVW5CNssU_kLmsgMl_00u_Q/s320/butters.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We're practically the same guy.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The margaritas had my brain in a fog and as my head hit the pillow just after midnight, a messenger alert snapped me back to reality. Hey! It's the mysterious girl from back home! She got my "just thinkin' about you" message! I opened the app aaaaand her blunt response made it abundantly clear that whatever feelings I had for her, weren't exactly reciprocated. Not exactly w</span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">hat I wanted to read on my first night in The City of Angels, or ever really. But thinking about it, shit, it's totally okay. We were in completely different places in our lives. And relationships are definitely a two-way street. I was an idiot for thinking I could rekindle something that probably wasn't really there from twenty years ago. Not the first time I've made that kind of mistake and it probably won't be the last. God knows, I'm terrible at catching a hint. But hell yeah, it hurt. But just like everybody's favorite animated doormat Butters once said on the legendary "Raisins" episode of South Park, </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"<span style="color: #333333;">but at the same time I'm really happy that something could make me feel that sad. It's like, it makes me feel alive, you know? It makes me feel human. And the only way I could feel this sad now is if I felt somethin' really good before. So I have to take the bad with the good, so I guess what I'm feelin' is like a, beautiful sadness. I guess that sounds stupid." Still, at the time, it felt like the many highs of the past few days had just been mashed with a pair of size fifteen waffle-stompers. I hammered down a hot shot of NyQuil and I'm not sure how long it took to fall asleep, but it was a while.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo2Bx_heU79a0klhtHjUiBhWjBkpQSjZ8j2NUCRR1DrsSDW8HBTd-ZNE15u-f3X_Q0xa1GmT9kD-YmhVTQKd99jAVzVyanbrBr6OzhbGXwMihYkvLD7AFlnIljpf473X35YGfMv69pszUz/s1600/grandcentralmarket.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="460" data-original-width="688" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo2Bx_heU79a0klhtHjUiBhWjBkpQSjZ8j2NUCRR1DrsSDW8HBTd-ZNE15u-f3X_Q0xa1GmT9kD-YmhVTQKd99jAVzVyanbrBr6OzhbGXwMihYkvLD7AFlnIljpf473X35YGfMv69pszUz/s320/grandcentralmarket.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wish we had something like this here in Salt Lick.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It was a fairly restless night, but I rolled out of bed bright and early to meet an old college friend for breakfast, Jess. You might remember her from a couple cameos in some of my old <a href="http://www.thegolfmonster.com/search/label/Dorm%20Days" target="_blank">Dorm Days</a> stories, specifically when she fell asleep hiding in my closet from campus security during our <a href="http://www.thegolfmonster.com/2011/01/in-which-our-hero-returns-with-another.html" target="_blank">huge dorm party</a>, and when she totally brightened up my day during one of the <a href="http://www.thegolfmonster.com/2011/02/one-where-random-musing-reminds-me-of.html" target="_blank">shittiest week</a>s I had during that era. Good friends like her are hard to come by in this world. She suggested we meet up at the <a href="http://www.grandcentralmarket.com/" target="_blank">Grand Central Market</a>, one of those big food markets that only seem to exist on Travel Network TV shows. Thankfully, the market was only about a twenty-minute walk from my hotel. In LA, driving doesn't cost a lot, PARKING costs a lot. Actually, with the cost of gas these days, driving costs a lot too.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><br /></span></span>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuFaa9bKEyykC_dVLU3GIXBDu1qLtjPMxhql7B2c2Oz2mnbFde9mcGb0YX8Swr4KFMMWCiEx9v8QiS8a4M2nNgGxUcS-C-FhI5uIevvibfu5hCkP-6ES9vWpt2NXtl685fzzMxjOhfFapr/s1600/Pigeon.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuFaa9bKEyykC_dVLU3GIXBDu1qLtjPMxhql7B2c2Oz2mnbFde9mcGb0YX8Swr4KFMMWCiEx9v8QiS8a4M2nNgGxUcS-C-FhI5uIevvibfu5hCkP-6ES9vWpt2NXtl685fzzMxjOhfFapr/s200/Pigeon.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don't blame me. The rat peed there.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Now, there's a lot to be said for living in a clean, almost sterile city like Salt Lick, but this was an enjoyable stroll to me for a few reasons. First, people actually seemed interested in where they were going and were MOVING. And even if you bumped into somebody accidentally, they didn't give you the side-eye, they just kept on. I actually kind of liked that anonymity. Also, as gross as it sounds, there's something oddly comforting about that familiar scent of urine and pigeon shit in the air. That felt like a city that's lived in. It doesn't pressure you to conform to a certain way of living. You can do what you want, live your life the way you want to as long as it doesn't hurt anybody else, and nobody gives a rat's ass, not even the rats. That being said, it'd be nice if it was a little cheaper though, but I still dig it. Those high prices, and the fact that your house may either burn down in a brush fire or shake itself apart in the event of an earthquake are all a small price to pay for the luxury of 70 degrees and perfect every single day with a beach nearby</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">After hanging around the ever-growing line at the counter of the tastefully named breakfast sandwich booth called <a href="http://www.eggslut.com/" target="_blank">Eggslut</a> for about twenty minutes, from behind me I just heard a loud, "NICKAS!" and a big hug. It'd been about ten years since I'd seen her but Jess was a vision as always! I'll tell y'all what, if we have any chance whatsoever at cleaning up the literal mess this country has made of itself in terms of litter and pollution, Jess is going to be at the forefront of the solutions. She works for a waste management NPO in Southern California and was one of the main proponents of their recent plastic grocery bag bans, as well as several other major sustainable trash management initiatives. She knows more about garbage than anyone I know, and that's a good thing. She's going to have a positive impact on this earth. It was great to catch up with her, even if for just a little while as we reminisced about the Dorm Days and everything that's happened since then. After a dynamite sausage sandwich for breakfast and about eight cups of coffee, I walked her to her car and said goodbye. As she pulled away into traffic, I remembered one of the dumb goals of this trip that I had in mind when I left Salt Lick, I was going to buy a suit.</span></span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_JWxidDCAudwIMS5G2ScVz1RKMQuIH94afprVp2lbbQBhVv-wOybMl27vu3zHcYUKo9MLFQPq6YMddArTaxxwo6HkCgKiKGsPPYOA4dlt3UfiA7z5qh-4lsyIj_AYUvtV0BK0Lb7fw66O/s1600/Al+Weiss.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_JWxidDCAudwIMS5G2ScVz1RKMQuIH94afprVp2lbbQBhVv-wOybMl27vu3zHcYUKo9MLFQPq6YMddArTaxxwo6HkCgKiKGsPPYOA4dlt3UfiA7z5qh-4lsyIj_AYUvtV0BK0Lb7fw66O/s200/Al+Weiss.JPG" width="150" /></a><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I mentioned in the last chapter of this travelogue that one of my favorite podcasts, <a href="http://theafterdisaster.com/" target="_blank">The After Disaster</a>, was based in Southern California. A couple months before this, they'd mentioned on one of their shows that two of them had recently purchased tailored suits from a small tailor called <a href="http://www.laweekly.com/best-of/2016/shopping-and-services/best-place-to-get-an-inexpensive-suit-7437590" target="_blank">Al Weiss</a>. They'd mentioned that they were so good, they practically sized you up as you walked in the door, asked you what you were interested in, and had you outfitted literally ten minutes later with something that fit perfectly, and for not a whole lot of dough. I punched in the coordinates on my phone and found that it was located only about fifteen blocks away, so I continued my march through the streets toward the fashion district. I almost walked right past it, it was so small. I walked in and it looked like it was chock-full of stuff that "fell off the back of the truck." A dude named Roman walked over and just like they said on the show, basically sized me up on everything besides neck-size, grabbed a couple things off the shelf and told me to try them on. Holy shit! This stuff looked great! I just needed the pant legs shortened by an inch. "No problem," the guy said, "take it over to Freddy's next door and they'll tailor it for you. I was in and out of Freddy's in about ten minutes and only out about five bucks for the alterations. I stopped back into Al Weiss and bought three more shirts. All told, I was out all of $250 for an Italian suit and four shirts. Insane. I then had another pleasurable walk for about fifteen blocks packing my garment bag back to my hotel. Nobody gave me a second look. Anonymity is awesome and I was already starting to feel a little bit better. Like it was time to turn a corner.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhlKhUuzpj7f0GikC4k8bM8s2Lm7Zq2L2ltUngTevmvHn9g1ZgifR2ruMSJTuWt1vtmnk1XlS7oMaCLYZWxItnsKSzkEyEQmCN-pNJGZaWPzyQjfd3V7in-NNx13zcxok6Fd1TT8sndhve/s1600/Workout.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhlKhUuzpj7f0GikC4k8bM8s2Lm7Zq2L2ltUngTevmvHn9g1ZgifR2ruMSJTuWt1vtmnk1XlS7oMaCLYZWxItnsKSzkEyEQmCN-pNJGZaWPzyQjfd3V7in-NNx13zcxok6Fd1TT8sndhve/s320/Workout.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">38 Minutes! It's like I run in slow motion or something, still,<br />
it's a pretty nice view! </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">After a killer workout in the surprisingly swanky hotel gym in which I set (at the time) a treadmill 5K personal best (gotta love interval training at sea level!), I met up with my television writer buddy MJ and his wife Alexia for dinner and drinks at a brewpub in Burbank. I coached MJ for a season of high school golf at Carbon High during my freshman year of college and I'd worked with his mother for quite a few years when I was first breaking into the golf business. We spent a couple hours catching up and commiserating on the depressing state of our hometown, politics and the joys of legal weed. All the while on the giant TV screen in the bar, the Dodgers were getting thoroughly destroyed in Game 7 of the series by the Astros. We seemed to be the only ones yukking it up in there, as the rest of the crowd in the bar made the place resemble a funeral parlor. Even though I can't stand the Dodgers, I was almost secretly hoping they'd pull it off (don't tell my Giant fan Dad), so I'd have the once in a lifetime opportunity to take part in a good, old fashioned sports riot! Instead, the ride back to the hotel was pretty uneventful. Out of the window of the high-rise, I heard a few sirens and some shouting, but I chalked that up to just a typical Wednesday night in downtown Los Angeles. After the shit night I had before, I slept like a baby.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Thursday, I made my way back north a bit to Ventura County. One of my comedic heroes and radio legend, <a href="https://www.philhendrieshow.com/" target="_blank">Phil Hendrie</a>, often waxed poetic about his beloved El Pacifico and the calming shores of Silver Strand beach. It wasn't too difficult to find, the weather was a beautiful 60 degrees and to my surprise, there was all of about four people on the mile wide stretch of beach. I shouldn't have been surprised, it was a Thursday at noon, in November. What kind of <a href="https://www.chadgoesdeep.com/" target="_blank">crazy asshole</a> would be at the beach right now? Well, that guy and a tourist dipshit like myelf. I plopped my duffel down, laid out a couple towels and waded out into the water. Yep, it was November, JUMPIN' JEEZUS THAT'S COLD! That was okay though, I practically had the beach to myself. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoijVHsGIZhyphenhyphenPzG2xXQzJmMH6f8NI6HMyC64bsP3BN1je-T-vMfv4nK1YGxgS275VDimJL-IYx0YjAnzmRANEySzAKNDj6NrVaWr8c7RALw16eLpbYeR1-MyBJRPLdkgUiSvxjgtk8jrKk/s1600/SilverStrandBeach.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoijVHsGIZhyphenhyphenPzG2xXQzJmMH6f8NI6HMyC64bsP3BN1je-T-vMfv4nK1YGxgS275VDimJL-IYx0YjAnzmRANEySzAKNDj6NrVaWr8c7RALw16eLpbYeR1-MyBJRPLdkgUiSvxjgtk8jrKk/s320/SilverStrandBeach.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Working on the bronze, thinking about<br />
the universe and shit.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><br /></span></span>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I pulled into the big dude equivalent of a lotus position on my towel and zoned out for a minute. Now, normally I have a difficult time shutting my brain off, but something about the gentle waves rolling in and crashing ashore, the occasional seagull squeak, the sand shifting under my tucchus made all of the whirlwind of the road, the heartache from back home, the stresses about work fall away like the sand getting pulled back into the water. I learned a lot from the ocean that day. See, those waves roll in, and roll out. They crash on the beach and move back out again. And there's a rhythm to it. Over and over again. Sometimes they roll in long, and sometimes short. Sometimes the time of day rolls them further up the beach, and at certain times of day, the beach gets bigger. But they crash, over and over and over again. Those waves hit that beach eons before I got there and they'll hit that beach long after I'm gone. No outside forces can change that. Over and over again, the waves crash. I'll leave an imprint of my ass in the sand, and by tomorrow it'll be gone. The universe doesn't care, it just does what it does. The only things we can control are what we do. The way we treat others, the way we treat the planet, the way we feel about ourselves, no other person should have the power to change that about you. They can only be a catalyst, a spark, the rest is entirely up to you. We all have that choice to make.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKxBFvJTylJFF7wVlA0gAuIDZIkYyexSmn5dpUrLMRiptRoHIqdcGnZp1zAwmPKPNo-XBUDc3yYHAhe6ZY6JlxGsICA7w1owzS6sxOd3Y2XEEDbmuvA6pSzi0BO1aIwQgiphXOMdE133Wv/s1600/StrandJetty.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKxBFvJTylJFF7wVlA0gAuIDZIkYyexSmn5dpUrLMRiptRoHIqdcGnZp1zAwmPKPNo-XBUDc3yYHAhe6ZY6JlxGsICA7w1owzS6sxOd3Y2XEEDbmuvA6pSzi0BO1aIwQgiphXOMdE133Wv/s200/StrandJetty.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Strand Jetty</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">It's like the second noble truth of Buddhism. </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;">"Nothing is forever. Everything ends. Except the waves of the ocean. "To live, is to suffer." Suffering is inevitable for all human beings as long as they labor under the delusion that things can be permanent. When in fact, nothing is permanent. Your life is composed of a series of systems. Your culture, your relationships, your physical body, they're all systems and all systems have a few things in common. They all begin, grow, flourish, decay, and die. Everything without exception. You can be a good Christian, a good Jew, a good Muslim, a good Scientologist, make all the right moves, and do all the right things. But your dog is still gonna die, your parents are still gonna die. You're gonna fuck up your marriage. Your girlfriend is still gonna cheat on you. Your kids are gonna grow up and not call you as much. And you can, sit in your nice house and not sleep for three days and cry to the cats and jack off until your dick hurts. Or you can man up, put on your boots and work towards achieving zen.</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;">Zen is when you abandon the concept of the past and the future and embrace only the moment. If you can free yourself from the events of the past, which is dead, and your expectations of the future, which is fantasy, and embrace only the moment in which you are alive by freeing yourself from the tyranny of all of those wants that you have, then you can achieve a state of zen consciousness which leads to a state of bliss. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGLAwYHZ9zWoJETJZft_iE_WE_SeTNELv9OnGWQP4dpMnyUXd6pQEjFsMfmjxE4JIQiUI5Tz2-pTlrur-mD2490sEAwyalKMcBOk3dwAMBhJI1kAArqmKjGwRmcKl3EmUZsXQX1nEx6qSV/s1600/McDowells.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="640" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGLAwYHZ9zWoJETJZft_iE_WE_SeTNELv9OnGWQP4dpMnyUXd6pQEjFsMfmjxE4JIQiUI5Tz2-pTlrur-mD2490sEAwyalKMcBOk3dwAMBhJI1kAArqmKjGwRmcKl3EmUZsXQX1nEx6qSV/s200/McDowells.jpg" width="132" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The golden arcs!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;"><br /></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I snapped out of it and looked at my watch. I'd been literally staring at those waves for two and a half hours. I packed up my stuff, snagged a t-shirt at a local surf shop, and hammered down a gyro at a Greek joint adjacent to the beach. After topping off Giselle's fuel tank, I cruised back down the 101 towards the city and my hotel. Fortunately, Waze was acting kind of weird again and had me running through neighborhoods again, but it was fortuitous, and I almost crashed the car when suddenly I drove by a very famous, but very out of place movie landmark, <a href="http://abc7.com/food/coming-to-america-restaurant-appears-in-hollywood/2590459/" target="_blank">McDowell's</a> from <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0094898/?ref_=nv_sr_1" target="_blank">Coming To America</a>! Unfortunately, I'd missed the pop-up restaurant by a couple days, and an apparent appearance by JACKSON HEIGHTS' VERY OWN MR. RANDY WATSON, but still, just the fact that somebody did that to their restaurant was fucking funny and well worth the picture! Somebody get my formerly fat ass a Big Mick!</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8NEqhyphenhyphenq6wQJatoFMsEOkYWmfae5OXSfAR7dnl1nmnHBSrlqieHI1MHYVG0E3atcayrk_T1Q3YyTntmT1pfg4fDnnMtx4KDPGceoP8eE7ZCRu7Q5boQRSdynT49bEKj2UAcKIk2bOb4WXe/s1600/TheBow.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8NEqhyphenhyphenq6wQJatoFMsEOkYWmfae5OXSfAR7dnl1nmnHBSrlqieHI1MHYVG0E3atcayrk_T1Q3YyTntmT1pfg4fDnnMtx4KDPGceoP8eE7ZCRu7Q5boQRSdynT49bEKj2UAcKIk2bOb4WXe/s200/TheBow.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;">That night, I ventured into West Hollywood for a stop at the <a href="https://www.amoeba.com/" target="_blank">SINGLE GREATEST RECORD STORE IN THE HISTORY OF GODDAMN MANKIND</a> and picked up some vinyl and shopped around a bit. Seriously, if it exists, they probably have a copy of it. After losing myself in there for a couple hours, I drove west down the world famous Sunset Strip to the world famous <a href="http://www.rainbowbarandgrill.com/" target="_blank">Rainbow Bar and Grill</a>. I make a pilgrimage to that place every single time I'm in Southern California. There isn't rocker throughout history that hasn't thrown on a massive drunk in that place, and you can almost feel the ghosts echo through the walls. Their food is excellent too, and I went there on this trip for a couple reasons. My friend Susie walked in and sat down in the booth across from me. I hadn't seen her in almost sixteen years and like so many people I know, had somehow managed not to age as time wore on. </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;">It was great to see her doing well, she was dating one of my best friends throughout high school, so we'd hang at her house quite often back in the day. Nowadays, s</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;">he was a doctor for the local department of corrections and had some wild stories to tell. Nothing I care to repeat here, but she's SEEN SOME SHIT! Stuff the makes the "</span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HXrb8jurCs8" target="_blank">Tossed Salad Man</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;">" seem like a walk in the park. But she's weathered through it with a sense of humor, and had also recently started a family. "Having kids changes everything" she said, "it's something I never thought I'd do, but it's been the most rewarding thing ever." I'm sure it really puts things in perspective, especially after dealing with the absolute dregs of society on a daily basis. "Keep that kid outta County!" I quipped. </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimnXGf4WqCWcUlYsqB3pUHhOUpQKk4ngx3xcFIRFmZGrNV4U0Aj6vJrZmUQ0iV-cs9wRteUsnE0NoKKqC_eBYaiobgYMNMHhbe-Ftj_r5i-yZgBsxK2y4eUa-OES9mb7khfCbUS4OVQ6XM/s1600/God.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="449" data-original-width="798" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimnXGf4WqCWcUlYsqB3pUHhOUpQKk4ngx3xcFIRFmZGrNV4U0Aj6vJrZmUQ0iV-cs9wRteUsnE0NoKKqC_eBYaiobgYMNMHhbe-Ftj_r5i-yZgBsxK2y4eUa-OES9mb7khfCbUS4OVQ6XM/s320/God.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I also had to hit up the 'Bow to pay my respects to the late, great <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lemmy" target="_blank">Lemmy Kilmister</a>, the mastermind of heavy metal stalwarts <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mot%C3%B6rhead" target="_blank">Motorhead</a>. I always thought that the only things that would survive our impending doom on the planet would be Keith Richards, cockroaches and Lemmy, but unfortunately seventy years of the hardest living imaginable finally did him in. I was at one of the last shows Motorhead played, here in Salt Lick, when after three songs, he walked off the stage in obviously rough shape. Probably one of the more traumatic concert experiences I've ever had. I literally thought I'd seen the man die onstage that night. His health finally gave out a few months later, and death finally came for the unkillable. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;"><br /></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">After the epiphany I'd had earlier in the day on the beach, viewing his Memorial at the Rainbow seemed especially poignant. There weren't too many people over the years that lived "in the moment" as ferociously as Lemmy. That dude attacked life like it was something to be devoured. He toured the world blowing out eardrums, did all the drugs, drank all the booze, bed down with women worldwide and he did it every goddamn day of his life. If he wanted to do something, he made it happen. I think there's something we can all learn from that. Maybe not quite to the destructive ends he went to health-wise, but I think after we all handle our responsibilities, we owe it to ourselves to seek out and experience joy. Whatever that may be. I was never again going to let indecision and fear cloud the direction my life would take. I'm going to tackle life like a linebacker smashing a wide receiver going over the middle. It was time to make some changes, but I had one more lesson to learn on the road before I'd return to life back home...</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;">Coming up soon - Part Four: The Bridge to Nirvana</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;"><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;"><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222;">"I was born the King of Fools</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;"><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222;">At any other game I never lose.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;"><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222;">But when it comes around to</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;"><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222;">Love that's when I realize</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;"><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222;">I was born the king of fools."</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;"><br /></span></span>Nickas!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12544223109298156827noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827663845602979613.post-35823724002809115572018-06-13T01:21:00.000-06:002018-06-13T01:21:39.535-06:00Why I Do What I Do (Riding a different kind of white horse)<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Okay, I know what you're thinking. "What the hell man! You promised us an insanely personal story about the whole lot of good and that personally crushing thing that happened to you in Los Angeles during that <a href="http://www.thegolfmonster.com/search/label/The%20Open%20Road" target="_blank">stupid trip you took last fall</a>! Why are you leaving us hanging? What an asshole!" To which I am going to reply, "Hey, it's been a busy year." I'm actually almost done with that story and hope to have it up in a few days. But something happened to me today, and it hit some weird spot in my brain and I just had to reflect on it a little bit. Because it cuts to the absolute core of who I am, what I do and why I do it. So for you guys, and the shockingly strange amount of readers I have from Eastern Europe and behind the Iron Curtain, here's your chance to get inside my head for a second. I'll finish that travelogue soon, and maybe dust off <a href="http://www.thegolfmonster.com/search/label/Dorm%20Days" target="_blank">The Dorm Days</a> later this year. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIc_kXkeuxcaj9uZTgFIxIFF1fp1bR6_w1MIFaNbsvZXhGc9zsQtzvMw5ZaWgyXdEOTeLc4nJhUk_WF9GMAC3TVFcxs2bAlgMk92QY0IGo3ZQNXELo_Klz3foVL9E_4ni-Lsw3IRLVB2cr/s1600/Waterboy.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIc_kXkeuxcaj9uZTgFIxIFF1fp1bR6_w1MIFaNbsvZXhGc9zsQtzvMw5ZaWgyXdEOTeLc4nJhUk_WF9GMAC3TVFcxs2bAlgMk92QY0IGo3ZQNXELo_Klz3foVL9E_4ni-Lsw3IRLVB2cr/s200/Waterboy.jpeg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not enough tacklin' fuel.</td></tr>
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Anyway, on to the meat of this blog entry. Growing up I was a total
Mama’s Boy. Not <i><a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0120484/?ref_=nv_sr_1" target="_blank">Waterboy</a> </i>bad, but my momma and I were pretty close. Like it should be, I guess. When I was a little kid, my dad owned a
trucking company and worked from 6 AM to 8 PM every day, so he wasn’t around
too much. She drove me to various sports
practices daily, served as president of my Little League and Babe Ruth leagues,
helped me with my homework and did all this while holding down a full time job,
and attended college! Total Superwoman
growing up, a strong, take-no-bullshit kind of lady. Eventually my dad sold the company, and took
another job giving him a little bit more time to be around, but I was always
closer to my mother. </div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
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<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgySu9k2cpMTLg3ceC-371phywIQfXmfZERydEGc9BBJb5iHNsy7N9Wg3NdPtuy7okxJF-D24QsIUNCEU1Fqkj3IANIGlnMQ9BWGNUJ-GjHQ7ikLfZJT9FeL0tYyUCPrPWNRTc04lSg11Ht/s1600/4340_1149356258078_7975521_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="431" data-original-width="604" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgySu9k2cpMTLg3ceC-371phywIQfXmfZERydEGc9BBJb5iHNsy7N9Wg3NdPtuy7okxJF-D24QsIUNCEU1Fqkj3IANIGlnMQ9BWGNUJ-GjHQ7ikLfZJT9FeL0tYyUCPrPWNRTc04lSg11Ht/s320/4340_1149356258078_7975521_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What a bunch of reprobates.</td></tr>
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My dad and I butted heads constantly. It seemed like I could never do anything good
enough for the guy. My grades were never
good enough. I didn’t work hard enough
in the yard. Hell, I think I was the
only “coach’s kid” in all of youth baseball that didn’t have an easy ride. I’d hit a home run to the opposite field and
as I’d be rounding first, all I’d hear is “You were a little late getting
around on that one.” One of the reasons I got into golf in the first place was
that it was something he’d never done before so he couldn’t criticize me about
it. To be honest with you there was a
period there where I thought the dude was a total asshole. We just didn’t get along, even threw down a
couple of times. Believe me, I'm not proud of this, and I'm glad we're good now. Get along with your parents kids, you'll thank me later.</div>
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About a month and a half before high school graduation, my folks split up. I never did see it coming, but at the same time, I wasn't around home very often back then. I pretty much lived over at my buddy Wischer's place back then and the local golf course. In a baseball parlance, I was just "playing out the string" until graduation when I would maybe force myself to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. A wiser person than I (not exactly distinguished company, that's probably 95% of the world) once said "whatever you take for granted, you lose" and you could definitely say that at the time, I took my family for granted. And when it blew up, mentally it threw me into a tailspin. I pretended to hold it together for my Dad and little sister, but even they had to have known I was pretty jacked-up. Sure, the circumstances kind of forced my Dad and I to get along for the first time pretty much ever, but I was still lost, spending what time I wasn't in class or at work crawling into a bottle of Jack Daniels that an older buddy would pick up for me once a week. </div>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7G1ROlis8AAX2djOt0U26zjlXJqX6Uei-ipVGzaimXs5Oj3XjlGcLvoOTOXbhxV8-I_GBTXNG4XqNbmqaWoQwNj6E2NF5kL5qtJ0QFvQwx2U5PIG6XOjqdmpgplTR3UTNQg_hcxo_Umn1/s1600/Carbon18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7G1ROlis8AAX2djOt0U26zjlXJqX6Uei-ipVGzaimXs5Oj3XjlGcLvoOTOXbhxV8-I_GBTXNG4XqNbmqaWoQwNj6E2NF5kL5qtJ0QFvQwx2U5PIG6XOjqdmpgplTR3UTNQg_hcxo_Umn1/s320/Carbon18.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There used to be a lot more weeds to the right.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">One day though, the following summer I was out by myself playing golf at good ol' Carbon Country Club. As was typical at the time I was thinking about what a mess I was and probably feeling sorry for myself. It was late in the day, right around dusk, and the course down home seemed completely deserted. I striped my tee shot down the 18th fairway and walked to my ball. When I reached it, I had a good look around and something weird happened. I noticed the grass was the most beautiful tint of jade that I'd ever seen. The sand in the trap seemed pearl white, even though it was the same shitty sand we'd always had. The clouds in the sky looked to be on fire as the little remaining light cast what seemed to be the air around me in the most surreal shade of blue with streaks of warm orange light almost illuminating a path towards nirvana. The scene gave me pause, and then for the first time a sense of total calmness came over me as all the chaos and strife in my life seemingly lifted away. It was almost like something else was there standing next to me letting me know that everything was going to be all right. Then I stepped up to my ball, and hosel-rocketed it straight into the weeds. But you know what, I didn't care, because I was in a good state of mind. Things were going to be all right.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZZDDila2KCzUb7eP6J1c_CQypfstOHD628cnRjtFBL5My5WpUJWy3UQLoXc5YdZ-AOucMBU5ez9HBzmAUsd0UkQfCwiPqt65EswEqaVYGmbmuTIG3AqCoP01xJfF7PpQdAgvnNRYHhpLd/s1600/Rust_Cohle_2012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZZDDila2KCzUb7eP6J1c_CQypfstOHD628cnRjtFBL5My5WpUJWy3UQLoXc5YdZ-AOucMBU5ez9HBzmAUsd0UkQfCwiPqt65EswEqaVYGmbmuTIG3AqCoP01xJfF7PpQdAgvnNRYHhpLd/s1600/Rust_Cohle_2012.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A monster is chained in all our hearts, waiting to be set free by obsession</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Now, I'm not particularly religious. I grew up that way, hell, I was even an altar-boy at my church. I grew out of it and let's just say it's probably not in the cards for me to head down that path again. Nowadays I dabble a little bit in the Tao, and meditation, but that's more for personal enlightenment. I fucking hate rules. But I felt something that day, and I've been chasing it ever since. I competed at a fairly high level in the game for years, and I thought the charge of being in contention in a tournament might've been that feeling. But it's a whole other ballgame entirely. What I've been chasing is that sense of calmness that I can only describe as being one with the vibrations of the universe. I don't mean to come off sounding like a two-bit <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt2356777/?ref_=nv_sr_1" target="_blank">Rust Cohle</a> but golf happens to be my particular tool for finding that greater sense of being. For the rest of you, it might be (and probably is) something else entirely and I can't tell you what that might be, but I encourage all of you that might be reading this to try and find it. You'll know it when you do. It's better than drugs. It's better than booze. And you'll be chasing it like a junkie taking the spike until you find it again. Hopefully what it is for you, isn't actually heroin. That shit kills people.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Anyway, today, I threw some <a href="https://www.taylormadegolf.com/P790-Irons/DW-WZ711.html" target="_blank">new irons</a> in the bag, gave them a good shakedown on the range, and blasted through eighteen holes in about two and a half hours, firing the best round I've shot all season. Afterward, I taught my golf for women class (beginning golf session 1 starts in just a month, sign up!). Tonight they learned a very difficult shot, and at the end they all had hit a bunch of shots they could be proud of. Professionally, nothing satisfies me more. Once class wrapped up, I sprinted back out for nine more holes. I work mostly evenings these days, so rarely do I get some dusk golf in, and this is my favorite time of the year to do it. I didn't hit the ball as well as I did earlier today, but that's okay. The great thing about the game is you can still have a great time, even if things are struggling. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">These days I struggle finding a balance between work and life. For the first time ever, I feel like I have my health, and mentally I'm in a pretty good place, but we didn't get much of a break this Winter and it seems like we've been grinding pretty hard since January. I'm down to one day a week off, and I'm filling what free time I've got with lessons. I enjoy being busy, but it's left a bit of a lack of time for other things in life, from relationships, to creative pursuits, to hell, even just keeping up with my yard! My work-life balance is way outta whack, but I guess it's what I signed up for all those years ago when I got into this crazy business in the first place. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuSAU_rVxkNUBF1JoFexUMhH_28Dz4JOKJPmIG1gZbNHT6pHgtnUZxOLX4BuAAhyBxlu2jkofDQ3CUE9YZLsCZoywFvhrgm2XPpcWM4YoT7-DZgAnZucrwhMpl2LrAztqiwOtXp_JAiJHG/s1600/35151719_10217217758100009_5051684651735711744_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuSAU_rVxkNUBF1JoFexUMhH_28Dz4JOKJPmIG1gZbNHT6pHgtnUZxOLX4BuAAhyBxlu2jkofDQ3CUE9YZLsCZoywFvhrgm2XPpcWM4YoT7-DZgAnZucrwhMpl2LrAztqiwOtXp_JAiJHG/s320/35151719_10217217758100009_5051684651735711744_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I didn't have a camera all those years ago.<br />Today, I did, and this still isn't as brilliant as it looked in real life.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I got to the last hole, as the sun was hanging low and found myself with an approach shot out of some heavy rough after shoving my second shot about thirty yards right of the fairway. I pulled the club out of my bag, took a couple practice swings and just before I took a stance, I took a good look around. And for just a second, that sense of balance and calm and brilliant color washed over me like a gentle flood. The only sound I could hear was a couple sprinklers in the distance as I drew my wedge back and fired a smooth dart to about five feet from the pin. The smile and daze I was in didn't leave my face as I walked up to the ball, hearing an imaginary gallery going crazy as I approached the green. I lined up my putt and slid in my eighth birdie in twenty seven holes. Pure bliss, until I remembered that I had taken a cart and left it at the spot from where I hit my approach 120 yards back up the hole. Sometimes getting caught up in the moment can make you feel like an idiot.</span></span>Nickas!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12544223109298156827noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827663845602979613.post-74944865959474686482017-12-06T01:04:00.001-07:002019-10-27T09:17:50.702-06:00Into The Great Wide Open Part Two: A Mudslide, A Funny Farm and a Shiny House On A HillBack for more? Check out part one of this stupid one-man odyssey right <a href="http://www.thegolfmonster.com/2017/11/into-great-wide-open-part-one-from-salt.html" target="_blank">here</a>! On to part two, where I check off a couple dumb items from the bucket list, attempt to re-create an underrated bad movie scene, have a romantic dinner by myself surrounded by people in love, and see what really unnecessary opulence looks like! Anyway, here we go!<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioYCyDcGZRBK-tBkXXxwXaPCVGR55a9WxrLJAyUYJdWTOaYPdst08Ec2UoM1ZP9TNL_dtvuDDQtEmsToVzQCu4Gjtqe_AJQqskC7GSkIA_V4sP2avWyGySkTdUaBziVjSRmGzG_1su560u/s1600/The+Boulevard.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioYCyDcGZRBK-tBkXXxwXaPCVGR55a9WxrLJAyUYJdWTOaYPdst08Ec2UoM1ZP9TNL_dtvuDDQtEmsToVzQCu4Gjtqe_AJQqskC7GSkIA_V4sP2avWyGySkTdUaBziVjSRmGzG_1su560u/s200/The+Boulevard.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Best Road in North America</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It was just past one o'clock when I passed the Seventeen-Mile-Drive turn-off just adjacent to Pebble Beach where the road forks and the entrance to the Pacific Coast Highway began. Sweet jeezus, I've only ever seen it on television and in the movies, but I've always imagined this stretch of road as the greatest stretch of highway in the United States. I flashed back to memories of riding with my uncles from Anchorage to Homer, Alaska on the Seward Highway years ago and thinking that was some pretty impressive beauty, as well as multiple trips through Big Sky country in Montana in my playing and <a href="http://www.thegolfmonster.com/2008/10/coach-nickas-i-kinda-like-sound-of-that.html" target="_blank">coaching days at Westminster</a>, but this was something different. This was me and my car making this drive for the drive's sake. Not with any end goal in mind, but just to see an epic stretch of America and to lose myself in the sheer beauty of it all. Sure, the 101 was a lot quicker way to get to my next overnight stop in San Luis Obispo/Atascadero, but it lacks a certain...majesty.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWEnrNCAVR70u4iBCv1PZSOCNAI8F_L051B-nIqJ3PXkrNcyAdw9ymjd1b4Axhf8Wjb0bCiQEAWFF0TaT9tf-HqyBOKw94EOYu9IKoZIjgaMd4JLP4fkAlgMee9haLkg47iQTu0akrzwes/s1600/Bridge.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWEnrNCAVR70u4iBCv1PZSOCNAI8F_L051B-nIqJ3PXkrNcyAdw9ymjd1b4Axhf8Wjb0bCiQEAWFF0TaT9tf-HqyBOKw94EOYu9IKoZIjgaMd4JLP4fkAlgMee9haLkg47iQTu0akrzwes/s200/Bridge.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I think this means something</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Once you pop out of Carmel Highlands heading south, it's like the entire world opens up to you. I had mountains to my left, high cliffs and thousands of miles of ocean out to my right. It was like I could see to the end of the earth. Being that there were no real time constraints, the drive was slow and steady as I'd pull over every couple miles just to admire the view. I'd snap a picture here and there, but mostly just stared out and down into the sapphire coves below. Occasionally the road would cross a bridge, such as the Big Creek bridge that I've pictured here, but they do a nice job of blending that into the scenery until you look back on it. I wondered if there was a metaphor there. I'm sure there was but I hadn't figured it out yet.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0yX4cLvqvHVXt_jHD_ySMqf-_0fLJaAtvBO00Dp8yOSp-YLDDOGntZ6ezy1rWiAnxycAi_O20JAZta_Nzylu7zZRldxPYv0TyDd3oAie9MGZWH1tGqVtfASl4R3xXbKdFyKNpwlBAkjDP/s1600/the-limey-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="474" data-original-width="835" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0yX4cLvqvHVXt_jHD_ySMqf-_0fLJaAtvBO00Dp8yOSp-YLDDOGntZ6ezy1rWiAnxycAi_O20JAZta_Nzylu7zZRldxPYv0TyDd3oAie9MGZWH1tGqVtfASl4R3xXbKdFyKNpwlBAkjDP/s200/the-limey-3.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bide your time and all becomes clear.<br />
Also, KNEEL BEFORE ZOD!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Eventually I made my way into the place I've been obsessed with for years, Big Sur. As I've mentioned before, Big Sur was the location of the final scenes of one of my favorite films of the the late-90's called <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0165854/?ref_=nv_sr_1" target="_blank">The Limey</a>. Starring Terrence Stamp as Wilson, a recently released long-term inmate in an English prison, This underrated Stephen Soderbergh classic features the man once known as <a href="http://www.zod2008.com/" target="_blank">General Zod</a> making his way to California to seek revenge after the suspicious death of his daughter at the hands of Hollywood producer and part-time drug lord Terry Valentine, played by Peter Fonda. The cliffs and the coves below were an awesome spectacle to see. I also appreciated that there was virtually zero cell-phone coverage anywhere in the area. This would be an awesome place to disappear to. And if I was a Hollywood mogul and part-time drug lord, this would be an awe inspiring place to retire and eventually meet my terrifyingly violent demise in.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTQHn86dZv4sbJBxxlUJOKPkslU7_XjGRPQMhJvSO6HzkKu4_LkGHYJxN4IZHYBkzcsbluIoyxonQy8DRNtZndFVkP8UFCcYM30Vyg6cFo6f28BlU3FJPM7oqtR6KB6fja9SdIgeIx4cdA/s1600/Big+Sur.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTQHn86dZv4sbJBxxlUJOKPkslU7_XjGRPQMhJvSO6HzkKu4_LkGHYJxN4IZHYBkzcsbluIoyxonQy8DRNtZndFVkP8UFCcYM30Vyg6cFo6f28BlU3FJPM7oqtR6KB6fja9SdIgeIx4cdA/s200/Big+Sur.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Why would anyone want to<br />
be anywhere else?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I pressed on heading further and further south until I realized, "I think I might be the only car on the road." Followed quickly with, "Oh shit, I forgot about the <a href="http://www.montereyherald.com/article/NF/20170923/NEWS/170929916" target="_blank">landslide</a>." A couple years previous there were some pretty massive wildfires in the Big Sur area, followed soon with a massive landslide that wiped out several miles of the Pacific Coast Highway and actually reshaped a good chunk of the California coast. I was the only car on the road because I was getting near the end of the line. I looked for signs of detours south but there were none. Eventually I hit the big orange barrier in the "town" of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gorda,_California" target="_blank">Gorda By The Sea</a>. I walked into a little gas station there where the first words out of the fella behind the counter were, "you're lost aren't you?"<br />
<br />
In more ways than one. "Kinda. I'm on a road-trip, but I forgot about the slide," I sheepishly replied.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOg-SISPfRlLpo9kQI9bHijtwjx7_jH8hjmN_0Vy7PvmpOsfPWSK7c3GFxtk0P4MM6YtS7nz3fbpVwRmzeRnAjFKBcs0K2lbDcQw8lEkoY003XfxcnS_fKblGK0Ef4Mqv33mBX5QTjupxD/s1600/Nacimiento4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="377" data-original-width="390" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOg-SISPfRlLpo9kQI9bHijtwjx7_jH8hjmN_0Vy7PvmpOsfPWSK7c3GFxtk0P4MM6YtS7nz3fbpVwRmzeRnAjFKBcs0K2lbDcQw8lEkoY003XfxcnS_fKblGK0Ef4Mqv33mBX5QTjupxD/s200/Nacimiento4.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Later, I raced the Drift King <br />
down this bastard to win his girlfriend's<br />
freedom, or some shit.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"You're not the first, and you're not gonna be the last. But at least you look good," he said weirdly. "Double back seven miles until you come to the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nacimiento-Fergusson_Road" target="_blank">Nacimiento Road</a> and it'll take you over the mountains to the 101." I told him thanks, paid to re-fill my water jug and turned back north. Ten minutes later I hit the turnoff and for the next ten minutes, I was almost driving vertically upwards. WE'RE GOIN' BALLISTIC MAV! That strange dude wasn't shitting me when he said it took you over the mountains, I figured the climb would be a little more gradual. Like many things in life, I was wrong, but eventually it kind of evened out although the climb was still there. And it was easily the most winding 1 1/2 lane road I've ever been on. Reminded me of something out of the European mountains on <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Transf%C4%83g%C4%83r%C4%83%C8%99an" target="_blank">Top Gear</a> or the climax of <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0463985/?ref_=nv_sr_1" target="_blank">The Fast and The Furious: Tokyo Drift</a>!. I'm sure that if I knew that I was the only car on that road, it would've been an absolute blast hooning around those crazy turns, but every couple of minutes a car would pass going the other direction or around a blind turn so it was WHITE KNUCKLE TIME. It took about an hour and a half at 15-25 miles per hour to drop down on the other side and eventually make it to the 101. I often get sick riding in a car, but never driving a car, but this road left me a little queasy. Pretty awesome drive though. The dropoffs were terrifying, but the views were incredible. It was starting to get dusky and I was still an hour or so away from my hotel, but I eventually found it in the little town of Atascadero.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsHU4sjK5ftODOTbUEyJKrEs2qJecakYDodfhRykWzlfxCQnTJ1LadjNRcOqXRBCuiqhx6CSirMNun8GQjY2QmxBUzxSeS_JUpTX95m1w1vAEFOpiPZQEFhyphenhyphengH88RIhO4Klv_8yDOU3uO9/s1600/pabsheader.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="328" data-original-width="650" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsHU4sjK5ftODOTbUEyJKrEs2qJecakYDodfhRykWzlfxCQnTJ1LadjNRcOqXRBCuiqhx6CSirMNun8GQjY2QmxBUzxSeS_JUpTX95m1w1vAEFOpiPZQEFhyphenhyphengH88RIhO4Klv_8yDOU3uO9/s320/pabsheader.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I trust these dude's opinions on fine-dining and haberdashery.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
Just a quick aside here. One of my favorite weekly podcasts is <a href="http://theafterdisaster.com/" target="_blank">The After Disaster</a>. It had its beginnings as sort of a Loveline after-show starring the sound engineer, the phone screener and a buddy of theirs that helps run the Improv comedy club chain. It's kind of like the Seinfeld of podcasts, with no real topic from week to week and is pretty much just three guys shooting the shit. Sounds kind of lousy, especially with my describing it, but it is wildly entertaining and I can't recommend it enough. Anyway, the show originates out of Southern California, and I kinda wanted to see some of the stuff that they describe on the show while I was out here. One of the guys favorite hangouts is a world famous hotel in nearby San Luis Obispo called <a href="http://www.madonnainn.com/" target="_blank">The Madonna Inn</a>. The place is famous for their themed rooms, outdoor recreation, winery, killer restaurant and bakery. I would've loved to stay a night at this place, but at $300 a night and this late in the year, I was trying to get through this trip fairly lean. So I was stuck with exploiting my kid sister's <a href="http://www.marriott.com/default.mi" target="_blank">Marriott</a> friends and family discount. But I had to see the place for myself, so after getting checked in and getting cleaned up, I drove the thirty miles down the road to have some dinner.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD6HhxWQJdvl4P1w0UQsj7HRXOg_mnMSNYJTwckThv91NkDV8SwKsdc_0epyjrOfmb5THJNQun3DSPzhBp0L30Y0wqV4XNHbr352KXTkul9ojPJfNr-7VsvIjKrvyYVLAraB4r0oN040hm/s1600/Madonna+Tree.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1417" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD6HhxWQJdvl4P1w0UQsj7HRXOg_mnMSNYJTwckThv91NkDV8SwKsdc_0epyjrOfmb5THJNQun3DSPzhBp0L30Y0wqV4XNHbr352KXTkul9ojPJfNr-7VsvIjKrvyYVLAraB4r0oN040hm/s200/Madonna+Tree.JPG" width="176" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Classic California kitsch</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I pulled up and this place looked like something out of an old Rat Pack movie. Just a technicolor wash of lights and colors against the stark, inky blackness of the night sky. I found their steakhouse and this place was a sight to behold. Pink and gold everywhere with the centerpiece being a gigantic golden tree with cherubs hanging over it. It looked like that scene at that honeymoon hotel in Superman II. The restaurant was adjacent to a large dance-floor where a ten-piece band was setting up at the far end. I thought they only had the live stuff on the weekends, then I realized it was almost Halloween when a couple college-age gals dressed like Wayne and Garth walked by. I asked the barkeep what was going on, and he explained that once a week the dance classes at Cal-State SLO hold a theme dance out there. So there would be some entertainment later.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxrBCnpAFbhD8uQt00xXUI9_9pabSq4CNtWW6CrclTCSBJjNKO_Xvooww0WPeEvPOMNVVEdIp9L-vdgh-JT3WyNp4KOygLGNu6_pblEvMxuXPSPfB90dyefPONbgOPDGtEzxng2ilO4mGh/s1600/content_Wonka_Beds.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="449" data-original-width="800" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxrBCnpAFbhD8uQt00xXUI9_9pabSq4CNtWW6CrclTCSBJjNKO_Xvooww0WPeEvPOMNVVEdIp9L-vdgh-JT3WyNp4KOygLGNu6_pblEvMxuXPSPfB90dyefPONbgOPDGtEzxng2ilO4mGh/s320/content_Wonka_Beds.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's true love right there.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I sat at a small table underneath the big tree and had one of the better ribeyes I've had the pleasure of hammering down. They grill over red oak wood here and you can taste it. Looking around, I was the only one there that was on my own. It was late, so the restaurant side of things was winding down for the day, but there were three couples dining on adjacent tables. I found it kind of serendipitous. One looked like they were in their mid-twenties, smiling constantly at each other, two giant pieces of pink cake and champagne in front of them. The next couple were in their mid-40''s. Faces long and mostly silent, two large glasses of wine filling almost as quickly as they were emptying. The third were quite elderly, looking like they'd just gotten out of that bed in the middle of Charlie Bucket's house. The old man's quivering hand holding his wife's throughout their entire meal while never taking his eyes off her, grinning from ear to ear. I thought to myself, "this is like seeing the three stages of a lifelong relationship here." Love can do no wrong early on, but eventually life wears on you and you get tired of each other's shit but over a long time you realize that what you have can't be replaced and love seems new again. That ship has probably sailed in my case, I'm almost 40, but that doesn't mean that I can't recognize it when I see it and appreciate it for what it is. It's like <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1431045/" target="_blank">Deadpool</a> said, "Love is a beautiful thing. When you find it, the whole world tastes like Daffodil Daydream! So you gotta hold onto love...tight! And never let go! Or else the whole world tastes like Mama June after hot yoga." Wise words from the "Merc With A Mouth." So I sent a text message to the mysterious gal back home letting her know I was thinking about her and hoped she was doing good.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqem6MJ9onCGTZaUU-ZesLvSkYL5UXo6_WAeyqF7OgII_-VXorddsor8xFIatI7SzQXJfdUup8iXRx8XsS7B7h-skppe4c9l3-z8FjuJ1XklWPiZRPjurjyhYsX7PgBK5p5toSRRVCdq5a/s1600/Top+O+the+World.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1201" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqem6MJ9onCGTZaUU-ZesLvSkYL5UXo6_WAeyqF7OgII_-VXorddsor8xFIatI7SzQXJfdUup8iXRx8XsS7B7h-skppe4c9l3-z8FjuJ1XklWPiZRPjurjyhYsX7PgBK5p5toSRRVCdq5a/s200/Top+O+the+World.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Top O' The World!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
College kids in elaborate costume started pouring in, and the standards from the big band started to swell. I took that as my cue to call it a day. I got a piece of that <a href="http://www.madonnainn.com/cakes.php" target="_blank">pink champagne cake</a> to go (I really shouldn't be eating this stuff but I was on vacation! It was good, but I was miserable later), paid my bill, wandered the grounds a little bit and moseyed back up the highway to my hotel in Atascadero to retire for the night. I can't remember another day in my recent past where I did so much from sunup to my head hitting the pillow.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFNqGeOaUv1AYE8klSWPPhhClwzqXrWE21n0prY_QnBennBcGmXkv2YLEUBcasuX-HH9D8iP3YuPeAyJYWSVv7kGTXh-eKz9JEmmFGD4VYjZ_EdnGPxC1jUSOD7oXhw_nWFTY7-93DmrmX/s1600/Atascadero.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFNqGeOaUv1AYE8klSWPPhhClwzqXrWE21n0prY_QnBennBcGmXkv2YLEUBcasuX-HH9D8iP3YuPeAyJYWSVv7kGTXh-eKz9JEmmFGD4VYjZ_EdnGPxC1jUSOD7oXhw_nWFTY7-93DmrmX/s200/Atascadero.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nurse Ratched was actually<br />
pretty nice!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It's kinda nice having the freedom to not have to set an alarm, but the golf business is too entrenched into my DNA, so 7:00 AM hit and I was wide awake and hammering down some hotel room coffee with my protein shake as creamer and my Greek yogurt. Other than a few nice meals, I'd kinda managed to stick to my daily diet and routine on this trip. Today I was going to finish the trip down the PCH to Los Angeles. But I had a couple stops to make on the way. Sounds dumb as hell, but I had to stop by the <a href="http://www.dsh.ca.gov/Atascadero/" target="_blank">Atascadero State Hospita</a>l, where the Terminator and John Connor busted out Sarah in <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0103064/" target="_blank">Terminator 2: Judgement Day</a>. They wouldn't let me in. Also, it's a dude's-only hospital, so that movie was factually incorrect. Still, it was a trip just seeing the big sign up front.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLV1KyOUGmbLLz6xpcDuxa4li0o9TtbRtY39lg5wawAadi53lmQGAcw9Hc0G1jAmLm8pOLkhoMMaFx4tWC4tfRqaaYdn43mIsv0p_7ASKdBVmgZjCNWRq3dJ8jr2ufqBLmQCdZTlTMulWl/s1600/The+Castle.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLV1KyOUGmbLLz6xpcDuxa4li0o9TtbRtY39lg5wawAadi53lmQGAcw9Hc0G1jAmLm8pOLkhoMMaFx4tWC4tfRqaaYdn43mIsv0p_7ASKdBVmgZjCNWRq3dJ8jr2ufqBLmQCdZTlTMulWl/s200/The+Castle.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This place probably cost a couple<br />
hundred bucks.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
After a fuel stop I backtracked over to Highway 46 which took me back out to the coast where I turned north towards a beautiful little seaside town called San Simeon. I had to see one of California's great treasures, <a href="http://hearstcastle.org/" target="_blank">The Hearst Castle</a>. As a <a href="http://www.thegolfmonster.com/search/label/Movie%20Reviews" target="_blank">long-time movie lover</a> and occupier of various Film History classes in high school and college, the 1941 film, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0033467/" target="_blank">Citizen Kane</a>, has been required viewing in pretty much half of them. The real-life version of Charles Foster Kane, William Randolph Hearst was a pretty awful dude, that did some pretty awful shit, but goddamn did he have him a pretty swell vacation home, now a California State Park and museum. As I pulled up to the visitor center at the bottom of the mountain, the marine-layer parted and the house appeared on top of the peak. Impressive to say the least. I paid twenty five bucks and was the last one on the bus for their first "Grand Tour" of the day.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw8JFDKsf_W2gEbraB6dqEhijY75HNfGIwsWYyxRrT15kLfix5oAqvFjq-4jBsY7Y6w7koYuh0z5u8ufPoPhE2A6Dyg5f_iHBMlP0mMah25GdZxw0AUk-seFWBBaHdRAjDimlGqQQ0fAp_/s1600/Sehkmet.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw8JFDKsf_W2gEbraB6dqEhijY75HNfGIwsWYyxRrT15kLfix5oAqvFjq-4jBsY7Y6w7koYuh0z5u8ufPoPhE2A6Dyg5f_iHBMlP0mMah25GdZxw0AUk-seFWBBaHdRAjDimlGqQQ0fAp_/s200/Sehkmet.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The California climate is<br />
perfect for preserving 3000<br />
year old statues. No wonder<br />
Bob Hope loved it here.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The drive up the hill was awesome with the house appearing and disappearing from view with the voice of Alex Trebek giving little trivia tidbits as we drove past various landmarks on the windy road. We pulled up to this huge staircase where Sean, our tour guide, met us and immediately launched into a few stories about Hearst's father George as he led us up the stairs to the main courtyard. Unfortunately, the legendary Neptune Pool was entering yet another renovation to fix some leaks that have existed since its original construction, but the Roman temple facade was impressive to say the least, as was the incredibly colorful flowers that adorned virtually everything on the outside of the house. The upkeep on this place must be insane. I've barely been able to keep my rose garden alive during this summer! We passed an actual Egyptian statue of Sekhmet, the Warrior Goddess of Healing and entered the building through a tiny side door. I liked that there was actually a screen door on that entrance.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8uHp-lQRgJKgsn5ambF6Ja4gciT-MVoL86dJfUF20thrQr8jDVdKEDdYPh-B8nTntQGlTH-TPgFvsDwzajPlhRwX4wFvl0qq6Sqv257t5_QZdYjVI7ITTVzOVipoOtT5rpdHwi3dlcMVo/s1600/Indoor+Pool.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8uHp-lQRgJKgsn5ambF6Ja4gciT-MVoL86dJfUF20thrQr8jDVdKEDdYPh-B8nTntQGlTH-TPgFvsDwzajPlhRwX4wFvl0qq6Sqv257t5_QZdYjVI7ITTVzOVipoOtT5rpdHwi3dlcMVo/s200/Indoor+Pool.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's not even heated! What<br />
a cheapskate!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Only a couple rules were given to us by the tour guides, keep up and DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ANYTHING! Literally everything in this house is hundreds of years old, imported from Europe and the Middle East and carefully reconstructed. Every piece of artwork in the place, authentic. In addition to pushing us to war with Spain, opposing Roosevelt's New Deal and giving an open editorial platform to nazis in the US, Hearst had a real appreciation for finery, and thankfully he was able to preserve these priceless works of art for future generations to see. Maybe the one good thing he did was to not just leave all of this to his asshole kids. He loved California so much that he left it all to the state when he died to preserve as a museum. I appreciated Sean's passion for the place, and the artwork and attention to detail was incredible, but as the tour moved through the main rooms of the house and the flat-out insane indoor pool, I found myself growing more and more resentful and pissed off. Sometimes, I think this country never learns. Hearst had the resources and probably could've kept half this country afloat during the Great Depression, but instead he just built a big house on a hill. Typical.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9s5-WF-iKEctf8TDVj4HghrgkOkPE5Zs5deeleVuFVdeFmmHE-ESnFNY3XWnay517m-53TV9v8BnCtPAvpwfWo-Y7N9B4Bbsh3lzs28qqsvH0jFIe5rlOtV8FmQq5GKG8wIW5ea-w8bhR/s1600/zebras.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="600" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9s5-WF-iKEctf8TDVj4HghrgkOkPE5Zs5deeleVuFVdeFmmHE-ESnFNY3XWnay517m-53TV9v8BnCtPAvpwfWo-Y7N9B4Bbsh3lzs28qqsvH0jFIe5rlOtV8FmQq5GKG8wIW5ea-w8bhR/s200/zebras.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What the hell?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The Dulcet tones of Trebek greeted us as we got back on the bus and we cruised back down that winding hill back to the visitor center. I picked up a couple tchockes from the gift shop. Giselle fired back up on cue and I was back on my way south, having re-joined the Pacific Coast Highway south of the slide. The next phase of the trip was about to begin where the golden mountains and rugged central coast were about to give way to the world's ultimate concrete jungle. As I brought the car back up to speed, I nearly drove it off the side of the road at the sight of a couple strange looking horses in a pasture. WAITAMINUTE, IS THAT A FUCKING ZEBRA? <a href="http://hearstcastle.org/history-behind-hearst-castle/the-castle/the-zoo/" target="_blank">It was.</a><br />
<br />
See you next week for part 3: The Saint of Los Angeles.<br />
<br />
<br />Nickas!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12544223109298156827noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827663845602979613.post-74000564681529134972017-11-19T23:40:00.000-07:002019-10-27T08:08:27.695-06:00Into The Great Wide Open Part One: From Salt Lick to Domestic Bliss<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"So, are you headed out to the course today?" queried the bright-eyed gal at the <a href="http://pinnedcoffeeco.com/" target="_blank">drive-up coffee shack</a>, seeming just a little too cheerful for 6:00 AM just after she'd taken my usual order.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"You know, for the first time in five years or so, I'm on vacation." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Awww, that's awesome! What are you going to do?"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Hitting the road for a couple weeks. Heading west until I can't go any further, then south." I replied.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Right on! When are you leaving?"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Right now." I said as I paid her for the drinks, crammed a couple singles in her tip-jar and punched the gas pedal on Giselle. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
It had been four years since VodkaRob from back in the <a href="http://thegolfmonster.blogspot.com/search/label/Dorm%20Days" target="_blank">Dorm Days</a> and his lovely bride had gotten married on the beach at the Hotel Del Coronado in San Diego, and it had been that long since I'd left Utah. Outside of a Mesquite, Wendover, or Evanston quick hitter to place some shitty bets on football games or pick up a Powerball ticket for my old man anyway. California and the ocean are almost always calling my name. With everything I've put myself through in the last year and a half, between the surgery and the accident, I've realized that you never know when your ticket is gonna get punched. The life we have is precious, and after the responsibilities you have towards others, you owe it to yourself to experience all it has to offer. So it was time to go and see some people and some places, and hopefully figure out a few things about myself and where my life is headed in the process. Was I able to succeed in any of those endeavors? Well, hopefully while I'm reflecting on the last couple weeks, it'll become a little more clear. In the interest of not shoving a novel's worth of content into one entry, I'll split this one up into <strike>three</strike> four parts. And away we go!<br />
<br />
There was relatively little traffic heading west on I-80. Of course why would there be? It was 6:30 in the goddamn morning. But it made for a pretty pleasant jaunt towards Wendover and the Great Basin. it almost felt like I was racing the sun. Of course, the sun always wins. Passing Wendover, I noticed just off the highway, maybe the biggest <a href="http://leesliquorlv.com/" target="_blank">liquor store</a> I've ever seen with a "Grand Opening" banner hanging off it. Between that and a proposed cannabis dispensary going out there, it seems like it's going to bring the death knell to the "quickie gambling trip" where you could make the drive back to Salt Lick in a little over an hour. 75% of the highway patrol in the state is gonna be on that stretch of I-80!<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj85Be75oHc5Ax-Iv4NsirHbWHEkr_or-brHlMuNtL0MsHPKVHXNhEBk-aC1kx6cccBWi-qXffJtQT9lcEOhI2XHQ7tMk5aKB1OUwAHkjXTsJr9xx4g2vn-aSwmyzRDGnbtRZchGReUhHDU/s1600/NevadaDesert.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj85Be75oHc5Ax-Iv4NsirHbWHEkr_or-brHlMuNtL0MsHPKVHXNhEBk-aC1kx6cccBWi-qXffJtQT9lcEOhI2XHQ7tMk5aKB1OUwAHkjXTsJr9xx4g2vn-aSwmyzRDGnbtRZchGReUhHDU/s200/NevadaDesert.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miles and miles of not much!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The rest of the drive across Northern Nevada was fairly uneventful. Other than I realized that the Lovelock Penitentiary was just a little too close to Salt Lake for my liking. What if OJ had busted out and tried to play golf at Rose Park while trying to find "the real killers"?! Also, taking a look around and overhearing a few conversations when I stopped for gas, I really kind of appreciated how uncomplicated life seemed out here in the middle of nowhere. One of my best ever golf recruits came from this area. Anyhow, I eventually arrived at my first long break in the drive, Reno Nevada, right on the border. Home of the greatest <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0370194/?ref_=nv_sr_2" target="_blank">fake cop reality show of all time</a> and the primary location of the first family vacation I could ever remember taking when I was four-years-old. Really Mom and Dad?! What in the hell is there for a four-year-old and a two-year-old to do in goddamn Reno? I'm sure they had fun. And somewhere back home I've got a photo of me at age four at the <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0052451/?ref_=nv_sr_1" target="_blank">Ponderosa Ranch</a> in some giant cowboy boots. God help my electoral chances if that ever gets out.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-iyy1YZSmoR3Sq-A4qE3ei2uJXjhLw6WGCHDFUcK9JmJHAII7HsrcC5fTijVoOpYwOqBxAVvCGbk78OAGboCERoNTFfYZQhAvY_TeXQeHHCFLNMK06vHPukFVGWNDB_tMG1iUgmhGM2Uj/s1600/EmigrationGap.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-iyy1YZSmoR3Sq-A4qE3ei2uJXjhLw6WGCHDFUcK9JmJHAII7HsrcC5fTijVoOpYwOqBxAVvCGbk78OAGboCERoNTFfYZQhAvY_TeXQeHHCFLNMK06vHPukFVGWNDB_tMG1iUgmhGM2Uj/s200/EmigrationGap.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sometimes nature can do better than any painting</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
After picking up some "party supplies," the story of which I'd really love to tell here, but alas, I work for the government so it probably wouldn't be a good idea, I had lunch at the hotel we stayed all those years ago. The road once again beckoned, so I gassed up Giselle and continued west. The barren plains of the Great Basin soon gave way to easily the most scenic stretch of this drive, up over Donner Pass. In what would be a trend on this trip, I kept having to pull over just to admire the beauty. Pretty incredible country near Truckee. It's no wonder another one of my old golf recruits still calls this place home. If I lived here, I don't think I'd ever leave. I really gained way too much entertainment looking at the telemetry stats on my car. I don't think that beautiful beast is ever going to average 70 miles to the gallon again on any stretch of road. Probably could've pushed it to 80 if I hadn't kept pulling over just to look at pretty things.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgefheG0GoRQ_l7rHx-fMD2vLCb8pViSlm-7qKfzboAjmLv366fJ-3wKBwTO2tPMwg1eJwHpxzwXmppX9LKbTtLhxLhUTbX3E40f5j9orwVhO0A6a0jWxmvQ57KjGCAX5ICMEq7UD_kmm94/s1600/losthighway.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="340" data-original-width="853" height="124" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgefheG0GoRQ_l7rHx-fMD2vLCb8pViSlm-7qKfzboAjmLv366fJ-3wKBwTO2tPMwg1eJwHpxzwXmppX9LKbTtLhxLhUTbX3E40f5j9orwVhO0A6a0jWxmvQ57KjGCAX5ICMEq7UD_kmm94/s320/losthighway.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Only darker and weirder.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Unfortunately, from pretty much Sacramento to my first destination the famed California traffic took over, and with no real planned route and almost a complete reliance on Celeste, the voice in my GPS and the Waze app, I had no clue where I was going and no idea how to get around it. I kinda miss the old Rand McNally days. I'm sure it's a really lovely drive coming into the Monterey Peninsula, but I wouldn't know because soon it was dark as hell and the fog had rolled in. It looked like something out of a David Lynch movie. I eventually found my old college roommate, <a href="https://thegolfmonster.blogspot.com/2011/02/one-where-random-musing-reminds-me-of.html" target="_blank">Big Nick</a>'s neighborhood in East Garrison, near the old Fort Ord. Unfortunately, his neighborhood is still pretty new, so his street didn't appear on any of my GPS devices. So I got as close as I could, driving through some random construction sites and gave him a call.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKWG_lm3goZ-wUwlDZ4QXy5C1xOrxaydHFBdsJQmmqoOW3-HMhHkGmUsqMHI8_Qw1lb11SkZnuDpWRiMJ3Fzea9H7zsNmHnXU7cK87JScVjJLnb3fhMue80KWyTH81W99aLSY9X2dSYzpW/s1600/BigNickAndIIntheDD.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="370" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKWG_lm3goZ-wUwlDZ4QXy5C1xOrxaydHFBdsJQmmqoOW3-HMhHkGmUsqMHI8_Qw1lb11SkZnuDpWRiMJ3Fzea9H7zsNmHnXU7cK87JScVjJLnb3fhMue80KWyTH81W99aLSY9X2dSYzpW/s200/BigNickAndIIntheDD.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He still has the same haircut, I unfortunately, do not.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I wasn't too far off, and I was soon parked in front of his gorgeous looking home. I was unloading the trunk, when suddenly I heard a yell and a five-year-old had latched onto my leg. "Hi Uncle Mike!" Big Nick's little girl was about four-months-old the last time I'd seen her. Melts the old heart. With Giselle unloaded and gifts delivered (A first set of actual golf clubs for the girl, his first Metallica t-shirt for the little boy and a bottle of Highland Park for Mom and Dad), Big Nick and I hammered down a couple beers and commenced to catching up. It'd been about five years since I'd seen him and the missus, and a whole lot had changed.<br />
<br />
They'd bounced all over the world in support of his military career, eventually temporarily settling in Monterey so he could attend a Naval engineering school. He was the only remaining Army guy left in the program left with a bunch of Navy dudes and Astronauts-in-training. A pretty awesome source of pride. He was always a great student. That might've been while we meshed so well in college. He was awesome in the classroom as a pre-med and super athletic. As is well known, I was a shitty student and schlubby looking. We were kind of a real-life Mutt and Jeff. But boy howdy, were we good at the college experience. That being said, it wasn't as shocking as I thought it''d be seeing him as a pretty domesticated family man. Granted, this is just my own uninformed observation, but seeing some of the awful shit he's seen with his job, I'm willing to bet the relative calm of a normal home life, as chaotic as it could be, has probably brought him the balance we all crave in life. Plus, he's got a great partner in this, his wife, Annie, might be one of the sweetest people I've met.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT0e91z7zESkfUyeRFKHvb_Q1KPaVA7SJuEifjuYp_Z98qhDxvz5NEjwkhYM_CEkRFXjJH3Skqi3o5m-tGvBvtV-VJfTn1IIDUFf4kZ8lO__qMgSfsUDmWeEFQ9t_Oh6Zc9_Wykl3L1PXK/s1600/PebbleBeach.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1153" data-original-width="1153" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT0e91z7zESkfUyeRFKHvb_Q1KPaVA7SJuEifjuYp_Z98qhDxvz5NEjwkhYM_CEkRFXjJH3Skqi3o5m-tGvBvtV-VJfTn1IIDUFf4kZ8lO__qMgSfsUDmWeEFQ9t_Oh6Zc9_Wykl3L1PXK/s200/PebbleBeach.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I can't believe they let a brute like<br />
me just walk around out here.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
So sweet, that the next day, even though Big Nick hadn't had any time off in god knows how long, she was totally cool with him driving my ass around to check out the touristy shit a golf pro visiting that area needed to see. Yup, Seventeen-Mile Drive and Pebble Beach were on the agenda! Unfortunately, I couldn't afford to play there in a million years, but they were cool with us just walking around there. Looked a lot different than it does on TV. This is the course that some of the greatest US Opens ever have been played. Watson chipping in on 17, Woods and his blitz of the field in 2000, and of all things,<a href="https://youtu.be/J2afkwqcDAo" target="_blank"> Tom Kite's holeout on #7</a> in 1992 during that magic summer where the seeds were planted for a twelve-year-old Nickas to start taking the game seriously. Just walking around that place was magical, at least until I saw some of the shots that the people that could actually afford to play there were hitting, then I just got pissed off. I talked to the cart-shuttle driver next to the 18th green for awhile and asked him how many good shots he sees on an average day. "Not many," he said with a grin.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCnZyyc1gIGdJSHrCv_-ZSDrFDTQnZ4lanDkM3dsEMck4Ssx6xzr31bKZ1mpCkmnZXxjWVYZ91OZh-mgkO5xxAFV68xp-XgBSH3nziQPveppZmyGMY-XIHWWT9SQVMspsqO5YIlWCgpU8Z/s1600/TheLoneCypress.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCnZyyc1gIGdJSHrCv_-ZSDrFDTQnZ4lanDkM3dsEMck4Ssx6xzr31bKZ1mpCkmnZXxjWVYZ91OZh-mgkO5xxAFV68xp-XgBSH3nziQPveppZmyGMY-XIHWWT9SQVMspsqO5YIlWCgpU8Z/s200/TheLoneCypress.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Still have no clue how that<br />
tree grows out of that rock.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The rest of Seventeen-Mile drive was just magical. The majesty of the famed Lone Cypress, the bits of Spyglass Hill and Cypress Point that you could see from the road, a whole lot of houses that had names, it was all pretty cool! Mother nature may have carved this place, but old money fleshed it out. For big Nick, having lived here for a year, seeing this stuff was kinda old-hat, but he was a good sport pretty much every time I wanted to get out of the car. As spectacular as these sights were, my favorite part of the drive was just a plain-old section of beach. The swells were huge and I was mesmerized by how high those waves were. Looked just like the end of <a href="https://youtu.be/j20XI1QWWZE" target="_blank">Point Break</a> to me. The power of "the world's largest water hazard" is tough to deny. Just watching the waves roll in, whitecaps crashing and then get sucked back out for the next one held my rapt attention for at least ten minutes until I realized Nick was still in his car, probably bored out of his mind. Lunch in Carmel was pretty good and Nick got me to actually open up a little bit about the mysterious gal back home that I'd been hanging out with for the last few months. "Dude, I've never seen you like this," he said. "You're totally over the moon about this chick!"<br />
<br />
"Well, I don't know about that man, but I do like her very much and have for a very long time. But I don't know what I'm doing."<br />
<br />
"Nobody does! Things tend to just happen."<br />
<br />
"Yeah, but they've never just happened to me. I've always been pretty terrible about opening up to anyone I've ever really had any real affection for. I always clam up, at least without the help of booze and that has never gone well. That being said, I don't drink a ton anymore so maybe things'll be different this time. Hey! Here comes the food!" I said, already getting uncomfortable. I'd have plenty of time on the road solo coming up to ruminate about that particular situation.<br />
<br />
Sad to say, one of my lame side-quests never came to fruition as I never did find the mysterious "awesome bathroom," that our old roommate Jose's wife told me to look for. The only one I did find, looked just like the ones up at the old <a href="https://thegolfmonster.blogspot.com/2016/11/tales-from-ugc-part-1-commute.html" target="_blank">University Golf Course</a> that I'd occasionally find homeless dudes crashing in when I'd open the shop and somebody forgot to lock the door.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_8dz9zCe_Hot1ZG67KzivajD0UvfiE9ixgjBSNSnTdUstY8cPv0uuR2IsritmHHon3grC2qsHvRAKJ0cZqAd1h16uVGVkNlnlGaD2LIOien75RpYpQPcKTiGUqKLUUbw89ryw1-qbTJro/s1600/AJ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="710" data-original-width="1000" height="141" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_8dz9zCe_Hot1ZG67KzivajD0UvfiE9ixgjBSNSnTdUstY8cPv0uuR2IsritmHHon3grC2qsHvRAKJ0cZqAd1h16uVGVkNlnlGaD2LIOien75RpYpQPcKTiGUqKLUUbw89ryw1-qbTJro/s200/AJ.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My love life in a nutshell. <br />
Swing and a miss!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We returned to their house to a nice surprise. Big Nick's mom, recently relocated to the area had come over to visit the grand-kids. Loved this lady back in the Dorm Days! She worked for the local health department and I knew she had an awesome sense of humor when I returned to the dorm one night after class and Nick said, "my mom said she was worried about you, so she left you a gift." I walked into my room to find a gigantic manila envelope crammed full of prophylactics. The funny thing being that I struck-out more than <a href="https://www.baseball-reference.com/players/j/judgeaa01.shtml" target="_blank">Aaron Judge</a> when it came to women all through college. That being said, I listened to <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Loveline" target="_blank">Loveline</a> pretty much every night, so I fully believed in supporting safe sex. So I became the Res Hall Three condom hookup. It was great to see her again and she even volunteered to take care of the kids so Big Nick, Annie and I could go to dinner. But first, we took his daughter to her favorite spot, the world famous <a href="http://www.montereybayaquarium.org/" target="_blank">Monterey Bay Aquarium</a> to watch her run around like a little maniac and look at some awesome sea creatures. As she ran by, whooping it up to the kids area for the fifth time, Nick shot me a look like, "do you really want to deal with this all the time? STAY SINGLE!" "Dude, kids are kids, and there'll be a time where you look at this stuff fondly." I told him. I've got no idea if that's true or not, but it was still fun to see some unbridled joy on her face, right up until they kicked us out because they were closing.<br />
<br />
We had a lovely <a href="http://www.beachhousepg.com/" target="_blank">dinner</a> in Pacific Grove, and the next day was a hell of a good time as well. Big Nick and I played golf at a course called <a href="http://www.montereypeninsulagolf.com/Monterey-Pines-Golf-Course" target="_blank">Monterey Pines</a> on the Navy Base which is adjacent to the area where they held the legendary Monterey Pop Festival back in 1967. You could almost still hear the echoes of a 1967 Fender Stratocaster, with original pickups, and maple neck, strung upside down for a left-handed motherfucking genius ringing through the trees. My putting was still hot garbage, but a 75 on a track I'd never seen, down at sea level where the ball doesn't fly very far felt respectable. Annie cooked us a great dinner and while Nick had to retire to his office (where I'd taken temporary residence on his awesome couch) to do the homework I'd caused him to neglect for the entire weekend (some things never change!), I got the chance to play with the kids. I got to help the little girl craft a Lego masterpiece, and played a mighty game of peek-a-boo with his two year old. Those kids are already smart as hell. And were loving their first ever visit from "Bad Influence Uncle!" Loved the opportunity to hang out with them. The boy cracked me up, they had to give him a dummy TV remote because he's already figured out how to use the real thing. But he got control of the real one and I'm pretty sure he set the TiVo to record Houston Astros games for the next decade. I switched the remotes when he wasn't looking, but the little dude knew something was amiss and kept trying to trade me the dummy for the real thing. Given enough time, he'd have probably outsmarted me for it, but it was bedtime for everybody. And this awesome visit with my old brother and his family had finally come to an end.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB_pgx3xm2csrODrCUvQH1FnVcy7khIGy-IHki9rC9VoCjOidfWpsCY9kzputpuA1P7sZbqcfYAsKKyPeJSFeLiTCekfXLtfK7kSxspiPjhgpQaZllw8cLZhQ3jLT4OQAqHGYRfnNFi3Nr/s1600/Heron.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB_pgx3xm2csrODrCUvQH1FnVcy7khIGy-IHki9rC9VoCjOidfWpsCY9kzputpuA1P7sZbqcfYAsKKyPeJSFeLiTCekfXLtfK7kSxspiPjhgpQaZllw8cLZhQ3jLT4OQAqHGYRfnNFi3Nr/s200/Heron.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Never piss off anything with<br />
a ten-foot wingspan!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Life goes on, and for a busy military family, Monday puts a sobering end to the weekend's shenanigans. The next day I woke up early enough to see Big Nick off to school. This had been the longest we'd hung out together since we were in college. Couldn't have had a better visit. I don't think I could ever thank them enough for their wonderful hospitality. And seriously, in all honesty, I'm kinda jealous about the life those two had put together. I'm kind of a cynical old shit, and I really admired just how happy their family was. They do it the right way. I packed up my bags, loaded up Giselle, gave the Annie and the kids a big hug and took off. I had one more stop before the journey continued. On the recommendation of my friends Mark and his fiance' Steph, I had to play the "Poor Man's Pebble Beach" (I fit the description!), the <a href="https://www.playpacificgrove.com/" target="_blank">Pacific Grove Golf Links</a>.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-aqyisrlvTDUdiuCF_76pew2zAezPg0T8TJyB1ik0LUOhTts_2lBtNGau25GcyAog3R68G7wc2tgdkrQ158VyWD4oc6MI-9BUmnXXCTASH_lMz8UbjaVF11ToxBEk2CUnNHEe5j6Zxkki/s1600/PG.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-aqyisrlvTDUdiuCF_76pew2zAezPg0T8TJyB1ik0LUOhTts_2lBtNGau25GcyAog3R68G7wc2tgdkrQ158VyWD4oc6MI-9BUmnXXCTASH_lMz8UbjaVF11ToxBEk2CUnNHEe5j6Zxkki/s200/PG.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just unreal.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Walking on was pretty easy and I got paired with some nice local folks. I don't think I can say enough good things about that course. It is a tale of two nines, with the front-nine hilly and winding through the neighborhood. A small herd of deer followed us around for a couple holes. You had to be a real shotmaker here, and be able to shape your shots well and I was really feeling it, working the ball both directions better than I have pretty much all season. But the best part of that track, and the section that earned that course its reputation was its stellar back nine.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnkxoYakHKJR-pouW40tUA9lAdkiA914fs8Leghx-nOzrPHY4YKy9XAq_UzunAgHk-Kgi9p4P6ZID5fUEEIRZX1xICVJg4G8W5truVTYBdd_i0bUC0pgcLBMaYIju9RKRZ9w_rY26ZkpPT/s1600/PacificGrove.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1201" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnkxoYakHKJR-pouW40tUA9lAdkiA914fs8Leghx-nOzrPHY4YKy9XAq_UzunAgHk-Kgi9p4P6ZID5fUEEIRZX1xICVJg4G8W5truVTYBdd_i0bUC0pgcLBMaYIju9RKRZ9w_rY26ZkpPT/s200/PacificGrove.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Somehow I overcame all the<br />
distraction to pipe this drive!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The back-nine was more of a traditional links-style layout right on the sea! We're talking huge dunes, crazy wind, a pretty bitchin' lighthouse, crashing waves, all that jazz! Truly golf the way it was meant to be played. I saved my best golf of the trip on that stretch. Only finding serious trouble once and making a great save out of an iceplant on one of the dunes. The dudes I played with were very helpful in letting me know where I could miss, as well as indulging in my dipshit tourist act and clicking off a few pictures for me. I played the closing nine at 1-under to card a 72 and put a close to the Monterey portion of the trip. I probably should've finished the season with that round. I don't think it could've gone better. I thanked the kind folks in the shop for allowing me to walk on easily and talked business for a little while. I could've hung out at that place for hours. But the call of the road was too much to overcome. I had another dumbass bucket list item to check off: <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0082136/?ref_=nv_sr_1" target="_blank">Cannonball Running</a> down the Pacific Coast Highway. I stowed my gear, filled my water jug, gave Giselle a loving pat on the dashboard and hit the ignition. The real work of this trip was about to begin. The solo section where I had nothing but my own issues in my head to confront and there might not be a better place to do that than the most awe-inspiring stretch of road in North America.<br />
<br />
Holy shit kids! Part one was WAY longer than I thought it'd be! Thanks for suffering through it this far! Things get a little more introspective in the next segment, I promise.<br />
<br />
Stay tuned for part two later this week: A Mudslide, A Funny Farm and a Shiny House On A Hill</div>
Nickas!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12544223109298156827noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827663845602979613.post-66161451365125057392017-10-25T00:35:00.001-06:002017-10-26T21:13:24.673-06:00Emotional Wreckage and Actual Wreckage: A Corner Turned...Like just about anyone that grew up in the 80's, John Hughes "Rite-du-passage" films had a tendency to jam its way onto HBO and the various Ted Turner Networks on an almost endless loop. And if you were watching TV back then, you probably saw what many consider his magnum-opus, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0091042/?ref_=nm_flmg_wr_38" target="_blank"><i>Ferris Beuller's Day Off</i></a>. The title character, played by the immortal Matthew Broderick, had one of the best closing lines of a film ever, <span style="background-color: white;">"<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it." That never quite resonated with me as it has with many others, I prefer another line from that movie in the deepness and meaning of life areas, but I'll work that in a little later. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhucjce3mQsZhC04fSC9PDT2QyKFhiDht8l73RYs5Ev5Ir4z1c0lMOeCTFSLftpkl-AlkvKnV3XAGnQoGUCyy0MY-fDFf2unlVW1jbksK3t3j7uFYVK3wDdNUsDidz-WYRPO_5l86xqb9xC/s1600/Farley.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="369" data-original-width="625" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhucjce3mQsZhC04fSC9PDT2QyKFhiDht8l73RYs5Ev5Ir4z1c0lMOeCTFSLftpkl-AlkvKnV3XAGnQoGUCyy0MY-fDFf2unlVW1jbksK3t3j7uFYVK3wDdNUsDidz-WYRPO_5l86xqb9xC/s320/Farley.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I probably needed to find better role models in those days.<br />
Still, the world is a shittier place without him in it.</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Anyway, Ferris' quote is still pretty pertinent especially in regards to the last year and a half or so of my life. Life moves pretty fast, other things move pretty fast too, and if you don't look for it, it'll definitely hit you and hit you hard. I don't think it's any secret that for the better part of the last twenty years, I've kinda dealt with some depression issues. It didn't really manifest itself in anything too typical, like that refusal to get out of bed type of stuff people typically experience. For me it had a little more to do with just plain not caring enough about myself to not engage in pretty self-destructive behavior. During the <a href="http://thegolfmonster.blogspot.com/search/label/Dorm%20Days" target="_blank">Dorm Days</a>, it meant I would hammer ALL THE BOOZE, eat ALL THE FOOD, excel at all the things college had to offer that weren't really all that important to actual academic pursuits. Let's just say my studies suffered a bit. Post college, the booze and food were still there, but now I had to keep a roof over my head as well, so I threw myself into work. I did it all to such a degree that well, I didn't leave a ton of time to myself. I had a fun job that I wasn't having any fun doing, my personal relationships kinda suffered. I was miserable. Then I turned 37. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnPSGZwWLf9V52BaN9LU_Vx8p0oD7cWV-GTgWl07ro1SKNgeT9YLS8g3kR9NHRkBJhncoH7jums72cRdXFSmaxjcCsGJRr4G6WUbxJdfTaip2VGlA7o2WZVSZjSRIcQ8MoSfvLODFbYOhp/s1600/37.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnPSGZwWLf9V52BaN9LU_Vx8p0oD7cWV-GTgWl07ro1SKNgeT9YLS8g3kR9NHRkBJhncoH7jums72cRdXFSmaxjcCsGJRr4G6WUbxJdfTaip2VGlA7o2WZVSZjSRIcQ8MoSfvLODFbYOhp/s200/37.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">37?!</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;">I discovered that 37 is a magical age. Kids, when you turn 37, every single, solitary bad decision you've ever made arrives on your doorstep to collect its bill. I was always a big guy, but I put on a ton of weight, really fast. I started to forget stuff, probably because of all the brain cells I </span><span style="color: #333333;">annihilated back in college.</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"> I stopped going to concerts, or even going out at all. Christ, usually the only reason I'd leave my house was to go to work so I would have a house to come home to. I couldn't even sleep longer than an hour at a time, and I'd wake up in places other than where I'd fall asleep. SCARY SHIT! What was I doing? Who knows? I felt like shit all the time and looked even worse. Something had to change. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;">It's hard to put a finger on a catalyst. I think the root was when I reconnected with an old friend on that Instagram app. Our lives had gone on vastly divergent paths and something about her creativity and zeal for life hit a button in my brain and got me thinking about the old, better days. That's the type of person I wanted to be again. Right around then, after a particularly shitty night of drinking alone and feeling sorry for myself, I looked in the mirror and didn't recognize the disgusting thing staring back at me. It was time. I decided that I wanted to live instead of die. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ6cx8F_dBUwHoONMCcnW06ddEffhLfYdzxgvAdAxsSQVMSmBNfLbot92qe8qM6fXOzd1AxfD6QVW5yjF6u7awuOusItUKSoRz5SSm3VMln-HCTsRA-qjqiqbN7ej5FHinvkWhDz7bRDFN/s1600/Gremlins.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="766" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ6cx8F_dBUwHoONMCcnW06ddEffhLfYdzxgvAdAxsSQVMSmBNfLbot92qe8qM6fXOzd1AxfD6QVW5yjF6u7awuOusItUKSoRz5SSm3VMln-HCTsRA-qjqiqbN7ej5FHinvkWhDz7bRDFN/s320/Gremlins.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Also a bad idea to get me wet or feed my ass after midnight.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I made a few changes. I got some help. Started getting some counseling to work through the garbage in my head, and the big one, I bit the bullet and got my guts rearranged. <a href="https://loseweightcincy.com/sips-procedure/" target="_blank">SIPS </a></span><a href="https://loseweightcincy.com/sips-procedure/" target="_blank">Duodenal Switch</a> it's called. It wasn't cheap, but as the surgeon told me, "No natural method is going to help you and you are going to die. This is the only way to take it off and keep it off." Basically, they cut about 80% of my stomach out, and re-arranged my intestines so I hardly absorb any fat. This is what they call a two-pronged approach to losing weight. You can't eat very much, and what you do eat barely gets absorbed. It works as long as you follow the rules. Cut as many carbs as possible, focus on protein and smearing butter on virtually everything because you need to eat a ton of fat in order to make the giant handfuls of specialty vitamins I have to take every day for the rest of my life to work. Exercise like a fiend and get a gallon of blood drained out for nutrient level testing every six months are just a couple others. Also, stay sober for a year and change or your liver will shut down. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333;"><br /></span></span>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg875YhYS7lON0x8xk5Qgb3gP4ZO_rvHUZMLRdALPb_HuJ6J5UCfDc-a0-InwJrKjBtJS9ZhOP3WsogVA1VuZDqzx5crZfmdPk5nzmSzpcqHbWZoZzhKBeoEJw3T-DFlwZyKviZL6zjPpIC/s1600/18814194_10213765972047515_3375190327336302534_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg875YhYS7lON0x8xk5Qgb3gP4ZO_rvHUZMLRdALPb_HuJ6J5UCfDc-a0-InwJrKjBtJS9ZhOP3WsogVA1VuZDqzx5crZfmdPk5nzmSzpcqHbWZoZzhKBeoEJw3T-DFlwZyKviZL6zjPpIC/s320/18814194_10213765972047515_3375190327336302534_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not exactly the picture of health. But I'm much better now.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333;">Kind of a pain in the ass, but I've followed the rules so far and seen the results. 250 lbs down and I'm getting pretty close to just getting the rest cut off me. I look like a fucking war-crime naked, but my clothes fit a lot better, hell, I recently raided my closet down home and am fitting back into my old high-school gear! CORDUROY AND SWEATER VESTS FOR MILES! I can run for ten minutes without stopping where I couldn't run ten seconds before. I still can't hit the ball out of my own shadow, but I can play 36 holes without wanting to die for the first time since college. Oh yeah, golf is fun again, work is fun again, life in general is fun again. Actually, I can't really say "again," because I don't think it ever really was for me. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333;">So I almost died, managed to bounce back, and then last April, I almost died again! This time, instead of slowly murdering myself over a twenty year span, I almost took the easy way out. BIG OL' CAR CRASH! Driving out to the mighty Rose Park for a little round of golf one morning, I approached an intersection right by my house. I was hanging a left as the light turned yellow. It's a fairly high speed street, but I thought the truck that was approaching was slowing down for the red. I was wrong. Dude gunned it instead and two vehicles can't occupy the same space at once. They estimated he was going sixty but I don't remember much of the actual impact. Just the spin as my Dodge Charger pirouetted a couple times around in the intersection and I got punched by every single airbag in the car. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333;"><br /></span></span>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKPiys358VIhkTZHQgkTLhPGRGkTu2NeRgYjWkSJD6mXd-SPUgZH0Mt9_gK9N6pYUggVU2NG9bVTka5wUZqfe95uOJ4zKbzAvKPOi0bkxGuz4fVWlGO1PRC4Jo3Xzwu9Cj0iIlGxm6Nw2w/s1600/all+thats+left.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKPiys358VIhkTZHQgkTLhPGRGkTu2NeRgYjWkSJD6mXd-SPUgZH0Mt9_gK9N6pYUggVU2NG9bVTka5wUZqfe95uOJ4zKbzAvKPOi0bkxGuz4fVWlGO1PRC4Jo3Xzwu9Cj0iIlGxm6Nw2w/s200/all+thats+left.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All that's left.</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333;">I sat there for a moment. The radio was still playing "Problems" by the Sex Pistols. I looked down and wiggled my toes. My fingers were still there too. I tried to shift the car into park, but the knob wouldn't budge. "Shit" I thought, "the transmission is fucked." I was probably a little concussed. There probably wasn't a transmission left. The door was popped open so I unbuckled the belt and swung my legs out. Traffic was piling up and I was so supercharged with adrenaline, I felt like I could've dragged the car off the road myself at least until I saw the front-end or rather the lack of one. Surprised at how uninjured I was (maybe I'm bulletproof), I jogged over to the other guy to make sure he was all right. He was all right, the only damage his truck incurred was a missing bumper. As I went back to my car to start emptying it out and get my paperwork for the cops I realized that I most definitely wasn't bulletproof. My ribs were jacked up and I was in shock. The tow-truck dragged the husk of my beloved Charger off the road, I collected my citation from the police for failure-to-yield and went home. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333;">My mother came over to take me to the doctor, and as I painfully sat in my easy </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;">chair, something weird happened, I just started laughing. My mom and sister looked at me horrified. Maybe I am a little nuts, because that was really the only reaction that felt right at the moment. Despite all my best efforts, both self-inflicted and accidental, I was still here. For reasons I can't even perceive I was still here even though I shouldn't be. For some reason, I found that hilarious. At least until all that laughing tightened up my ribs and tears started pouring out. GODDAMN THAT HURT.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;">So I'm still alive, and from now on, I take absolutely NOTHING for granted anymore because nobody knows exactly when their ticket is gonna get punched. And I'm bound and determined to live my best life from now on. Whatever that is. I'm going to do it. The problem is, I don't have any idea what that means. For the first time in my life that I can recall, I like myself. I've got confidence that I've never really had. My job is satisfying. I've got great pals and my relationships with my family are as good as ever. As that other main character (and who some have theorized is the actual main character) in <i>Ferris Bueller's Day Off</i>, Cameron Frye said, </span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"I am not going to sit on my ass as the events that affect me unfold to determine the course of my life. I'm going to take a stand. I'm going to defend it. Right or wrong, I'm going to defend it."</span></span><span style="background-color: #fcfae7; color: #333333; font-family: "verdana" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzOnYiQdCiy9VyaanpORj9s3mMCMFfaT1AuS1ofpSgLHnOMM7rqDFlhhFN9HvHFMTs_8qcg8RGUc2ol90vhspSSGk9oW3iBVFSHx_5ERH3Zqlmthx7fUsV2LhaHz-ok-38tjFOHYDxFUf0/s1600/IMG_1625.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzOnYiQdCiy9VyaanpORj9s3mMCMFfaT1AuS1ofpSgLHnOMM7rqDFlhhFN9HvHFMTs_8qcg8RGUc2ol90vhspSSGk9oW3iBVFSHx_5ERH3Zqlmthx7fUsV2LhaHz-ok-38tjFOHYDxFUf0/s320/IMG_1625.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"And the times have changed my friend<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "roboto" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small; text-align: left;">I'll be here to the bitter end</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "roboto" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small; text-align: left;">With a guitar in my hand, I stand a little taller</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "roboto" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small; text-align: left;">And I've been to hell and back</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "roboto" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small; text-align: left;">I ain't falling off this track</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "roboto" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small; text-align: left;">From the back to the front page</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "roboto" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small; text-align: left;">From the gutter to the stage"</span></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;">But something is still missing. And I need to figure out what that is.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;">So, I'm gonna hit the road for awhile. Just me, and my thoughts. Sure, I'm going to be seeing some old friends, revisiting the past and figuring out how I got to this point, along the way. But I have a feeling the next couple weeks and this trip I'm taking might bring a little clarity to my head. I'm going to try to mix in a few dispatches from the road for you folks, and even if I don't find what I'm looking for, at least I'll have some good memories and a few awesome sights to share. Anyway, thanks for indulging my ass on this story. I promise to go back to telling dumbass college stories, inane commentaries and reviews of shitty movies again soon. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
Nickas!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12544223109298156827noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827663845602979613.post-35297944692185444212017-03-01T00:48:00.000-07:002017-03-01T00:48:42.858-07:00Sorting Through The Past: Spring CleaningThree years ago, pretty much right around this time of the year, I got a call from my Pops. "Mike, I need you and your sister to come down and give me a hand with a project as soon as you've got a free weekend." Well, it just so happened that I had a free weekend, and so did Christa, so down to the hometown we ventured. As soon as we walked in, the old man sprung his project on us. We were going to go through the entire house and more specifically all of our stuff that was still down there, old toys, old clothes, sporting equipment books and what was known as by old friend, former NFL player Chuck Ferraro who owned the legendary Thirdhand Shoppe antique store in Price, Junque. In a word, stuff. We acquired too much of it over the years and a 1600 square foot house chock full of it was too much for one old guy contemplating retirement to have to deal with. Plus, the old homestead needed some work, new carpets, paint, and other assorted projects and our unorganized clutter was definitely in the way and taking up way too much room.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzcGuILqDBk__b0RjO1h1Mz46wITbAlV5LeAbRosmzO0CWf91ZBhebVhqpw4k7mnCp-LrgzgEN35mU8qpgH49rAXBYCgmZLGdL1jhdNjry3YB1opGlFe1elbOJ9Mct3YPihA7tQ7Ldua1j/s1600/The+House.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzcGuILqDBk__b0RjO1h1Mz46wITbAlV5LeAbRosmzO0CWf91ZBhebVhqpw4k7mnCp-LrgzgEN35mU8qpgH49rAXBYCgmZLGdL1jhdNjry3YB1opGlFe1elbOJ9Mct3YPihA7tQ7Ldua1j/s200/The+House.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stately Nickas Manor!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"Keep what you want, but find a place that makes sense for it, or take it with you," he said. <div>
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<div>
Now, granted there's a lot of that nature vs. nurture battle involved, but I firmly believe that there's such thing as a "hoarder gene." And while it never got to the point where she needed a television show to come in and clean up her house, my Grandmother up in Alaska definitely fostered something like it. I can't really blame her though, she grew up in Oklahoma and Texas during the Great Depression. When you don't have anything, you don't throw anything that can be of use away. And once her and my Pappy established themselves and had some space, that never really left her. It was a sad occasion, but one of my favorite stories concerns the day right after her funeral ten years ago. My mom, Aunt Amy, Uncle Didier, Aunt LaJuana, quite a few of my cousins, my sister and I were all gathered in her frozen house in Anchorage. On the TV were some old home movies, I believe showcasing my mother's sixth birthday. At that moment, we were also going through my Bamma's beautiful antique buffet cabinet. We found a pack of paper party plates buried deep in one of the drawers. The exact same package of party plates that were sitting on the table in the home movie that was shot 46 years prior! I also found some expired food in the pantry that I'd bought to cook my Bamma a meal the last time I'd been to Alaska to visit, six years previously.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoSYwwcrChfBWy1XXUSDOJRBC927vPuzhNxn9h88kO0YTIDHmC5tv-WUWGhJZhrqp9Dh-1uK3Qmy5ZcT_Ra9HCGM5UGWaELevSnQ_cM_77GgmI_jFFPyVV0k3ESap9JjL0iJ3b_m4ENz1J/s1600/tp.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoSYwwcrChfBWy1XXUSDOJRBC927vPuzhNxn9h88kO0YTIDHmC5tv-WUWGhJZhrqp9Dh-1uK3Qmy5ZcT_Ra9HCGM5UGWaELevSnQ_cM_77GgmI_jFFPyVV0k3ESap9JjL0iJ3b_m4ENz1J/s200/tp.JPG" width="188" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Makin' a mess since 1978!</td></tr>
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<div>
So yeah, I kind of understand the hoarder gene. And even though I'm fully aware of it now, I carried a lot of those same tendencies over the years. When I finally got my own bedroom in the house at age 7, the organization of my room tended to range from "random piles of stuff with a path to the bed, closet and dresser" to "just pulled the pin, tossed a grenade in and shut the door" with occasional periods of relative organization when buddies or that cute girl would come over to hang out. Those didn't happen very often. Thankfully, the adulthood gene overrode the clutter during the "<a href="http://thegolfmonster.blogspot.com/search/label/Room%20302" target="_blank">Dorm Days</a>." And by "adulthood" I mean that I was going to be living with and around strangers now and I don't want them to think I was slovenly in other areas of life as well. But, and you can ask anyone I roomed with in college, I was definitely kind of a packrat, taking basically everything I could with me to school. Only this time, I kept it organized. My dorm room was still the equivalent of cramming twenty pounds of shit into a ten pound bag. But hey, you never knew when you might need that thing. Whatever that thing happened to be even if it happened to be a copy of the Dirty Looks album "Blow My Fuse" on CD.</div>
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In 2007, after living in each of Westminster's "Apartment-Style" dorms and several different apartments and houses, I moved into my smallest place yet, a tiny little condo adjacent to the University of Utah campus. It was great to be able to get from bed to work at the <a href="http://thegolfmonster.blogspot.com/search/label/The%20UGC" target="_blank">UGC</a> in about ten minutes flat, but the size of the place really forced me to downsize my life. A storage unit was my friend! And I either outright shitcanned or donated a metric ton of stuff. It felt pretty good, and I was able to sort of boil things down to the essentials. Which is to say, I still had way too much shit.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAEBfoxMBiHuWVQLeUGqxfmdnaG_RmpRea0RFnoxQg8tvxRWbEGk6d-cHanzgI-njNeZ7SBtG9_jM2jaX8OvzS6V8xV-CjZNTBawYP2pO2upDPAn7koV9g9PKpOh3Mq-WYPJgo5T3P5I5B/s1600/Cash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAEBfoxMBiHuWVQLeUGqxfmdnaG_RmpRea0RFnoxQg8tvxRWbEGk6d-cHanzgI-njNeZ7SBtG9_jM2jaX8OvzS6V8xV-CjZNTBawYP2pO2upDPAn7koV9g9PKpOh3Mq-WYPJgo5T3P5I5B/s200/Cash.jpg" width="147" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Still lost to time...</td></tr>
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<div>
Anyway, back to my Pop's house, February 2013. We dive in to the old family room, which at one point was converted to a bedroom for the ten minutes my older sister came to live with us years ago, and has since become kind of a storage catch-all. It was an added-on room with no heat which is to say, we were indoors, bundled up, freezing our asses off and hard at work tearing through years of clutter. I had two things that I really wanted to find. One was the only poster I had on my wall when I was a really little kid. My dad was a trucker, along with my grandpa they owned their own trucking company and they'd always get sent these badass promotional posters from Peterbilt. Usually they featured some half-naked lady looking like the apocalypse just hit (picture the KISS, "Lick It Up" video) draped across the engine cover of a semi. But this poster I had just had the front of a truck with Johnny Cash standing next to it and the words "MIDNIGHT SPECIAL" emblazoned across the bottom. OUTLAW COUNTRY! The other, and this is pretty dumb, was a picture of me that my entire second-grade class drew of me and signed on my birthday. I always loved second-grade because that was the first time certain synapses finally clicked together in my brain and I started to learn to think critically. Sadly, the drinking I did during the Dorm Days destroyed the brain cells that helped me to remember names of classmates from that far back and I've often wondered what we've all grown up to be.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes ladies, I'm single!</td></tr>
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<div>
I came across some great stuff. My very first paycheck stub in the golf business (a career now going on 22 years!) for $54.19 pre-tax! Thank god I make more now. Wait, what is that? Inflation? Shit. An unusually large collection of old mixtapes. If only I still had something to play them on. And what the hell am I doing putting Ministry and Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons on the same mixtape anyway? At least they weren't 8-tracks. Those were in my dad's box.</div>
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I also found several boxes full of old notebooks from high school and college classes. I flipped through them and found all of my old class notes, and quite a bit of my old writing. While perusing these tomes, the only thing I could think of was, "Jesus Christ Nickas, if any of your teachers and professors ever saw an example of your note-taking, there's no chance any of them would have ever passed you." Goddamn, you could even see exactly the spots where I'd doze off (probably hungover) in class because suddenly my already shitty handwriting would get smaller and smaller and just end up with a line. My writing projects weren't much better! Hell, you're reading this right now, imagine how bad it was before I ever developed a style and a voice?! I barely have that now! I would've killed it though for my heavy metal band, Superman, <a href="http://thegolfmonster.blogspot.com/search/label/Chicago%20Bears%20Football" target="_blank">Chicago Bears</a> and New York Yankees logo drawing talents. I had that shit on lockdown. It was all garbage, and I couldn't believe I had saved any of it. Into the back of my Pop's Dodge truck they went.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw5Vd63oVbUfa8qx-ve_2p_PptRnMC3KrcWihRfpD-zgpbv1PSShjW14HJsaOz5S8L-38ofSEEVvzaaP_eadWSZS0gMWnpfcalCcLH-HbstfA_8X_2n0Gd6ah6pnEhRv5nsk3IMN24gtuz/s1600/SecondPlace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw5Vd63oVbUfa8qx-ve_2p_PptRnMC3KrcWihRfpD-zgpbv1PSShjW14HJsaOz5S8L-38ofSEEVvzaaP_eadWSZS0gMWnpfcalCcLH-HbstfA_8X_2n0Gd6ah6pnEhRv5nsk3IMN24gtuz/s200/SecondPlace.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1st Place in the 3-Legged Race: John Holmes</td></tr>
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<div>
For all the laughs I was having, my sister was having a tough time with this. I had a pretty good idea that we were going to be doing this before we left Salt Lake. All this going through old shit. And I guess she kind of felt blindsided. She wasn't ready to do this yet, but she did it anyway, and I knew it was bothering her. In my dad's always gentle way, he explained that it would be "best to do this now and not after he was gone. If for no other reason that at least there's three of us." I didn't really want to hear that either, but it makes sense and it had to be done. We eventually finished the weekend putting a pretty sizeable dent in that storage room and the basement. I was proud of her. As Christa and I drove back up to Salt Lake, I got a call from our landlord. This was never a good sign, bad news was afoot, because for the third place we'd lived in a row, they had decided to sell the place. We were going to have to move again.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKiEh36_XLu1YUO1OcEdVL2kkmsnVi4DBJAgfQXRpnvTsVk_KjUyrdF03o_-ZCNfapV__CJIP_q3IaaI5PCkdnuJ5L_W_Nib0vk5tOAMSL_eQR279VdYCldLMHGPQv2FfzigjYFSINbq45/s1600/HeMan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKiEh36_XLu1YUO1OcEdVL2kkmsnVi4DBJAgfQXRpnvTsVk_KjUyrdF03o_-ZCNfapV__CJIP_q3IaaI5PCkdnuJ5L_W_Nib0vk5tOAMSL_eQR279VdYCldLMHGPQv2FfzigjYFSINbq45/s200/HeMan.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lawrence Taylor obviously took a run at <br />Quarterback He-Man's Knees</td></tr>
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<div>
A week later, we still had snow on the ground out at Rose Park (JUST LIKE NOW!) so I trekked solo back down to Price to finish the job, or come close to it. More un-needed treasure ventured back into my life in a flood. Old toys, ribbons and awards from as far back as my elementary school days, broken model cars, board games missing pieces, more shitty writing, bags of clothes and shoes. Memories of times past, good and bad, optomism and wasted potential passed across the table. And almost all of it ended up in the trash or donate pile. Ebay would've been an option if any of it was in any kind of decent condition, but years of neglect had taken its toll. At least some of the toys could still be of use to kids, and since that ship has clearly sailed in my case we donated them to the <a href="https://www.carbon.utah.gov/Services/Family-Support-CJC" target="_blank">Children's Justice Center</a>. Hopefully some of my old shit gave them some enjoyment, god knows, they needed it a lot more than I did. I hope it did some good.</div>
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I never did find either of my "holy grails." Those were lost to either time, my folk's divorce, or a forgotten previous attempt to do the very thing we had just done. But by the end of the weekend, my dad finally had a handle on things around his house and I had downsized most of my old stuff in a major way. As weird as it sounds, it was totally cathartic. The whole process was liberating. You'd find something, hold it in your hands, think a little about a memory of it, have a little flashback, and finally say goodbye. Driving back up "over the hill" to Salt Lick that Sunday night, I actually felt great. Like I'd finally cut the cord to the type person that I used to be and ready to embrace whatever the future was going to throw at me and be adaptable to whatever curve-ball life could throw at me.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Epilogue: We decided that last move was going to be the last one for awhile. So we bought a house. Now I've got a ton of space that I can't wait to fill with stuff!</div>
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Epilogue II: Only kidding.</div>
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Epilogue III: Mostly, I guess...</div>
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Nickas!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12544223109298156827noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827663845602979613.post-27977994677987758502016-11-29T22:57:00.000-07:002016-11-29T22:57:06.020-07:00Tales From The UGC Part 1: The Commute<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzwLaCRWD17CYsn3GeHuy7HYq2RxRGFzjHLDcngB0oMFtUx1fZL3T4Z1ofcBhVm6q6FSpvt9588Mubx-sMOnXmvDZN1ePMt7LfGB0HjwaTEPvDR5hr7DcklMoW7DGOZLUpuDzLczsIzMB6/s1600/trump.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzwLaCRWD17CYsn3GeHuy7HYq2RxRGFzjHLDcngB0oMFtUx1fZL3T4Z1ofcBhVm6q6FSpvt9588Mubx-sMOnXmvDZN1ePMt7LfGB0HjwaTEPvDR5hr7DcklMoW7DGOZLUpuDzLczsIzMB6/s200/trump.png" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I might be possibly indirectly<br /> responsible for THIS GUY</td></tr>
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Good god! Seems like it's been a hundred years since I've put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard so to speak in service of entertaining you, my dear readers, who if my usage stats are to be believed are mostly from behind the former Iron Curtain. Hello Russia! Anyway, Winter is setting in, which means I might have a little time on my hands, so like I've said at least ten times in the past, I'm planning on getting a little more frequent with my posts, because I feel like I've got a few things to say. Now, before I get started, I just want to say, I appreciate you guys' support over the years. I recently undertook a major lifestyle change. No, not that kind of lifestyle change (not that there's anything wrong with that) but I can promise you, this blog won't turn into one of those "My Journey" type of deals. Yeah, I might dedicate one post to that when I'm done, but that's it. I'd much rather just spin some hopefully entertaining tales from this crazy life I've led.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Mighty UGC! No longer exists!</td></tr>
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That leads us to today's story. It's kind of a quick one. I worked for seven and a half years at the University of Utah on what used to be a little nine-hole executive-style golf course, right in the middle of campus. I started out as a guest instructor for some junior camps in 2003, and by the time the powers that be decided to drop a building on top of us and shut us down in 2009, I'd worked my way into being the last ever Head Professional of the UGC and pretty much the last man standing. They were some of the best times in my life with friends I still have today and the stories I have are innumerable, so much like my "Dorm Days" series. today will be the first post in an occasional series I'd like to call, "Tales From The UGC."<br />
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"The Commute"</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A fine place for vagrants to read newspapers on <br />a rattan cane and masturbate to Internet porn!</td></tr>
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Not long after I was hired at the UGC, my beloved giant 1982 Chevy Blazer, affectionately known to my high school buddies as "Sweet Ride" partially exploded on me during a trip to my hometown to see my buddy Rat for a haircut. That truck was legendary, especially during the "Dorm Days" as the most reliable way for my roommates and I in room 302 to get around, safely and in style. There was no mistaking who was pulling up when it's diesel-ly growl approached. But she'd finally given up the ghost and since I had about $500 to my name at any one time (THE LIFE OF A GOLF PRO, SO GLAMOROUS!) my options for getting to and from work (and really anywhere else) were limited to public transportation. Thankfully, I lived in a not-so-horrible condo about a block and a half from the Salt Lake City Library and the light rail station adjacent to it. Riding the TRAX train every day to work was amazingly convenient (No gas! A drop off right next to our 5th hole! A semi-convenient schedule!) and provided me with endless people watching opportunities.</div>
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One early Fall day I boarded a train for my normal afternoon shift. There were about seven stops between the library and my drop-off point on our 5th Fairway. The car was about half full as I thankfully rarely had to commute during the busy parts of the day. I popped in the ear buds, cranked up a little "Heartbreak Boulevard" by Shotgun Messiah and settled in for the fifteen minute ride. </div>
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Two stops in a guy boards the train and sits in the seat across the aisle from me. Out of the corner of my eye, I could tell he bore striking similarity in appearance to a certain long-time Carbon High School football coach, who in turn was the spitting image of long-time WWF wrassler, former Governor of Minnesota and current underground bunker-resident Jesse "The Body" Ventura. As a matter of fact, I thought it actually WAS Coach, so rather than just staring out the window, like I usually did, I actually popped the ear buds out when he motioned towards me that he wanted to say something.</div>
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"Hey man, lot of pretty girls on this train."</div>
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"Well yeah, it's kind of the main artery up to the University," I said, a little apprehensively. </div>
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"Yeah, the State is making me take a bunch of classes up there, so I can get out of the halfway house. You grow up around here, man?" He asked.</div>
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"Naw man, a few hours south of here. A little town on the high desert called Price. How about you?"</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You can trust me to get you<br /> the good shit, Gorilla!</td></tr>
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"Kansas City, had to split town though. A few hombres were bringing the heat down on me," his eyes starting to dart back and forth, "I've been to Price. Got busted down there, a couple years ago."</div>
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Here we go, a good story, maybe! "What did they nail you on?"</div>
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"Dealing Crank. The market down there is goddamn great these days!"</div>
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"Yeah, that's what I hear." The economy was tanking in the early 2000's, and my hometown's drug issues were getting pretty gnarly. But his comment was making me wonder if there was a magazine like <i>Investor's Business Daily</i> for the drug trade. </div>
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"We were making money hand-over-fist! Then one day, a new guy started hanging around. Goddamn narcs. Next thing you know, I'm in County getting hosed down and they were breaking out the rubber gloves." He said grinning, way too matter of factly for my comfort level.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Well, at least it seems like you're getting your shit together man. They eventually let you out." This dude might be Heisenberg.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdMw7hMITqB8oC8xf_GDdkVE5GmsrLd7tP7LnaR12rr7otOqVIUDw1elVxviUBiQLSdtF7XXUIs7FtVyAIcL3kpNswYJLu31RJmavg_nPUm7kmJy63ZuvSVhdoTmrtRI5ma93-TK1mA5Mz/s1600/trax.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdMw7hMITqB8oC8xf_GDdkVE5GmsrLd7tP7LnaR12rr7otOqVIUDw1elVxviUBiQLSdtF7XXUIs7FtVyAIcL3kpNswYJLu31RJmavg_nPUm7kmJy63ZuvSVhdoTmrtRI5ma93-TK1mA5Mz/s200/trax.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Had to jump a fence, to get to work,<br /> but damn it was convenient!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
"Yeah man. These classes have been great for getting some new connections! You guys are sitting on a gold mine up here."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
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<div style="text-align: left;">
I just kind of gave it a snicker. Time to pull the plug on this conversation. "Good luck to ya, pal."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
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<div style="text-align: left;">
He nodded and grinned, "Lot of pretty girls on this train."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
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<div style="text-align: left;">
I punched the button and jumped off the train a couple stops early. Hiking clear across campus to the clubhouse. It was already a weird day.</div>
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Nickas!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12544223109298156827noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827663845602979613.post-30232308903583556962014-12-31T23:43:00.000-07:002015-01-02T18:02:32.139-07:00We say "so long" to 2014 as I put an old project to bed for good...Hey folks! It's been awhile! I didn't want to go an entire calendar year without a post, so here's the Golf Monster's 2014 post of the year! I can't promise more for 2015, but figure on seeing a little more activity on here.<br />
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Anyway, I just wanted to share with you a few videos I've edited down over the years. Way back in 1986, some folks in Maryland hauled a camcorder out to a Judas Priest and Dokken show. Their fifteen minute short "Heavy Metal Parking Lot" made the rounds in tape trading circles for years until the beauty of YouTube brought it to a wide audience. <br />
<br />
Flash forward fifteen years to 2001, several stars of my old <a href="http://www.thegolfmonster.blogspot.com/search/label/Dorm%20Days?updated-max=2009-04-08T23:54:00-06:00&max-results=20&start=4&by-date=false" target="_blank">"Dorm Days: The Penthouse Chronicles" </a>stories, VodkaRob, Jose', Crazy Pete and I scored tickets to the AC/DC concert here in Salt Lick. It was a momentous occasion, in that they hadn't been to Salt Lake for SEVEN whole years after a kid got trampled in their previous appearance. We honestly thought they'd never be back again! That being said, as of tonight it's been almost 14 goddamn years since they've been back, but I digress. One thing I never tire of is hearing dudes yell "FUCK YEAH" and ladies scream "WOOOOOO" so we "borrowed" a camera from the info-tech department and decided to document this tremendous occasion. Keep in mind, we were horrible people in college at the time. But here is that first video we made:<br />
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Several years later, we attempted the same thing at a Motley Crue show. Unfortunately, the venue's parking services had VodkaRob, Jose' and I park roughly ten goddamn miles from the venue. So instead we shot an ode to our favorite beer at the time, Pabst Blue Ribbon. "Why Pabst?" you may ask. Because it won a goddamn Blue Ribbon. Never mind it was 120 years ago. It still won the goddamn Blue Ribbon! Not our finest effort, but hey, we were half-drunk at the time.<br />
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Terrible right? Anyway, we hung up the camera for several years until I decided to drag it out one night with my old pal Little Nick's little brother Chris. He and I attended Ozzy Osbourne's first show here in Salt Lick in many moons. Because, again, random dudes yelling "FUCK YEAH" and ladies "WOOOOO"-ing before damn near getting hit by a car is the highest of the high comedy.<br />
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<object class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="https://ytimg.googleusercontent.com/vi/So8q_v3msTw/0.jpg" height="266" width="320"><param name="movie" value="https://youtube.googleapis.com/v/So8q_v3msTw&source=uds" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="https://youtube.googleapis.com/v/So8q_v3msTw&source=uds" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object></div>
Better. My editing skills, while still highly suspect got a little better that go-around, and found quite a few highly inebriated folks to participate. The relative success of Ozzy/Zombie Parking Lot (1900 views and counting! <a href="http://youtu.be/QrGrOK8oZG8" target="_blank">Look out Too Many Cooks!</a>), gave us the bug to go hair farming again, leading to what I consider our magnum opus. Poison Parking Lot, shown in two parts because YouTube used to have a ten-minute time-limit on uploads. People love showing off for the camera. What they're showing off, I have no idea, but I'll be damned if we didn't have a good time making these. <br />
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After VodkaRob, Jose' and I shot these, we actually registered the utahconcertfilms.com domain name, and formed an LLC that this blog was originally going to be a part of called Monkey With A Crayon. Unfortunately (not really), we all kinda had to grow up a little bit. Work got in the way, a few of the guys started families, and UtahConcertFilms and Monkey With A Crayon as a concept faded into the background and eventually fizzled completely. Or did it? Stay tuned....<br />
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Here's to letting the good times roll in 2015! Nickas!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12544223109298156827noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827663845602979613.post-47964745216155601772013-12-09T23:05:00.002-07:002013-12-09T23:06:24.464-07:00The Chicago Bears on Monday Night Football - Live Blog!Hey, it's been awhile. But there's snow on the ground, not a lot of people are hitting little white balls with sticks, so you know what that means...The return of the 'Monster! Tonight a special insight as to what happens on the odd occasion that my beloved Chicago Bears are featured on TV here in Salt Lick, and a Monday Night Football game to boot, with a backup quarterback no less, on a completely frozen Soldier Field! DUN DUN DUN DUNNNNNNNNNNNN! This entry won't be everybody's cup of tea, or you might surprise yourself and enjoy it, but here's a (not really) minute by minute rundown of the fan experience...from my couch. You know how big a fanatic I can be about the Bears from my previous post <a href="http://www.thegolfmonster.blogspot.com/2013/01/an-exercise-in-self-flagellation.html" target="_blank"><i>An Exercise in Self-Flagellation</i></a>, so I hope you enjoy it. Will my liver survive? Well, if this doesn't show up in my feed by 10:30 tonight, I'm probably roaming the streets! Here we go!<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp2fl8LcR1fqN3kK147hwaJpyTPqKc5hSHp5IE3jKWzj72ibIeOHQ-YpX3SL0SmysllRjznxYlAK9ohnXYrMLjYdnGu8hCuxwK1xacryA4DRbFLnuVjqC1bmfcyD-Y7sTlG6BMV6grD4s/s1600/TheLounge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp2fl8LcR1fqN3kK147hwaJpyTPqKc5hSHp5IE3jKWzj72ibIeOHQ-YpX3SL0SmysllRjznxYlAK9ohnXYrMLjYdnGu8hCuxwK1xacryA4DRbFLnuVjqC1bmfcyD-Y7sTlG6BMV6grD4s/s320/TheLounge.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Lounge at Casa de Nickas</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
6:38 PM: We're live from the lounge at Casa de Nickas! Beverages this evening, Shiner Bock in my official Chicago Bears beer coozie, and in case things go horribly south, Gentleman Jack! On commentary tonight, alleged lecher Mike Tirico, Drunken Jon Gruden, and Lisa Salters as random sideline reporter lady. <br />
<br />
<br />
6:40 PM: It's Mike Ditka Night at Soldier field. Outside of his ESPN gig, I hear he's kind of hard up for cash. He'll shill for anything for a buck - MIKE DITKA'S LUBRICATED CATHETERS! AFFORDABLE AND DISCREET!<br />
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6:45 PM: The Bears run defense is maybe as bad I've ever seen it. Expect a not-too-uncalled-for excessive amount of bitching about this tonight.<br />
<br />
6:48 PM: Dallas marched down the field on our seive like defense. Time for a shot of Gentleman Jack!<br />
<br />
6:52 PM: Devin Hester back for a return. He <a href="http://channel.nationalgeographic.com/wild/big-cat-week/episodes/man-v-cheetah/" target="_blank">outran a cheetah</a> on this special I watched on National Geographic the other night, but he hasn't been able to outrun an overweight special teams player for about three years.<br />
<br />
6:58 PM: ESPN analyst Jon Gruden sounds absolutely HAMMERED tonight. I'm sure there will be some some drunken Gruden commentary tonight as well.<br />
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7:02 PM: I love the guy, but Matt Forte needs to officially change his name to "Matt Forte Limps Off The Field."<br />
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7:03 PM: TOUCHDOWN BEARS! EAT SHIT DALLAS!<br />
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7:05 PM: There's an extended ad for the new Hobbit movie. WAY TO KNOW YOUR AUDIENCE ESPN!<br />
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7:11 PM: End of the 1st quarter: Chicago 7, Dallas 7. <br />
<br />
7:14 PM: Holy shit the Bears actually stopped somebody!<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEyePzkVq0PkGmed6a_Y4fQeawDQEP2kBAGPrPwuPVnQzn4y1F9ZwuGA81ZX4QJIvNIWFvSdfvgHi7vUy3dzPXZDex36TgBrEuMU45uqilW702wc0gZ8rhNbVHVHeIab6YEbzG4ouwjQQ/s1600/YourAuthor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEyePzkVq0PkGmed6a_Y4fQeawDQEP2kBAGPrPwuPVnQzn4y1F9ZwuGA81ZX4QJIvNIWFvSdfvgHi7vUy3dzPXZDex36TgBrEuMU45uqilW702wc0gZ8rhNbVHVHeIab6YEbzG4ouwjQQ/s320/YourAuthor.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Believe it or not, I've lost some weight. Pathetic!</td></tr>
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7:17 PM: This whole 'the Bears have a somewhat competent passing game" thing is really pretty neat! Almost like a real NFL team!<br />
<br />
7:21 PM: Tonight's meal, a baked potato minus the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zTiEQB67HOs" target="_blank">FEEEIXINS</a> because my chubby ass is trying damn hard not to be so chubby anymoWHOOOAAA TOUCHDOWN BEARS!! I'm used to the defense scoring everything.<br />
<br />
7:28 PM: Most accurate portrayal of a historical figure: Tom Hanks as Walt Disney, or Ben Walker as Abraham Lincoln Vampire Hunter? <br />
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7:29 PM: Water freezes when it gets cold? WEIRD!<br />
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7:33 PM: TIRICO: Lisa, what's the cold doing to the players down on the sidelines?<br />
LISA SALTERS: Shrinking their penises Mike.<br />
TIRICO: Thank you Lisa. What are you doing after the game? <br />
<br />
7:35 PM: Touchdown Dallas. The Bears defense couldn't cover George Thorogood's Bad To The Bone. In case you were wondering, this game features the NFL's 29th and 32nd ranked defenses.<br />
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7:38 PM: GRUDEN: THIS BEARS DEFENSE, I CALL THEM THE REBEL ALLIANCE, BECAUSE IT’S COLD AS SHIT AND THEY’RE GETTING SHREDDED BY THE EVIL EMPIRE<br />
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7:54 PM: Is Axe the new Drakkar Noir?<br />
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7:56 PM: I really hope Lisa Salters interviews Julius Peppers after the game. I also think the two beers and two shots of whiskey just kicked in.<br />
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7:58 PM: I can't remember the last time the Bears had all three timeouts with a minute to go in a half! I don't think they know how to run a 2-minute drill under these conditions!<br />
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8:01 PM: HOLEEE JESUS! Touchdown Bears on a flat out ridiculous pass to meastly receiver Alshon Jeffrey! <br />
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8:04 PM: Halftime Chicago 24, Dallas 14. I felt a great disturbance in the Force, like millions of people
were buzzed, and their buzzes were suddenly killed by Chris Fucking
Berman.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRfn3qc0zU3BMpbOseXuTlI46Vno1QTnNDZYeP6Jshm7Z2I1TbFuvSYlvx01SWeF2ZvLWyUIXkJ-SG4P61E15esS-7Qfw_R5pA9tGLxhM-5WgwMR_1zLxg9gscD0vTrod8mq-0W9hBXos/s1600/0101wf8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRfn3qc0zU3BMpbOseXuTlI46Vno1QTnNDZYeP6Jshm7Z2I1TbFuvSYlvx01SWeF2ZvLWyUIXkJ-SG4P61E15esS-7Qfw_R5pA9tGLxhM-5WgwMR_1zLxg9gscD0vTrod8mq-0W9hBXos/s320/0101wf8.jpg" width="249" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Because I needed another excuse to post this.</td></tr>
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8:11 PM: Today we honor Coach Mike Ditka...as he freezes to death on live television. Seriously, I know he's kind of turned into a doddering, right-wing nutcase these days, but man, back in the 80's he was like a third grandpa to me. When he got fired from the job as the Bears coach, I remember exactly where I was when it happened and I had a damn tough time taking my hunter's safety test that night.<br />
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8:14 PM: DITKA: GO BEARS!!! (I just ran through a brick wall. Whiskey may as well be PCP. NO PAIN!)<br />
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8:21 PM: The second half begins and Mike Tirico looks like he's dressed as an undercover cop.<br />
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8:28 PM: Field Goal Chicago, 27-14 Bears. Fun Fact: Christmastime would be 1000% better without Christmas car commercials. You feel like a fuckup in life if you neither give nor receive a car with a bow on it.<br />
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8:38 PM: <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0993846/" target="_blank"><i>The Wolf of Wall Street</i></a>: because that dude from <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0264464/?ref_=nm_flmg_act_12" target="_blank"><i>Catch Me If You Can</i></a> had a cellmate with a story, too.<br />
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8:42 PM: Easy with the throwing into triple coverage McCown! I'm not quite buzzed yet!<br />
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8:45 PM: EMMIT SMITH: "The Bears are doin' nice job of masturbatin' the ball down the feel."<br />
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8:46 PM: Holy shit TOUCHDOWN BEARS! They're now up 35-14 and looking entirely too competent tonight. The whiskey is about to be replaced with a nice spring water.<br />
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8:53 PM: GRUDEN: THIS JERRY JONES, I CALL HIM SMAUG BECAUSE HE’S OLD, GREEDY, COVERED IN SCALES, AND LOVES TO DESTROY THOSE SMALLER THAN HIM<br />
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8:55 PM: The desperate Cowboys go for it on 4th and long and Tony Romo basically spikes it after the Bears bring the heat. He should have done what I did on my one career pass when I was a punter for the Central Price Bears in little league. It was a rainy October night and we were getting the shit kicked out of us as usual. I go in to punt the ball away after our ninth straight three and out. The snap went over my head by about ten feet, I ran back into the endzone to pick it up and when I turned around the entire Helper Steelers defensive line was on top of me. I let out a blood curdling scream that I'm sure my mortified parents could hear all the way in the top row of East Carbon High's stadium and chucked it as far as I could down field. Not my proudest moment as an athlete.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJmzNDWGkCit4LHM5DJsZBNEOmnkTmYMDuMm3SYbhZ82Ij-SoXPrFf9h5LQJTHRHKhOs3rlKT-Qpt4hYyzGy3IGJfLsd8SeqcN10aMU-sPo7KvIrqSsecXo392YCdvMUL4pLLOjURbsUM/s1600/Untitled.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJmzNDWGkCit4LHM5DJsZBNEOmnkTmYMDuMm3SYbhZ82Ij-SoXPrFf9h5LQJTHRHKhOs3rlKT-Qpt4hYyzGy3IGJfLsd8SeqcN10aMU-sPo7KvIrqSsecXo392YCdvMUL4pLLOjURbsUM/s320/Untitled.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I know what I said, but I had to gloat a little bit.</td></tr>
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9:01 PM: Another BEARS TOUCHDOWN! 42-14! To Michael Bush. Now I hate to look a gift horse in the mouth, but as a fantasy football aficionado, THAT HELPS NO ONE! Got to say though, this is turning into a special year for me in fantasy. After years of toiling, I finally have a system down and it's tough to stop and I'll shut up now because NOBODY GIVES A SHIT ABOUT ANYONE'S FANTASY FOOTBALL TEAM BUT THEIR OWN!!!<br />
<br />
9:05 PM: Jennifer Lawrence...dear lord. That gal is a tall drink of all right.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcA8t6SE7skuL3F1UwFYE88uXW4Bf1kMb1sPVqb44-MIanlH9KgHVIFwBTqDKGyYne5oXvwgJu6aqhzC-aADxVaWWLAVR24SSF6qaUxmJ2o_9Mccirp8ImeH9Byl4hKP1c1FhwnKxl_78/s1600/Jerry+Jones+Stairs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcA8t6SE7skuL3F1UwFYE88uXW4Bf1kMb1sPVqb44-MIanlH9KgHVIFwBTqDKGyYne5oXvwgJu6aqhzC-aADxVaWWLAVR24SSF6qaUxmJ2o_9Mccirp8ImeH9Byl4hKP1c1FhwnKxl_78/s320/Jerry+Jones+Stairs.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">YEEE HAW! I'M FUCKIN' MOROSE!</td></tr>
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9:07 PM: Chris Conte, the Bears godawful strong safety, has just made 4 tackles in a row. If you don't follow football, that's a really bad thing.<br />
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9:09 PM: Touchdown Dallas: Way to limp to the finish Chicago. <br />
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9:18 PM: JERRY JONES: YEE HAW!! AS LONG AS I SIT ON THESE STEPS NO ONE CAN LEAVE THIS BOOTH <br />
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9:25 PM: <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2609758/?ref_=nv_sr_1" target="_blank"><i>Tyler Perry's A Madea Christmas</i></a>: Because dignity died a long, long time ago.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhZPRJTjE5VP2_Vj6u8vyMnuWcjiQxTIVq__NW9O06m2oy2N_jld2qbZb7t-zrFKps_LLoVboKRr4_o8LIONAF1ClYY8xi1RyMqryy1bVhjJ8CjS5tm9cM55IjCUfLpezIp4XofHridLk/s1600/orton1_display_image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhZPRJTjE5VP2_Vj6u8vyMnuWcjiQxTIVq__NW9O06m2oy2N_jld2qbZb7t-zrFKps_LLoVboKRr4_o8LIONAF1ClYY8xi1RyMqryy1bVhjJ8CjS5tm9cM55IjCUfLpezIp4XofHridLk/s320/orton1_display_image.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Somehow this dude got the Bears to the playoffs in '05<i><br /></i></td></tr>
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9:26 PM: Kyle Orton is now in for mop-up duty for Dallas. I'll always have a soft spot in my heart for the "Drunky QB!"<br />
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9:34 PM: Dallas scores another touchdown. It's nice to see Orton can still exploit 3rd string defenses LIKE A CHAMPION!<br />
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9:37 PM: That's the ballgame folks! The Bears win 45-28, actually played pretty good and I only needed 3 karma shots of whiskey and two beers tonight. This isn't the same Bears I've been rooting for my entire life!<br />
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So that's all for tonight folks. This live blog thing might've been entertaining, it might not have. I don't know, I'm sure I'll hate it when I'm sober in the morning. Anyway, it's nice to be back and posting again. More in the future, including a return of my "Dorm Days" stories as well as some other stuff I've got bumping around in my head! HAPPY HOLIDAYS FOLKS! <br />
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<br />Nickas!http://www.blogger.com/profile/04097270523968787259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827663845602979613.post-83954837176721430162013-02-20T01:11:00.000-07:002013-02-20T08:56:32.439-07:00Trust Me Officer, I'm A Professional...You know folks, in a lot of ways, I feel damn lucky. I've got a job doing what I love to do and a family that supports me in it, even though I would tell me I'm nuts to do it. I've also made some great friends over the years and we've shared some truly wild times. Sometimes though, they get some crazy ideas to do stuff that most normal people would scoff at. And in the name of getting a good story, I jump in with 'em. This is the tale of one of those times.<br />
<br />
Now, throughout the year, a bunch of Utah law enforcement guys go Danny Glover and decide that they're "too old for that shit" and retire. This means, they've got to hire a bunch of new cops, and new cops need training. And this state loves nothing more than busting people for DUI offenses, <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2013/01/03/us/lawsuit-accuses-fired-utah-trooper-of-falsifying-dui-arrests.html?_r=0" target="_blank">whether they're legitimate or not. </a>No matter whether you're a drinker or not, we can all agree, driving under the influence is pretty much the most irresponsible thing a person can do. You're literally taking the lives of hundreds of people in your idiotic hands if you get behind the wheel after you've had a few too many. The problem is though, nobody's a good enough actor to mimic all of the physical characteristics of being steaming drunk. Although, I saw a great movie starring <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0935541/?ref_=tt_ov_st" target="_blank">Mary Elizabeth Winstead</a> (RAMONA FLOWERS, SCHWING!) called<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2063781/?ref_=sr_1" target="_blank"> Smashed</a> at the indie theater a couple months ago that came pretty close, but I digress.<br />
<br />
Anyway, these new cops need the proper training in order to recognize the difference between somebody that's sober, somebody that's had a few too many, and somebody that literally has to grab the grass to keep from FALLING OFF THE EARTH. They also need to learn the proper procedures for conducting field sobriety tests. So once a year the State of Utah gets fifteen ordinary folks together and pays them to get completely obliterated so that they can conduct these tests on as realistic a subjects as possible.<br />
<br />
Now it just so happens that my old college buddy Ninja is pretty good friends with one of the police officers charged with organizing the training and he pulled a couple strings and got your humble Golf Monster on the subject list. Frankly, I was curious, this whole thing sounded way too good to be true. The State of Utah, driest state in the union, actually cuts a check for people to get blitzed? I had to find out. And it was yet another excuse to have a good time with my buddies, albeit in a clinical setting. I couldn't pass it up. <br />
<br />
I was picked up at 10:30 AM on the test day in a UHP cruiser by nice fella by the name of Trooper Marshall out in front of my condo. Couldn't pass up the chance to look like a hardass in front of my neighbors. I was told that we had to pick up a couple other guys on the way down to the State Police Academy which was located on the south end of the valley. I was curious about what was about to go on today and he replied, "We're going to get you drunk, and then run some tests." That was it. He seemed to be into the whole brevity thing. He asked me why I signed up. I told him the old me,<a href="http://thegolfmonster.blogspot.com/search/label/Dorm%20Days" target="_blank"> the college me</a> would've been in it simply to get smashed and get paid. The current me was actually curious about the effects of the booze in a clinical setting and how many it would take to be legally intoxicated. I'm a big guy, I figured it would take a lot.<br />
<br />
A quick aside, my Grandfather, Papou as he's known in Greek, and his best friend Bill used to meet twice a week for a beer session dating all the way back to when the two of them settled back in the hometown a few years after II. Their routine was simple. Each of them would drink about one pitcher plus one bottle's worth of beer. Now here's where it's gotta be awesome to be an old guy that everybody in the county knows and is afraid to fuck with: After a session at a bar called The Regis in the nearby town of Helper, they got this crazy-assed idea to try an experiment. So they walked across the street to the town police station to volunteer to blow on the breathalyzer machine and see the results. The verdict: neither were legally drunk, but both could technically be cited for public intoxication. They thanked the officer on duty for his time, walked back across the street, got in my Papou's pickup and drove the ten minutes back home to Price. That story still blows my buddies' minds. I related that story to Trooper Marshall and he busted out laughing. I was finally able to break the ice with the dude.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMpwQEvMSFP-FgFJqwU6cCQUGNxgwaxUzKkZYH9jP0VAmzwV6toY7cPdpBL2z-y_1JDYhR_GyErTfPoDx9ngbN5MB2MPf0WM9U1H_XaCbXodPDdpBkdONaoFu76IzYq3EdORXj8ZKiJsQ/s1600/post_academy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMpwQEvMSFP-FgFJqwU6cCQUGNxgwaxUzKkZYH9jP0VAmzwV6toY7cPdpBL2z-y_1JDYhR_GyErTfPoDx9ngbN5MB2MPf0WM9U1H_XaCbXodPDdpBkdONaoFu76IzYq3EdORXj8ZKiJsQ/s320/post_academy.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This Fairly unassuming building houses something called the "Wet Lab"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We picked the other guys up after I was able to locate their homes by using the GPS on my phone. It actually worked better than the GPS in the cruiser. Couple nice fellas named Chuck and Dave. After passing up an accident on the road, "The next guys that drive by will call it in," he said. We arrived at our destination, The POST Academy at the Salt Lake Community College south campus. We were led up four flights of stairs and down several winding hallways. "Jesus, I wonder how people can find the pisser in here?" I thought to myself as we took about a half dozen rights and lefts until we arrived at a door with a two-word engraving on the window, "WET LAB."<br />
<br />
I walked in and took a seat at a very large table next to my good pal and old college roommate Jose', The Ninja, his wife, and another friend of hers named Vicky. They were already well into it by the time we arrived. Chuck, Dave and I were told by a fairly stern looking lady in a lab-coat that we were already behind and were going to need to catch up. We all had to sign a release form stating that we wouldn't even look at a car until about fifteen hours after the conclusion of the training session. Makes sense. Then they asked us for our drink order. They had a huge collection of the basics, vodka, whiskey, rum and tequila as well as several mixing options. I asked for a red wine and got the stinkeye from Labcoat Lady. Probably best if I quit fucking around with all these cops in the room. After literally a moment's thought, I settled on a screwdriver, vodka and orange juice. Since I'm basically an idiot, I figured, "what the hell. May as well have something a little bit healthy, low calorie booze and Vitamin C! GOTTA WATCH MY FIGURE!" We were told that all of the drinks would be doubles served in a large Solo cup. And since they were closely monitoring our intake, we wouldn't be allowed to switch up to anything different once we started. There was a sparse collection of crackers, chips and salsa scattered in front of us, as well as a large television in the corner showing day #2 of the first round of March Madness. At least we won't miss the games!<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqyCCRZOioWygPZcy0pjRlF7fvHK6kxBw9YE2P7FEwBYh0y7bhVLk_tjW-qcMEQHCJjnHHS_CMSt28thQmtHyZMdqpRp5we-0tFoKsXx3dCnITWo6UNwtWQFPZEolMCFXeNYp3Ba9QHR0/s1600/IMG_0080.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqyCCRZOioWygPZcy0pjRlF7fvHK6kxBw9YE2P7FEwBYh0y7bhVLk_tjW-qcMEQHCJjnHHS_CMSt28thQmtHyZMdqpRp5we-0tFoKsXx3dCnITWo6UNwtWQFPZEolMCFXeNYp3Ba9QHR0/s320/IMG_0080.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Lab! Looks like your average break room.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Our bartender, a Sandy City Police officer named Steve served me up with my first drink at 11:30 AM. TIME TO GET DAY DRUNK. It didn't take very long for me to realize that my drink selection didn't lend itself to quick consumption very well. Lot of acid in it. I polished it off in about twenty-two minutes and was served my second double screwdriver at 11:54 AM. "To our health!" I toasted the table as I took a sip. This one went down a little bit quicker. It only took about twelve minutes to slurp it down and I was served my third double screwdriver at 12:08 PM. About halfway through this drink, Labcoat Lady sauntered over, whispered something flattering about my chiseled physique in my ear, straightened up and then sternly told me to pick up the pace. One of those things wasn't true. Evidently, I was behind, but it felt like I was hammering them down twice as fast as everyone else in the room.<br />
<br />
It was now 12:13 PM and it was time to take our first breathalyzer test into the big machine, the one they have "down at the station." We were all given a tube and blew a lungful into it as Labcoat Lady recorded our results. I started to notice that it was starting to get a little bit louder in the room and things were starting to echo in my head a little bit. I ate six Triscuits and tried not to freak out. The results of my first breathalyzer after six shots of vodka in 45 minutes: .058. Well below the legal limit.<br />
<br />
It was now 12:30 after we got the results of the first test and it was now time to get back at it. Labcoat Lady ordered Steve to make my next one a triple and yelled at me to drink faster. I managed to choke that one down in twenty minutes and she scaled down the next one, drink #5, back down to a double. GLAD I COULD CATCH UP! It was getting really loud in the room now, and I didn't feel too good. I rallied though and slammed that one down like a champion. I gave it my best Archer WOOOOOOOOOOOO and it was on to #6 at 1:00. I got about halfway through it when I realized it was time to take the lid off. I asked one of the observing officers, Officer Bryan, if I could be excused to use the john, and remembering the maze of hallways that led us in to this place, directions. Nice guy that he was, he walked me up and down a dozen hallways to the men's room. However, when I came out, he was nowhere to be found.<br />
<br />
I managed to stumble my way back to the lab, whistling Ricky Nelson's "I'm Walkin'" the whole way. I'm not sure how I did it, It might have something to do with the concept of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/State-dependent_learning" target="_blank">drunken recall</a>, or my crazy ability to go from not even being able to hit the board to dart champion after a few beers. I quickly polished off #6 and we were told it was last call. Labcoat Lady put me down for another triple for drink #7. I felt like a lab rat. I managed to finish that last Solo cup of booze and juice right at 1:30. It was deafeningly loud in the room and it felt like I was blinking about 400 times a minute. I managed to remember the good looking gal sitting across the table's name, and felt like I was putting on a good face, but my guts were turning somersaults. The whole time I kept notes on the experience in my phone. "I havent Benny this hacked in Awhile!" I typed on my touchscreen. No, I have no clue what that meant either.<br />
<br />
It was time for our second breathalyzer test. I blew into the big machine and recorded a .107 BAC. They then added a second variable and had us blow into the portable machine that is carried in your average cop car. That one read .079. Still not legally drunk by that definition. But my eyes didn't lie. I could barely see at this point. As hammered as I was I thought it was amazing that the field tester was that far off. Definitely fucked up. It felt like we'd been in that lab for about eight hours. We'd been in there for TWO hours and I'd had what amounted to sixteen shots of vodka in that time-frame. I felt awful, and we hadn't even hit phase two of the testing yet, the field sobriety tests.<br />
<br />
Now, I remembered back to my junior college days when they'd bring in the drunk goggles to the student center at Eastern Utah to try and scare us off of drinking. And I remember my buddy Skwez and I putting those goggles on and moonwalking backwards heel-to-toe on their painted white line. Not an accurate simulation. I didn't want to make an ass out of myself, so I spent the two days before the test trying to re-create your average field sobriety test. I practiced walking the white line in my condo parking lot. I taught myself how to speed through the alphabet backwards while I was swimming laps. I was going to ace these tests. That is, if I didn't kill myself stumbling down those five flights of stairs down to the academy basement to the firing range where the tests were going to take place. If you've never hiked down a bunch of stairs after you've thrown on a massive drunk, I don't recommend it. It's not a pleasant experience. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiszNGqcb-JmhndkFMy8b1xVL-NZs1Xv-j3Xa3i2LLpiikVoWDaIbfbewhdJsj-vgWvSdWhBJOae7IhalxmpfLLf4YzIBDgCL8yw_LvCdIETUzi5ymZQnpgqGUrEcZjfuivvREe7CN9Y9U/s1600/Utah-Highway-Patrol.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiszNGqcb-JmhndkFMy8b1xVL-NZs1Xv-j3Xa3i2LLpiikVoWDaIbfbewhdJsj-vgWvSdWhBJOae7IhalxmpfLLf4YzIBDgCL8yw_LvCdIETUzi5ymZQnpgqGUrEcZjfuivvREe7CN9Y9U/s320/Utah-Highway-Patrol.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm feeling ill just looking at it.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We walked through a corridor into a massive room filled with parallel lines and what felt like a barely seven foot ceiling. Just looking around was nauseating. There were around fifty police officers from what seemed like every Utah jurisdiction imaginable. We were each assigned three different officers and went through three batteries of tests. Sadly, I never had to recite the alphabet backwards. But had to perform a seemingly endless array of balance tests. Tests that frankly, I don't think I could pass if I was as sober as a nun. I don't think anybody could. The lesson as always, never take the field sobriety test. It's designed to make you fail! I thought I handled my shit pretty well, all things considered, but I could barely make it through each test. I was a mess. At about 2:40 we trudged back upstairs for our third and final breathalyzer test. I blew a .121. According to a table I found online, that's what a 160 lb. guy should blow after 8 shots in two hours. That's what I blew after 16 shots in two hours and I could barely stand up.<br />
<br />
At 3:30 we were ushered into a classroom where all of the officers from the day had gathered and they gave us a standing ovation. At least, that's what I think they were doing. It sounded like thunder in my head. They had our results written on the big-ass whiteboard in the front of the room. As expected I pretty much failed every test, but managed to score higher than a few people in our group. It also showed number of shots consumed, and I'd had four more shots in that two hour span than the next highest person in the group. Then I remembered, "hey, you look like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grimace_%28character%29#Characters" target="_blank">Grimace </a>compared to everyone in here," and things snapped back into focus.<br />
<br />
A nice fella named Officer Archie from the Park City Police Department gave me a lift back home across the valley. That drive felt like it took an hour, but it only took about twenty minutes. My head was spinning and I was doing everything I could do to not spew in the guy's Ford Escape. I recall asking him if he saw any crazy shit during Sundance. He told me he was the first officer on the scene when Tracy Morgan started <a href="http://abcnews.go.com/blogs/entertainment/2012/01/tracy-morgan-rushed-to-hospital-at-sundance-film-festival/" target="_blank">freaking out and babbling incoherently before he collapsed</a> during an awards ceremony. That brought on my last smartassed followup of the day, "How did you know anything was wrong? Isn't he like that all the time?" Officer Archie, obviously a <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0496424/" target="_blank">30 Rock</a> fan started chuckling.<br />
<br />
He dropped me off and I pulled myself up the stairs to my condo, returning a conquering hero. I stomped past my roommate, pretending not to hear her request for a rundown on the day. Obviously, I wasn't in any condition to talk to anyone at this point, and she probably wouldn't understand anything I had to say anyway. From there, I kicked off my sneakers, damn near knocked my bedroom door off its hinges and face-planted into my bed, passing out in my jeans. This broke one of my cardinal rules: NEVER FALL ASLEEP IN JEANS.<br />
<br />
My phone woke me up about six hours later with a surprising text message from this one girl that I kinda sorta liked. She wanted to hang out tonight. To my recollection, that was the first time she'd ever contacted me wanting to get together. By my count I'd been shot down about a half dozen times before, and had kind of given up on her. Sadly, it wasn't to be. A gut full of booze and juice, combined with my own stubborn insistence to not throw up had brought about the nightmare scenario for anyone that's ever been day drunk: THE DREADED NIGHTTIME HANGOVER. Plus, I'd signed that release form. For all I knew, if I would've gotten busted behind the wheel, they were gonna lock me up and throw away the key. I'm pretty sure I'd end up in the local PMITA prison, if not the drunk tank they locked us in once when we got the jail tour in the ten minutes I was in the cub scouts. I sent her the most pathetic, rambling drunken text reply ever sent to anyone before 10:30 PM, and politely declined. My head hit the pillow once again, just as the final NCAA basketball game of the day was signing off the air. What a goddamn loser.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEU-OmEyggDNJ3gKoPKdVwomWXoavskeH08debGkZ7NBi1ZWt7QaseHqSAlxVn4XdOCVTmUAOdZvfmShmoqTx0P9_2NOBDLFaadE2VoL1ddR1Pi85vb5yvlDQecfAzO2oO2hkDqxgEZy0/s1600/IMG_1803.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEU-OmEyggDNJ3gKoPKdVwomWXoavskeH08debGkZ7NBi1ZWt7QaseHqSAlxVn4XdOCVTmUAOdZvfmShmoqTx0P9_2NOBDLFaadE2VoL1ddR1Pi85vb5yvlDQecfAzO2oO2hkDqxgEZy0/s320/IMG_1803.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'M A PROFESSIONAL!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Epilogue<br />
Somehow, the early hangover was beneficial, as I still had some responsibility. I actually felt great the next morning! I pulled up to the gates at my beloved Rose Park Golf Course promptly at 5:30 AM and knocked out a full, busy shift of work without any lingering after effects. I sent my friend another message, apologizing for the gibberish I'd sent her the night before. She replied with a ton of LOLs and a "Too bad, we had a blast! Pretty lame that you missed out, ya lightweight." response. C'est la vie, I guess. Two weeks later though, I got an envelope in the mail from the state of Utah. I'd completely forgotten about DUI training at that point, so it was a nice surprise to get a check in the mail for twenty-five bucks from the Utah Department of Public Safety. Proof positive kids that if you work hard, believe in yourself, and know a cop on the right committee, you too can officially call yourself a professional drinker.<br />
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<br />Nickas!http://www.blogger.com/profile/04097270523968787259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827663845602979613.post-73505898030947706842013-01-30T02:36:00.000-07:002013-02-01T15:44:18.410-07:00The Golf Monster Sundance Preview/Review 2013 Edition!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkDvA9AWzHkUFCePuIBUP4njrpcOo07tONVfJOFK5qGpNgzsnIY6jPzbZiWUVZWu9f9W-JbH3FW1tczzuROriQjep-0D2pAHjL4KU6g8FKUPq5DddtcEwwROafKURkZcaQl6j9NTcczs8/s1600/IMG_0255.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkDvA9AWzHkUFCePuIBUP4njrpcOo07tONVfJOFK5qGpNgzsnIY6jPzbZiWUVZWu9f9W-JbH3FW1tczzuROriQjep-0D2pAHjL4KU6g8FKUPq5DddtcEwwROafKURkZcaQl6j9NTcczs8/s320/IMG_0255.JPG" width="240" /></a>The 2013 Sundance Film Festival just blew through the area, and left just before a massive snowstorm that's threatening to make life for all of us here in the city very uncomfortable for a few days. For a film lover like yours truly, it's a great opportunity to see some awesome films months and months before anyone else gets to. It's also a great chance to see some really shitty films months before Rotten Tomatoes gets to pile dirt on them. I tend to find, it's usually one or the other. There's rarely a film that plays at this festival where I come out thinking, "meh, it's all right, I guess." And that risk folks makes the $15.00 tickets worth it. You're really on the edge of your seat. I also tend to limit myself to screenings only within walking distance from my condo as parking's a mess this time of year, but as luck would have it, all the Salt Lake City venues fit the bill. I also tend to gravitate towards the films that don't get a ton of mainstream play, so it's pretty rare to have the random celebrity sighting, but once in awhile I get lucky. Here's what I saw this year!<br />
<br />
<b><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2309021/" target="_blank">WE ARE WHAT WE ARE</a></b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRZjxKJW1MHQ3-uKm2JzGQF_r2IYCZzRxC_euuRwswZwwIobnms1cAeRmXn2fEKcNJJL1Z21048xQaFTj4TH7f3FXC2c9I_MbJrvG0V5S1yaiUETqp0-BtRBCyMiCCChQKVWrn6WXV-Yc/s1600/Poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRZjxKJW1MHQ3-uKm2JzGQF_r2IYCZzRxC_euuRwswZwwIobnms1cAeRmXn2fEKcNJJL1Z21048xQaFTj4TH7f3FXC2c9I_MbJrvG0V5S1yaiUETqp0-BtRBCyMiCCChQKVWrn6WXV-Yc/s1600/Poster.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Man Chili makes for a pasty complexion.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>Official Sundance Synopsis:</b> A seemingly wholesome and benevolent family, the Parkers have always
kept to themselves, and for good reason. Behind closed doors, patriarch
Frank rules the roost with a rigorous fervor, determined to keep his
ancestral customs intact at any cost. As a torrential rainstorm moves
into the area, tragedy strikes and his daughters Iris and Rose are<span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;">
forced to assume responsibilities that extend beyond those of a typical
family. The most important task the girls face is putting meat on the
table— but not the kind that can be found at the local supermarket. As
the unrelenting downpour continues to flood their small town, local
authorities begin to uncover clues that bring them closer to the secret
that the Parkers have held closely for so many years.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;"><b>My Quick Review: </b> Pretty solid way to kick off the festival this year! This film started off with a vaguely familiar looking lady, Mrs. Parker, puking up a ton of bile and drowning in a large puddle. It wasn't until I got home that I realized that was actually one of the two only really recognizable "stars" in the cast, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000534/" target="_blank">Kelly McGillis</a>! It was then that I realized that <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0092099/" target="_blank">Top Gun</a></i> came out 27 goddamn years ago and I started to cry. GETTING OLD SUCKS! Anyway, this one had a creepy as hell atmosphere and was also graced by a solid performance from Tarantino film mainstay <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0662981/" target="_blank">Michael Parks</a>. I was also impressed by the performances from the two female leads, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm1024107/" target="_blank">Ambyr Childers</a> and <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm3400186/" target="_blank">Julia Garner</a>. They were incredibly composed given the cannibalistic subject matter, and played the part of scared children of a religious nut well. This one had a great, WHAT IN THE BLUE HELL DID I JUST SEE ending to it. It has been picked up and I'm sure it'll play at a horror festival or two. It'll probably see an autumn release at some point. Just in time for Halloween. RATING: 7 Shovels to the back of the skull out of 10 </span><br />
<span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;"><br /></span>
<b><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2363471/" target="_blank"><span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;">THE SUMMIT</span></a></b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSK2r_PpTT9ryGADlVBtnTLOhmm014HQEuxpdVlLvGMjcsjBrkloa2N4HpyuyGv1L2G4eblaET2C5B63sGDd5oP52KIf2pgOiFW7hZX-lc7-MF0W_bMhUoWvZdCVLCgK4d1wO8DD6-NA8/s1600/The-Summit-Movie-K2.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="157" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSK2r_PpTT9ryGADlVBtnTLOhmm014HQEuxpdVlLvGMjcsjBrkloa2N4HpyuyGv1L2G4eblaET2C5B63sGDd5oP52KIf2pgOiFW7hZX-lc7-MF0W_bMhUoWvZdCVLCgK4d1wO8DD6-NA8/s320/The-Summit-Movie-K2.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">LOOK AT THAT GODDAMN THING! YOU GOTTA BE NUTS!</td></tr>
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<span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;"><b>Official Sundance Synopsis:</b> </span>Although <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/K2" target="_blank">K2</a> is only the second-highest peak in the world, it is renowned
as the most dangerous and revered by mountaineers as their ultimate
challenge. In August 2008, 18 of 24 climbers reached the summit of K2.
Forty-eight hours later, 11 people were dead. What happened on that
fateful day has never been resolved.<br />
<br />
Utilizing found footage,<span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;"> interviews with survivors, and seamlessly realistic reenactments, <i>The Summit</i>
zigzags back and forth in time, interweaving multiple narrative threads
and piecing together events, hoping to solve the mystery of what
actually happened on that day—the deadliest in mountain-climbing
history. At the heart of the mystery is the story of Ger McDonnell, one
extraordinary man who chose to risk his own life to save others. With
the help of breathtaking cinematography by Robbie Ryan and Stephen
O’Reilly, director <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm2501199/" target="_blank">Nick Ryan</a> creates a tension-filled, experiential film
that will have viewers on the edge of their seats. <i>The Summit</i> pits Man against Mother Nature in her most majestic and terrifying extreme.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh4BScDUN5ByOBt4W_nNiS2O4vkuyXZLKxdV6CahxzjejTWkpOq3cWr8jGE1xh0vy1gfbMQTsqGDV_qFKjNswtHZvzl7-UBlemx18utB0xJzEuJb2DAKltxMjzRsEXsImn7Rgptp_EVn8/s1600/IMG_0239.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh4BScDUN5ByOBt4W_nNiS2O4vkuyXZLKxdV6CahxzjejTWkpOq3cWr8jGE1xh0vy1gfbMQTsqGDV_qFKjNswtHZvzl7-UBlemx18utB0xJzEuJb2DAKltxMjzRsEXsImn7Rgptp_EVn8/s200/IMG_0239.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Had to sit way too close for this one</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;"><b>My Quick Review:</b> There's a thing with seeing documentaries in these days of the internet. You can do a ton of research of the subject matter and get one part of the story. But it takes true talent to take what is the given story that everyone seems to agree upon of a subject and flip it on its head. Nick Ryan's The Summit did that very well. I remember the stories of the disastrous 2008 K2 expedition. But had no idea the depth of the heroism involved in that tragic Summer. I still have no idea whatsoever why anyone would want to try to do something like climb a 28,000 foot high deathtrap. But I do have a little greater understanding of the rush that these adrenaline junkies are constantly chasing. One thing I do have is great appreciation of true heroism, and the guys that kept going up into the "Death Zone" to try to rescue people have that in spades. I had the opportunity to meet one of these guys, Pemba Gyalje Sherpa after the screening. He's easily the biggest badass I've ever met in person. If you want to see what true heroism is, check this documentary out. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;">As an added feature, I got to the line-up for the screening a little bit late which meant I had to sit in the second row, almost looking straight up at the screen. Usually that sucks, but for a movie like this one where the people onscreen are literally looking out over the edge of the world, that sense of vertigo made if feel a little more real. RATING: 9 Top of the Worlds out of 10 </span><br />
<span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;"><br /></span>
<b><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2318527/" target="_blank"><span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;">HELL BABY</span></a></b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj897Y_PYX-pjKK9H5jfPMZAjKxpx6kufokPkskkz_rLMHVqVxACAA_6X5y60IFZxExS7hlkEWVzq5DJbphe2HMYogSKWo4JlwfNOXTe_fU1XRvJf_djCr7IHeuoRMe9j8hd2uu5LRfFzc/s1600/Hell_Baby_review_-_SUNDANCE_article_story_main.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="138" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj897Y_PYX-pjKK9H5jfPMZAjKxpx6kufokPkskkz_rLMHVqVxACAA_6X5y60IFZxExS7hlkEWVzq5DJbphe2HMYogSKWo4JlwfNOXTe_fU1XRvJf_djCr7IHeuoRMe9j8hd2uu5LRfFzc/s200/Hell_Baby_review_-_SUNDANCE_article_story_main.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Only still I could find!</td></tr>
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<span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;">Official Sundance Synopsis: </span>Expectant couple Jack and Vanessa move into the most haunted fixer-upper
in New Orleans—a house with a deadly demonic curse. When things soon
spiral out of control, it’ll take the help of Vanessa’s Wiccan sister, a
nosey “neighbor” who lives in their crawl space, two local detectives,
and a pair of elite Vatican exorcists to save them—or is it<span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;"> already too late?<br /><br />Revered as two of the minds behind the hilarious sketch television shows <i>Reno 911!, The State,</i> and <i>Viva Variety</i> and the screenwriters of big-budget comedies like the <i>Night at the Museum</i>
films, comedians <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0502073" target="_blank">Thomas Lennon</a> and <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0304830/" target="_blank">Robert Ben Garant</a> finally unleash
their codirectorial debut. Featuring a seasoned comedic ensemble,
including scene stealers <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0004753/" target="_blank">Leslie Bibb</a> and <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm1221047/" target="_blank">Keegan Michael Key</a>, this
raucous horror spoof sics the devilish humor of its creators on the most
sacred of genre conventions: the haunted house, an exorcism, and one
pissy demon child. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;">My Quick Review: I'm an unapologetic <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm1117791/" target="_blank">Rob Corddry</a> nutswinger. I think that dude's comic timing is great and he has great range playing everything from the everyman, to the asshole, to the schlub. After Steve Carrell, he's probably my favorite <i>Daily Show</i> correspondent ever. But he rarely gets any feature work in films. He's usually a side character at best. So it was great to see the guy come to the forefront here in this ridiculous sendup of every 70's horror trope known to man. Lennon and Garant manage to get everything right that the vastly inferior Scary Movie series gets wrong. Add in hilarious cameos from just about every current recognizable improv comic on the scene as well as some gratuitous nudity courtesy of folk comedy duo Garfunkel and Oates' <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm1641251/" target="_blank">Riki Lindhome</a> and we have a winner. RATING: 10 </span>Domilise's Po-Boy's out of 10.<br />
<br />
<b><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1509788/" target="_blank">ASS BACKWARDS</a></b><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Glad to see John Cryer get some poster time</td></tr>
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<b>Official Sundance Synopsis:</b> Kate and Chloe have been best friends since childhood, when they both
tied for dead last in their hometown beauty pageant. Now they are all
grown up and living in New York City, where Chloe works as a “girl in a
box” at a nightclub and Kate is a CEO…of her own one-woman egg-donor
“corporation.” Their past humiliation remains long forgotten until<span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;">
they receive an invitation to the pageant’s milestone anniversary
celebration. The unpleasant memories come flooding back, but Kate and
Chloe decide to redeem themselves by winning the elusive crown.<br /><br />Director
<a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0625245/" target="_blank">Chris Nelson</a> takes us on a raucous and wacky road trip that includes a
rescued wild rabbit, a feminist wilderness commune, and amateur night at
a strip club. Lead actresses <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm2053085/" target="_blank">June Diane Raphael</a> and <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm1988111/" target="_blank">Casey Wilson </a>have
great laugh-out-loud chemistry, and their brand of stiletto-clad
physical comedy brings an amusing and unique charm to the female version
of the buddy movie.</span> <br />
<br />
<b>My Quick Review:</b> This one is mostly for the ladies out there, as it flips the formula for a typical road trip flick. But it's got plenty of laughs for the fellas as well. This one features two gals that are best friends through thick and thin, but have never quite gotten over their childhood defeat as wannabe pageant queens. And by "haven't gotten over it" I mean to say, are in complete denial about it. But that's not going to stop their good-natured romp back to their hometown. There's plenty of bawdy laughs to be had here. And their Q&A after the screening was goddamn hilarious. RATING: 6 Rehab Stints out of 10.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjksASlVkY6v4g4p166WXPFMz1ZwJAeOvNQRGVJjwE2o7Nq7fQ37kkwN7eZ69zgH6xMsQIlAZQPYHIu-_HRoBipkuCj2MH8joLGxAuAEoECcpqfBhzBgRbTRDorZBQUhVI_dIeVmwZmz6s/s1600/s-vhs_-sundance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjksASlVkY6v4g4p166WXPFMz1ZwJAeOvNQRGVJjwE2o7Nq7fQ37kkwN7eZ69zgH6xMsQIlAZQPYHIu-_HRoBipkuCj2MH8joLGxAuAEoECcpqfBhzBgRbTRDorZBQUhVI_dIeVmwZmz6s/s200/s-vhs_-sundance.jpg" width="158" /></a><b><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2450186/" target="_blank">S-VHS</a></b><br />
<b>Official Sundance Synopsis: </b> Inside a darkened house looms a column of TVs littered with VHS tapes, a
pagan shrine to forgotten analog gods. The screens crackle and pop
endlessly with monochrome vistas of static—white noise permeating the
brain and fogging concentration. But you must fight the urge to relax:
this is no mere movie night. Those obsolete spools contain more than<span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;"> just magnetic tape. They are imprinted with the very soul of evil.<br /><br />From the demented minds that brought you last year’s <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2105044/" target="_blank"><i>V/H/S</i></a> comes <i>S-VHS,</i>
an all-new anthology of dread, madness, and gore. This follow-up
ventures even further down the demented path blazed by its predecessor,
discovering new and terrifying territory in the genre. This is modern
horror at its most inventive, shrewdly subverting our expectations about
viral videos in ways that are just as satisfying as they are sadistic.
The result is the rarest of all tapes—a second generation with no loss
of quality.</span> <br />
<br />
<b>My Quick Review:</b> This was my most anticipated film of the festival. Horror anthology <i>V/H/S</i> broke some serious ground when it comes to providing big scares and gore on a budget. So the sequel had a lot to live up to. The premise, a couple private investigators bust into a decrepit house looking for a missing college student. He's nowhere to be found, but there are hundreds of VHS tapes strewn all over the apartment. They start popping tapes into an old-school top-loading VCR and are treated to the horror contained on each. Each tape was its own little horror short. Here's a quick rundown of the four:<br />
Tape #1: Directed by Adam Wingard and Simon Barret - A wealthy man, has his right eye replaced after an accident with a robotic one. The catch being that the robotic eye is recording everything he sees. Oh and it gives him the ability to see the myriad of ghosts that inhabit his rather large Hollywood Hills home. This one had some good jump scares, but not a ton of gore.<br />
Tape #2: Directed by <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0185937/" target="_blank">The Blair Witch Project's</a></i> Eduardo Sanchez and Gregg Hale - A guy spends an afternoon riding a mountain bike through the woods with one of those GoPro cameras strapped to his helmet. He happens upon a screaming lady covered in blood that's running from something. As he tries to assist her, she turns zombie on him and tears a nice chunk out of his neck, leaving him for dead. But he's not dead, he's pretty undead and we get an incredibly gory, slightly comical first hand look at a zombie apocalypse from the other side. Good laughs here. I rather enjoyed this one.<br />
Tape #3: Directed by <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1899353/" target="_blank">The Raid: Redemption's</a></i> Gareth Evans and Timo Tjahjanto - A group of TV journalists travel to Indonesia to investigate a Jim Jones-esque cult leader at their compound. While very accommodating at first, the cult soon starts to peel the layers back to reveal a more sinister side. And mayhem ensues. This was my favorite short of the film and it easily could have been its own feature. As an aside, the walls of the cult compound were decorated by hundreds of those creepy-assed Blair Witch dolls. So it was surprising to me that those dudes ended up doing a different short in this film.<br />
Tape #4: Directed by <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1640459/" target="_blank">Hobo With A Shotgun's</a> </i>Jason Eisener - This one featured a group of little asshole kids having a slumber party at their lakehouse when their parents were away. They strapped a GoPro (who really should be sponsoring the movie at this point) to a little Shorkie dog. So the entire movie was fromt he POV of the dog.The kids pull pranks on their older siblings and each other until something otherworldly comes out of the lake. Like a more terrifying <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0083866/" target="_blank">ET</a></i>. This segment got most of the critics talking, but I found it inferior to #2 and #3.<br />
Conclusion: I enjoyed it well enough, but overall it was a bit of a letdown compared to the nice surprise that V/H/S was last year. Although, any flick where the gore onscreen caused a solid fifteen people to just up and leave in the middle of it has to be doing something right. RATING: 7 Goat Babies out of 10<br />
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<b><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2224004/" target="_blank">SWEETWATER</a></b><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV6rAwFMZJKcVsCsbu7opvlkanCoMkxjkI2PShIOBuUR6mWL6c4EYrKCM1xyGZziRf9DNasbhKh9qW4dFvAI5MOk0vTQRLYZwScFo2ssxSPbDXk4SmPja2FU2CW94W_pXAHboKN58rWa8/s1600/Sweetwater-Poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV6rAwFMZJKcVsCsbu7opvlkanCoMkxjkI2PShIOBuUR6mWL6c4EYrKCM1xyGZziRf9DNasbhKh9qW4dFvAI5MOk0vTQRLYZwScFo2ssxSPbDXk4SmPja2FU2CW94W_pXAHboKN58rWa8/s320/Sweetwater-Poster.jpg" width="208" /></a><b>Official Sundance Synopsis:</b> Against the backdrop of the American Old West, newlyweds Miguel and
Sarah struggle to make a living cultivating their small patch of land.
Soon a much bigger struggle arises as powerful landowner and community
preacher Prophet Josiah makes a play for their property. As he launches
his diabolical plot to take their land, an eccentric big-city<span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;"> sheriff comes to town. Things soon go from bad to worse, culminating in a jaw-dropping, hell-hath-no-fury showdown.<br /><br /><i>Sweetwater</i>
boldly establishes its own identity while remaining true to the tenets
of the western genre. Wonderfully cinematic, this expressive tale is
superbly directed by the Miller brothers, who extract strong
performances from the ensemble cast. <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000438/" target="_blank">Ed Harris</a> is especially striking in
a bravura role as the sheriff. With the magnificent New Mexico
countryside as their canvas, the Miller brothers imaginatively stroke
their cinematic brush across an intense but humorous film.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;"><b>My Quick Review:</b> When done well, I loves me a good Western flick. And this one certainly didn't disappoint. The landscapes were beautifully filmed, with the New Mexico countryside just popping off the screen. Ed Harris was solid as the eccentric Sheriff, trying to get to the bottom of a murder mystery. Hell, the director even got a competent performance out of <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0005064/" target="_blank">January Jones</a>, and she normally can't act her way out of a paper bag! I was hooked by one scene in particular where Harris' Sheriff character explains to the increasingly sinister Prophet Josiah, exactly why geography brought him to this small town. Folks, it was Tarantino-esque. This one should do pretty well if it gets a decent release. RATING: 8 Wooden Crosses out of 10 </span><br />
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<b><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2334649/" target="_blank"><span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;">FRUITVALE</span></a></b><br />
<span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;">Official Sundance Synopsis: </span><span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/BART_Police_shooting_of_Oscar_Grant" target="_blank">Oscar Grant</a> was a 22-year-old Bay Area resident who loved his friends,
was generous to strangers, and had a hard time telling the truth to the
mother of his beautiful daughter. He was scared and courageous and
charming and raw, and as human as the community he was part of. That
community paid attention to him, shouted on his behalf, and filmed him<span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;">
with their cell phones when BART officers, who were strong,
intimidated, and acting in the way they thought they were supposed to
behave around people like Oscar, shot him in cold blood at the Fruitvale
subway stop on New Year’s Day in 2009.<br /><br />Director<a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm3363032/" target="_blank"> Ryan Coogler</a>
makes an extraordinary directorial debut with this soulful account of
the real-life event that horrified the nation. Featuring radiant
performances by Melonie Diaz and Michael B. Jordan as Grant, a young man
whose eyes were an open window into his soul, <i>Fruitvale</i> offers a barometer reading on the state of humanity in American society today.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;"><span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;"><b>My Quick Review:</b> I saw this one at a special "locals only" screening. This film won the festival's U.S. Grand Jury Prize. This was a pretty moving film, and you get the sense that this dude was on the cusp of changing his life around when he was struck down at that subway stop. That's not to say that the guy didn't have flaws, I mean, you can't spend the first three years of your daughter's life without some major flaws. But you just get that feeling that with another break or two, he was going to elevate things. Or at least become a productive member of society again. <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0430107/" target="_blank">Michael B. Jordan</a> had a moving run as the deeply conflicted Oscar Grant that may put him in line for an award or two in the future. This is probably going to be one of those "important" films that generate major buzz. Sometimes those types of movies (Amour for example) seem self-involved or only for the hoi palloi, but this one was just, plain good. RATING 9 Riots out of 10. </span></span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2312890/" target="_blank"><b><span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;"><span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;">AFTERNOON DELIGHT</span></span></b></a><br />
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<span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;"><span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;"><b>Official Sundance Synopsis: </b> </span></span><span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;"><span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;">Rachel is a quick-witted and lovable, yet tightly coiled,
thirtysomething steeped in the creative class of Los Angeles’s bohemian,
affluent Silver Lake neighborhood. Everything looks just right—chic
modernist home, successful husband, adorable child, and a hipster
wardrobe. So why is she going out of her gourd with ennui? Plagued by<span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;">
purposelessness, Rachel visits a strip club to spice up her marriage
and ends up meeting McKenna, a stripper whom she becomes obsessed with
saving. She decides to adopt McKenna as her live-in nanny, and this bold
move unleashes unimagined and colorful waves of change into her life
and community. It becomes clear that Rachel is feverishly, desperately
trying to save her own sense of who she is.<br /><br />In a perfect storm of
hilarious writing, performance, and direction, first-timer <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0813561/" target="_blank">Jill Soloway</a>
pinpoints the ambivalence of privileged, educated women seduced by an
idealized vision of marriage and motherhood, yet deadened by the
stultifying realities of preschool auctions, lackluster sex lives, and
careers that have gone kaput. <i>Afternoon Delight</i> compassionately
revels in the existential trials of a Peter Pan generation battling too
many choices, resisting adulthood, and distractedly tapping their
iPhones instead of tuning in to what matters.</span> </span> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;">My Quick Review: Endend up seeing a lot of movies geared toward the ladies this year and this one was no different. Although much like <i>Ass Backwards</i> there were plenty of laughs and entertainment to be had for the fellas as well. But don't get me wrong, while this was a laugh a minute kind of flick, it wasn't really a comedy. It was actually a pretty dark film about a family and a mother that are crumbling before our very eyes. <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm1063517/" target="_blank">Kathryn Hahn</a> was excellent as the wisecracking Rachel, but portrayed the more serious content with aplomb. The film took a daring approach to answering the old question, "How do you save someone that doesn't necessarily want or need saving?" It was an enjoyable end to the festival. RATING 9 Yentas out of 10.</span><br />
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<span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;">CONCLUSION: Once again, the Sundance Film Festival provided a week and a half of ground-breaking, imaginative filmmaking. I feel luckier than hell to have this going on every year, right in my backyard! Next year, we'll be making the trek up into the mountains to Park City to try and mingle with the upper crust. But for a film junkie, none of that shit really matters. Everybody should take advantage of the wonderful opportunity to support independent film making and the people that make it happen!</span><br />
<br />
<span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;">The Golf Monster's 2013 Film Rankings!</span><br />
<span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;">8. We Are What We Are</span><br />
<span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;">7. Fruitvale</span><br />
<span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;">6. Ass Backwards</span><br />
<span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;">5. S-VHS</span><br />
<span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;">4. Afternoon Delight</span><br />
<span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;">3. Sweetwater</span><br />
<span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;">2. The Summit</span><br />
<span class="expand_details" style="display: inline;">1. Hell Baby </span><br />
<br />Nickas!http://www.blogger.com/profile/04097270523968787259noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827663845602979613.post-69018922541710544952013-01-15T04:51:00.000-07:002018-09-10T00:29:31.488-06:00An Exercise in Self-Flagellation... So, I guess today was the coldest day in the history of Utah, or something. This, combined with the two feet of snow we had this past weekend, means your humble golf monster has a lot of time off to to write. Hopefully, I can make it past four posts in 2013! Sundance is coming up later this week, so there will be movie reviews coming up soon, as well as some stories from the near and the distant past. First up though, a look inside the mind of a mildly deranged sports fan. <br />
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Three weeks ago, I left the cold, miserable weather of the Wasatch Front and flew south to sunny Phoenix, Arizona for a wonderful weekend of golf and drinking. On Sunday, December 21st, my cousin Pete and I plopped our thirtysomething asses into stadium seats to watch our favorite football team, The Chicago Bears, take on the Arizona Cardinals. For me, it was the culmination of over thirty years of anticipation, excitement, elation, frustration, pain and heartache. I know, I know, educated, logically thinking people shouldn't allow a bunch of millionaires beating the shit out of each other in some far away stadium on a weekly basis to tie their emotions in knots. Believe me, I wish it wasn't this way, but as you're going to find out, it's sadly my lot in life.<br />
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To quote the great Peter Venkman, "...call it fate, call it luck, call it karma, but I believe that everything happens for a reason." I think I've been a fan of the Chicago Bears since I was in the crib. Hell, I think it was my first word. But life as a fan didn't really kick in until I was five years old. Here's the issue though...I grew up in Price, Utah. Price is miles and miles away from really anything so there was really no such thing as a hometown team to get behind. My family were all football fans, but they were all fans of different teams. My Mom and Dad liked the 49ers, my Grandpa was a fan of the Chargers, my Uncle Mike a fan of the Raiders, my Godmother a fan of the (ugh) Packers, my dad's omnipresent best friend Joe rooted for the Broncos, and everyone on my mom's side of the family rooted for the Cowboys.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I also believe a chubby toddler in Utah is going to make a huge mistake.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Then there was my Uncle George, the youngest in my dad's family. He was a fan of the Chicago Bears from way back in the Gayle Sayers days. He recognized the spark and for Christmas in 1984 he gifted six-year-old me a full-on little Chicago Bears uniform! It had pads and everything! It was even #34, the number of my favorite player, Walter Payton! I put a ton of mileage on that thing, crashing my way through imaginary linemen on the way to touchdowns and glory! I even got my first real taste of disappointment that season with my Dad cackling with delight as his 49ers shutout my Bears 23-0 in the NFC Championship game on their way to the Super Bowl XIX title.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charming!</td></tr>
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What can be said about the 1985 Bears team that hasn't been said already? I could channel my inner Bob Swerski and talk about "Da Coach," Mike Ditka, the gum-chewin, bird flippin' sweater-wearin' stalker of the sidelines. I could speak at length about the legendary 46-defense that demolished their way through the league that year. I could wax poetic about the memorable games like the "Revenge Game" against the Niners, the Monday-night beatdown of the hated Packers, domination in Dallas, and even that dark, dark, Monday night game in which Dan Marino's Dolphins stumbled upon the keys to unlocking the "46" and prevented the Bears from joining them as the only undefeated team in the Super Bowl era. A very dark night indeed. I could go on and on about the tremendous personalities on that squad, the Punky QB known as McMahon, Refrigerator Perry, Speedy Willie Gault, Samurai Mike Singletary and the rest of the "Shufflin' Crew;" who on December 3rd (the night after the Monday-night Miami disaster) recorded a ridiculous rap video, The Super Bowl Shuffle. Somehow that recording ended up #41 on the Billboard chart and raised over $300,000.00 for needy Chicago area families.<br />
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Yes that actually happened. From that point on, that team completely laid waste to everything in their path. They shut out the New York Giants in the NFC Divisionals and repeated the feat in a blizzard against the Los Angeles Rams in the NFC Championship game. Holy shit! My team was going to the Super Bowl! My folks would throw one of the biggest parties in town every year and this one was no different. I was counting the minutes to get out of church to run home and throw on my uniform, like I was going into battle along side my heroes. I was a seven-year-old dipshit, but I didn't care. The good guys took care of business that day, dispatching the upstart New England Patriots 46-10, as I played the part of the annoying little shitty kid, running around asking all my parents friends to try and knock me down so my pads could make that awesome POP sound.. I must've hit the (very astroturf-like) green carpet in our family-room a hundred times that day. Collapsing in elation as Coach Ditka and Defensive Coordinator Buddy Ryan were both carried off the field by their players, I fell asleep clutching my Chicago Bears football with a giant grin and tears of joy in my eyes. Little did I know, my peak as a fan would occur when I was seven goddamn years old.<br />
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I swear to god, I thought it would last forever. When you're really young, the good times tend to overshadow the bad to a huge degree. As you get older, that changes. My eight, nine, ten-year-old self couldn't process why the Bears, while still having pretty good teams, would always come up just a little bit short. I mean, Ditka was still there, Payton was still there, Danimal, Mongo, and Singletary were still playing defense. Like a lot of delusional Chicago fans, I thought that team was a dynasty in the making. To my dad's credit, he didn't try to break it down for me, he just let me keep being the fan I was. He didn't tell me that when Buddy Ryan took flight to Philly, the fine tuning of the "46" defense went with him. He didn't gloat when the best quarterback the franchise had since Sid Luckman managed to start less than half the games the team played during the rest of his tenure due to injuries. Hell, I had no idea players could just LEAVE. I had no idea who half of these guys were anymore as they got bounced from the playoffs over and over again in the next few years. But at least they were still on TV on a fairly regular basis, which was a big deal in the pre-Sunday Ticket days. This continued all the way up until the 1989 NFC Championship game where a savage ass-kicking at the hands of the 49ers effectively brought my childhood to a depressing end. It was the last time they would get that close again to Super Bowl glory for seventeen years. I was well into adulthood, by the time I'd experience that kind of feeling again.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Greatest Of All Time</td></tr>
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A quick aside: I would be remiss of I didn't spend a quick paragraph talking about Walter Payton. In my humble opinion, he was the greatest Bears player of all time. Virtually unstoppable, he was blinding fast in the open field, but never shied away from contact. He seemed to relish it as he bowled over linebackers and DB's alike. Hell, he even had a pretty decent QB rating on halfback option plays. The dude could do it all, and he was pretty much the closest thing I had to a real-life super-hero as a kid. I'm about 99% sure I invited him to my 8th birthday party. I don't think we'll ever see another player like that again, a graceful, yet violent runner that played for 13 seasons and only missed ONE game. But his retirement was the first time I realized what it was like to have to walk away from something because you're just too old and broken down to do it anymore. Off the field he was known as a tremendous humanitarian, and even though it's come out that he was a fairly troubled individual post-retirement, it doesn't sully his image in my eyes. On November 1st, 1999, Payton passed away due to an extremely aggressive form of liver cancer. I had just moved up to Salt Lake a couple months prior to attend college, and I was driving out to the airport to pick up my roommate when the news of his passing came over an update on the radio. I actually had to pull my truck over to compose myself. Outside of close family members and friends passing away, I can't recall anyone's death having that effect on me. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I wouldn't buy a used car from this guy.</td></tr>
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The team entered a pretty dark period in the 90's, beginning with the sacking of the last link to the magic of 1985, Coach Ditka. I got the news as I was walking with my dad down to the local Elk's Lodge to take my hunter's safety test. They replaced him with the milquetoast Dave Wannstedt. While the defenses were still good, the offense floundered. Although, I wouldn't know too many of the details because the local TV station pretty much quit showing their games altogether. These were the days of regional coverage so I got a weekly dose of Denver and San Francisco games, two teams I absolutely despised. I REALLY had no idea who these guys were anymore, hell, I doubt a good chunk of Chicago residents at the time could name their everyday personnel. This was probably best manifested in the quarterback carousel of the next twenty years.<br />
<br />
Future Hall of Famer and noted dong-pic self-paparazzo, Brett Favre was the only quarterback the hated Green Bay Packers started from 1992-2007, a time period that resulted in almost yearly playoff appearances, two Super Bowls, one Lombardi Trophy, and a very resentful teenager/young adult from Price, Utah. In a similar period of time, the Bears started no less than 24 different QB's between Jim McMahon, and current QB Jay Cutler. Here's the rundown: Steve Fuller, Mike Tomczak, Doug Flutie, Mike Hohensee, Jim Harbaugh, Peter Tom Willis, Will Furrer, Steve Walsh, Erik Kramer, Dave Krieg, Rick Mirer, Steve Stenstrom, Moses Moreno, Shane Matthews, Cade McNown, Jim Miller, Chris Chandler, Henry Burris, Kordell Stewart, Chad Hutchinson, Craig Krenzel, Jonathan Quinn, Kyle Orton and Rex Grossman. Of the few names of note on that list, they never showed up in Chicago in their primes, they were always on the downhill trend for their careers. But look at that list, just an absolute murderers' row of shitty quarterbacks. There were a lot of 6-10 seasons in there, the team was always godawful, but never shitty enough to get the really good draft picks, and they never got any better. In that same time, I'd given up my childhood dream of being the next two-sport star and settled on golf as my game of choice. But as a fan, I still loved the NFL and I still loved the Chicago Bears. But I will admit, those were dark, dark times indeed.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cousin Pete and I during the famous "Dorm Days"</td></tr>
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I got really lucky with my first roommate in college, Big Nick. He was a Bears fan as well, and with my cousin Pete, I finally had a support network with which to commiserate as a fan. It's bad enough when your team blows the meat whistle, but when it seems like you're the only fan you know of said team, it's a lonely existence indeed. With the draft of Brian Urlacher in 2000, things finally started to look up a little bit. In the Fall of 2001-Winter of 2002, a quarterback by the name of Jim Miller (oddly enough the first QB ever suspended for banned substances in the NFL) along with a revamped defense propelled the Bears to the last ever NFC Central Division title and their first playoff appearance since I was in junior high! I even won a couple bucks from my Godmother in our annual Packers vs. Bears bets for the first time since I was mowing lawns for money. Just our luck though, as a good friend of Big Nick and mine got married the day of the playoff game, sparing us the horror of a 33-19 drubbing at the hands of the Philadelphia Eagles in the Divisional round. It really felt like they were getting close, but it would be another four years before they would get back to the playoffs again. But hey, at least they were on TV once in awhile again!<br />
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By 2005 I was long out of school and working as an Assistant Professional at the University of Utah Golf Course here in Salt Lake. A combination of new head coach Lovie Smith, Kyle Orton, Rex Grossman, and a stifling defense got the Bears back into the playoffs. It was around then, that I started experimenting with the concept of karma. and during this season, the concept for the official "Chicago Bears Drinking Game" was born. I would absorb the brunt of their punishment for mistakes on the field. For every turnover, touchdown or just generally stupefyingly bad play the Bears gave up or made on the field, I would take a shot of whisky. I really should've gotten this sponsored by Jack Daniels. I figured, maybe I could buy the team a little good karma and turn things around, or get so blitzed that I'd be numb to the atrocities they'd commit on the field. The drinking game got its first test run during the Divisional playoff loss to the Carolina Panthers, the unintended consequence of which ended up being an unexpected post-game phone call from my Grandmother, mother, and sister in Oregon. Not sure how I held it together on the phone in my "altered" state, but I think I managed.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPjXlNu1H-awLXL7ZS-JF4kPTAT8T8PUj4G9I8DhQRH2qP2M0aVa2UNeA8e8g4xILEWlVnrgHy1h8ZVkv0nhQQPYgvxwYDnXT39a7Ar6fKhE4Z_0dtbBOThTqsC6b9Dn4IN74Lfqkx0oA/s1600/Untitled-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPjXlNu1H-awLXL7ZS-JF4kPTAT8T8PUj4G9I8DhQRH2qP2M0aVa2UNeA8e8g4xILEWlVnrgHy1h8ZVkv0nhQQPYgvxwYDnXT39a7Ar6fKhE4Z_0dtbBOThTqsC6b9Dn4IN74Lfqkx0oA/s200/Untitled-1.jpg" width="171" /></a>The following year, behind an even better defense than the year before, a blindingly fast and shifty kick returner, and a surprisingly competent Rex Grossman, the Bears once again recaptured some of that late 80's spark. For the first time in almost twenty years they were able to build on the successes of the previous season and come back even better than before. I was also able to perfect the Drinking Game and it actually seemed to work, as I remember virtually nothing from the 2nd half of the incredible Monday Night Football comeback against a frisky Arizona Cardinals squad. I just know that they won. And they kept on winning, time and again, eventually defeating the New Orleans Saints in the NFC Championship game in a blizzard that gave me flashbacks to that '85-'86 win against the Rams. Two weeks later, I threw the biggest Super Bowl party that I could afford with well over a dozen close friends packed into my tiny house, as well as multiple phone calls to my Dad, Cousin Pete in Phoenix and my friend Carla in Chicago. Devin Hester, savior of that Cardinals game, took the opening kickoff to the house which prompted me to "run down the sideline" of my living room with him. Some say that was the fastest any of those folks had ever seen me move. That would be pretty much the last highlight of the game for me. The Bears kept it interesting, but eventually lost 29-17 to the Indianapolis Colts. Prince's incredible halftime show was pretty much the last thing I remembered from that game. I spent the bulk of the second half sitting on my old toybox, now converted into a place to stack my shoes, in a Jack Daniels induced haze with my head in my hands, save for what I've been told were several humorous drunk dials. <br />
<br />
That pretty much brings us up to present day. The Bears finally upgraded their quarterback, although, and this is really shocking, he hasn't quite lived up to his promise. It's a familiar story. They even made it back to the NFC title game a couple years ago, a football armageddon if you will against their storied rivals from Green Bay. Again it ended badly. I eventually retired the Drinking Game for my own health, although my buddies convince me to bring it back out once a season. That's my limit. I'm pretty sure I'd have one foot in an early grave otherwise. This year brought something unusual, a ten-win season that didn't result in a playoff birth and the subsequent dismissal of Coach Smith. They're on the hunt now for a new coach, so who knows what the future will bring? Actually, I have a pretty good idea, but I'll never let my cynicism ever get in the way of being a fan. Even though, they've let us down over and over again. As a guy that feels like sports bigamists are the scum of the Earth, I feel good hanging my now battered hat on the fact that I'll be a fan of that team literally from the cradle to the grave.<br />
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Oh yeah, and that game I went to a couple weeks ago? They actually managed to win in the ugliest manner possible against a pretty shitty opponent. But it was an incredible feeling being in a stadium with 65,000 people, 45,000 of which, like me, were rooting for the visiting team. The camaraderie was incredible! We drowned out the home crowd with "LET'S GO BEARS!" chants and we even sang the fight song at the top of our lungs when Charles Tillman ran an interception back for a touchdown! It truly was unbelievable, and if you're not a sports fan, there's really no good way to explain that feeling of being part of a crowd like that. But I will tell you this, if you ever end up in that situation, you'll be hooked for life! <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That dude in the background might've been the last Cardinals fan there that day!</td></tr>
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Nickas!http://www.blogger.com/profile/04097270523968787259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827663845602979613.post-9012049563656006552012-02-12T01:40:00.000-07:002012-02-12T01:40:48.228-07:00GMMM-Sundance 2012 Part 2: A Wacky Doc, Homemade Surgery and A Couple Shorts!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Here we go with the next batch of reviews from The 2012 Sundance Film Festival! If you haven't read the first batch, click <a href="http://thegolfmonster.blogspot.com/2012/02/golf-monster-movie-madness-2012.html" target="_blank">HERE</a>. Today, I'm going to review two features and two shorts. Away we go!<br />
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<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2085910/" target="_blank">ROOM 237</a><br />
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Directed by: <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0038896/" target="_blank">Rodney Ascher</a><br />
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The best part about Sundance, is the wide variety of documentaries that play every year at the festival. In a given year anywhere from fifteen to thirty documentaries play, so there's a better than average chance that no matter what you are into, you are probably going to find something that piques your interest. With the special access to the directors through the normal post-screening Q&A sessions, you can get even deeper into the subject at hand than even what's on the screen.<br />
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I've been getting into <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000040/" target="_blank">Stanley Kubrick</a> a lot lately. The guy had a fascinating career which lasted 48 years, but yielded only thirteen feature films before his passing in 1999. With incredible, sometimes bizarre imagery, experimental camera angles and bombastic storytelling, I almost look at all of his films as a work of art. Even <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0120663/" target="_blank"><i>Eyes Wide Shut</i></a>. Hey, it was still nice to look at. The man built a reputation as a man with such incredible attention to detail, that almost nothing that ended up in his films was the result of an accident.<br />
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Such a reputation can lead one to almost see things that might or might not even be there, and almost nowhere in Kubrick's cannon outside of <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0062622/" target="_blank">2001: A Space Odyssey</a> </i>raises as many questions as his interpretation of Stephen King's classic tale of a family's descent into crazytown, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0081505/" target="_blank"><i>The Shining</i></a>. That's the subject of Rodney Ascher's documentary Room 237. He interviewed five <i>Shining</i> conspiracy theorists and weaved their story together in nine chapters. It was an exhaustive film to watch, but fascinating as well. Probably not for the reasons you're thinking, though. I'll expand on that a little later though.<br />
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One theory put forth is since there's a ton of Native American imagery in the film (anything from paintings on the wall, an abundance of Calumet baking powder in the pantry, various rugs and the fact that the famed Overlook hotel was supposedly built on a burial ground) and yet no actual Native American characters, then <i>The Shining</i> is merely a commentary on the American government's marginalization and mistreatment of the Native American people. Yet another keeps seeing the number "42" everywhere and also noticed Jack's typewriter was made by Adler, a German manufacturer. He posits that the film was a commentary on Nazi Germany and the holocaust.<br />
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The most bizarre theory though was posited by a guy named Jay who insisted that <i>The Shining</i> was Kubrick's way of confessing to the world that the United States faked the moon landing, and he shot the footage himself! He posits that they changed the name of the evil room from the book's 217 to 237 because the moon is 237,000 miles from earth (it's actually closer to 239,000, but don't let that stop you, Jay). He also notices that the carpet outside Room 237 where Danny is playing with his trucks looks like the Cape Canaveral launch complex. And of course, when Danny stands up, he's wearing an Apollo 11 knit sweater. I don't know about you, but I'm convinced.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When I see carpet like that I think either sex, or the Nyquil finally kicked in!</td></tr>
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Other things thrown out there include the foreshadowing of Jack's horrific necrophiliac sex scene because the carpet of Room 237 resembles weens and vajeens. Another lady sees minotaurs around every corner. And of course, the only one that make even a lick of sense, that all the changes from the book that Kubrick brought to <i>The Shining </i>film was all pretty much a big "fuck you" to Stephen King. I'm a huge fan of famous people pissing matches.<br />
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To me though, the 800 pound gorilla in the room and the subject that wasn't even touched in the Q&A (I didn't get to ask my question) is the fact that this isn't a film about <i>The Shining</i>. This is a movie about obsession. The folks interviewed for this film are more obsessed with it than I've been obsessed with anything in my life. Listening to all of these interviews, it seemed obvious to me that all of these people are at least one taco short of a combination plate. Ascher said that all of his content was gained through phone interviews and emails. We never actually meet or see any of the subjects and I'm pretty sure if we had, just about everyone else would've come up with the same conclusion that I did. These are all crazy people. But in a way, I'm kinda glad that the documentary let me come to that conclusion on my own. Like <i>The Shining</i>, I guess it's all up to interpretation. If you like The Shining, you'll like this flick. And if you read <a href="http://www.psychologytoday.com/" target="_blank">Psychology Today</a>, you'll like this flick. ~ Rating: 7 Heeeere's Johnny's out of 10<br />
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AND NOW, A SHORT REVIEW OF A SHORT:<br />
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<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1828228/" target="_blank">LAZAROV</a>: In Soviet Russia, dead, skinned chicken shocked back to life peck YOU! What a country!<br />
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<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1984153/" target="_blank">EXCISION</a><br />
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Directed By: <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm3160595/" target="_blank">Richard Bates Jr.</a><br />
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Starring: AnnaLynne McCord, Traci Lords, Ariel Winter, Roger Bart, Malcolm McDowell, John Waters, Marlee Matlin<br />
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Whoa! This one was fun. The night kicked off with the director, Richard Bates Jr. asking the audience to sing "Happy Birthday" to his producer. Then he gave the entire audience one of those Red Lobster cheese biscuits. Some real bigwigs must have been in the crowd for the midnight screening on the second to the last day of the festival to warrant that kind of bribery! He excitedly introduced the film and we got started.<br />
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This flick centers around a semi-frumpy high school girl named Pauline. Pauline is a little different from the other kids at school. She has these bloody, bizarre sexual daydreams that she discusses with her therapist/priest, played by <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000691/" target="_blank">John Waters</a>. She asks weird questions in her sex-ed class and has a very antagonistic relationship with her math teacher, played by<a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000532/" target="_blank"> Malcolm McDowell</a>. In fact, she doesn't really treat anybody, save for her sick sister Grace, with any respect at all. Kind of reminded me of the kid in <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0001281/" target="_blank">Bobcat Goldthwait's</a> instant classic, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1262981/" target="_blank"><i>World's Greatest Dad</i>.</a><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">WHISKEY TANGO FOXTROT??!!!</td></tr>
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That being said, Pauline doesn't exactly get a very nurturing environment at home. Her mother, Phyllis, played by former porn starlet <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000183/" target="_blank">Traci Lords</a>, in what could be a career defining role (if all that other stuff didn't define her career first), is the very definition of your stereotypical right-wing, ultrachristian, domineering mother that roams your nightmares. She completely dominates her husband, played meekly by <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0498353/" target="_blank">Hostel II</a>'s</i> <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0058372/" target="_blank">Roger Bart</a>. Phyllis is so driven to make Pauline into a "proper lady" that she results in pushing her further and further down the proverbial rabbit hole. Pauline's behavior got progressively more bizarre as the film went on, resulting in a climax that was so strange, that it must be seen to be believed. I can't even begin to describe it. Just think of four words, "surgery in the garage."<br />
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One of the things I wrote in my notes as the film progressed was that every known actor, save for Malcolm McDowell, seemed to be playing against type. <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm1715118/" target="_blank">AnnaLynne McCord</a> looks nothing like a 90210 princess. John Waters as a priest? Yeesh! And then there's Traci Lords who is an absolute tour de force here. Very reminiscent of one of my favorite horror flick performances ever, that being <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0001453/" target="_blank">Piper Laurie</a> in <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0074285/" target="_blank">Carrie</a>.</i> Hopefully, this will open some doors for her, because, believe it or not, she is a pretty capable actress. This movie was fun and some of the images will stick with you. ~ Rating: 7 Red Wings out of 10<br />
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AND NOW, ANOTHER SHORT REVIEW OF A SHORT:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kind of wish the filmmaker had had taken the hint.</td></tr>
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<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1954705/" target="_blank">ONCE IT STARTED IT COULD NOT END OTHERWISE</a>: Bunch of high school yearbook photos superimposed over pictures of what looks like an abandoned mental hospital zoom across the screen while creepy synth music plays. Kinda sucked.<br />
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I'll wrap up my Sundance coverage in a couple days! Let me know what you think!<br />
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The Golf Monster's 2012 End Of The World Movie Rankings:<br />
6. Once It Started It Could Not End Otherwise*<br />
5. Lazarov*<br />
4. Black Rock<br />
3. Excision<br />
2. Room 237<br />
1. V/H/S<br />
*Shorts<br />
<br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Nickas!http://www.blogger.com/profile/04097270523968787259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827663845602979613.post-30924394094488584182012-02-04T03:04:00.000-07:002012-02-04T03:04:01.687-07:00Golf Monster Movie Madness: 2012 Sundance Reviews Part 1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Welcome to Hollywood folks! The 2012 Sundance Film Festival blew through Salt Lick, Park City and Ogden of all places last week, bringing with it swarms of Ugg boots, extra long lines at the coffee house and a traffic nightmare in Park City (more than five cars on the road). It also brought our first decent snowstorm of the year. This resulted in plenty of extra time off for your humble Golf Monster to watch a metric shitload of independent films, some of which, might wind up at a multiplex near you in the next year.<br />
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When the dust cleared, my buddy VodkaRob and I saw seven feature films and two shorts, nearly doubling the number of films we saw last year. The films ran the gamut from straight up horror to abstract art-house fare, with a wacky documentary thrown in for good measure. Since we saw so many, I'm going to split my reviews up into two or three parts to make them a little easier to digest. I'll give a little review and rate it for you. Hopefully ya'll get the chance to see some of these down the road. As always, THERE BE SPOILERS AHEAD!<br />
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<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1930294/" target="_blank">BLACK ROCK</a><br />
Starring: Katie Aselton, Kate Bosworth, Lake Bell, Jay Paulson, Anslem Richardson, Will Bouvier<br />
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Directed by: Katie Aselton<br />
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DAMMIT! I hate it when I build something up to be better than it actually ends up being. Only to have it disappoint. When tickets first went on sale to the general public, this one was completely sold out. VodkaRob and I are huge fans of the incredibly raunchy FX show <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1480684/" target="_blank">The League</a></i>, about a bunch of whackaloons that play fantasy football and bust each other's balls. It's a lot funnier than that particular description would make you think, trust me. Anyway, <i>Black Rock</i> was written and directed by two of that show's stars, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm1051221/" target="_blank">Katie Aselton</a> and her husband <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0243233/" target="_blank">Mark Duplass</a>, who also happen to the two of the standard-bearers of the "mumblecore" indie film movement, so this was definitely a hot ticket. I decided that we had to see this flick, so I dragged my ass out of bed at 6:00AM the day of the show to be at the ticket office when it opened at 8:00 for a shot at some "last chance" tickets that typically get opened up that day. Evidently, half of this town had the same idea because the line snaked its way throughout the Trolley Square mall. Awesome, I love lines. After a solid three hour wait, I managed to snag two of the last tickets to the show. This ought to be good!<br />
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The line to get in to the theater stretched all the way to the end of the block by the time VodkaRob and I arrived. A bunch of us huddled in the cold around the quarter-inch speaker on my phone to listen to the Giants overtime win in the NFC Championship. We finally got into the building at about 8:30 and managed to find a couple seats. Sadly, and this is a first for pretty much every screening I've attended in the last eight years, this particular screening wasn't attended by any of the stars or crew. As I was saying last week, the unique thing about Sundance is the chance to interact with the director and stars. It wouldn't be our first disappointment of the night.<br />
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Despite the hoopla surrounding this flick (it was the first major film purchased at the festival this year), it fell pretty flat. The film follows three childhood friends as they reunite in their early 30's for a camping trip to an isolated island off the coast of Maine. <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0098378/" target="_blank">Kate Bosworth's </a>character, Sara, brings her old friends Abby (Aselton) and Lou (<a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm1128572/" target="_blank">Bell</a>) together for the first time since the latter two had a major falling out. It felt like they were trying for character development, but the sheer bitchiness of the characters did nothing to make me feel any real empathy towards them. They come across three dudes on the supposedly deserted island and proceed to get shitfaced drunk with them. That's when things get a little uncomfortable and a little rapey with Abby and one of the guys. When she accidentally kills the guy in self defense, his buddies force the ladies into a war of attrition to escape the island.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioJuRMzu-Kytcm14eOLkcup0rtt4nEuzjXaApc5WLFhuwg43eVT90i21I3G6uJ83asV2FTFEvMqk34dMPAS2CUUSdY9zrMfgFPLVcMt4wvM-rF01fTWoy0Xkri-nLPLk8hchtZ1TXIvV8/s1600/Katie-Aselton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioJuRMzu-Kytcm14eOLkcup0rtt4nEuzjXaApc5WLFhuwg43eVT90i21I3G6uJ83asV2FTFEvMqk34dMPAS2CUUSdY9zrMfgFPLVcMt4wvM-rF01fTWoy0Xkri-nLPLk8hchtZ1TXIvV8/s320/Katie-Aselton.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The movie kinda sucked, so here's a picture of Katie Aselton in a Brian Urlacher jersey to dull the pain.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In reading some interviews, Aselton and Duplass admitted that they wrote the screenplay in "about sixteen hours," and it definitely showed. The whole story felt rushed, the line delivery was wooden and stiff, and what little action there was seemed drawn out and a bit unrealistic. It didn't seem like anyone in this movie really gave a shit, let alone respected the "thriller" genre at all. I really wanted to like this movie, but in the end, it just wasn't very good. Still, it wasn't as bad as <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1686327/" target="_blank">The Oregonian</a>. ~ Rating: 4 Sacko Bowls out of 10<br />
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<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2105044/" target="_blank">V/H/S</a><br />
Starring: Calvin Reeder, Lane Hughes, Adam Wingard, basically a bunch of people you've never heard of.<br />
<br />
Directed by: David Bruckner, Glen McQuaid, Joe Swanberg, Ti West, Adam Wingard, Radio Silence (A group of four dudes known for horror shorts on youtube)<br />
<br />
A lot has been made in recent years about the "found footage" style of filmmaking. And there's something to be said for movies that can provide the scares of a big-budget horror flick and shoot it on cameras that you can pick up at your local hi-fi shop (do they even have those anymore?). Something about it makes it seem a little more real. And that can be pretty scary stuff. Say what you will about <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0185937/" target="_blank">The Blair Witch Project</a></i>, but they made it for something like ten bucks and scared a good chunk of its audience at the time SHITLESS. It also made millions of dollars despite the small original investment. It was pretty much the most profitable movie since <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Deep_Throat_(film)" target="_blank"><i>Deep Throat</i></a> back in the 70's. Others have tried to repeat that formula, and have mostly failed. And there's even been a few big-budget versions such as <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1060277/" target="_blank">Cloverfield</a></i>, and even <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1179904/" target="_blank">Paranormal Activity</a></i>, but rarely are they scary or thrilling, and mostly people just complain about the shaky camera work. That's not to say <i>V/H/S</i> doesn't have plenty of that, but it also has a shitload of genuine scares, thrills and fucked up imagery. That makes this the next great American horror anthology in the tradition of <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0083767/" target="_blank">Creepshow</a></i>, <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0069341/" target="_blank">Tales From The Crypt</a></i>, and <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0100740/" target="_blank">Tales From The Darkside</a></i>.<br />
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The film features five shorts loosely held together by a wraparound story. That story features a group of five guys that make mayhem videos and upload them to the internet. "What's a mayhem video?" you may ask. Well it's pretty much what the name implies, they tape themselves breaking into houses, smashing shit up, harassing pedestrians, you name it. Why anyone would want to watch that shit is beyond me. Oh wait, <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0264263/" target="_blank">Jackass</a></i> made millions at the theater, so yeah, I guess there's an audience for that. Anyway, they are hired by an unknown benefactor to break into this shifty looking house and steal a single VHS tape. They aren't told what is on the tape, only that "they'll know it when they see it." When they arrive at the house they find a dead body sitting in a chair, surrounded by static-y televisions, VCR's and hundreds of tapes. Logic would dictate that you grab a garbage bag, stuff all the tapes in it and get the hell outta dodge, but then again, it's plotholes like that that make the wraparound story the weakest part of the anthology in most cases. So they start watching tapes and they get progressively more jacked up the more they watch.<br />
<br />
The first short, titled "Amateur Night" features the tale of three frat bros doing shit bros do. There might've even been some icing involved. They get the idea to rig up a minicam into a pair of eyeglasses so that one of them can film the evening's exploits completely through his point of view without anyone being the wiser. They pick up a couple ladies at the bar and retire to a local motel where more drunken shennanigans and some sexytime ensues. Sadly the fellas don't realize until it's too late that one of their objects of affection for the evening isn't exactly human and she proceeds to absolutely WRECK THEIR SHIT. This section, along with the beginning of the wraparound story moved a bit slow, but when it hit, it hit HARD. So much so, that when our eyeglass camera wearing buddy suffers a pretty gruesome injury, at least one person at the screening bolted from the theater and hurled all over the lobby. GOOD TIMES!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_50_kI52pm-Rvg9GfOrh7KtWyFdZlSUd2I_JiHJwzdy2DYVHjDB3dZGrW4x1qSUlqqgKwU_7wVpu4IaPwd99phm3KswNOkUb_lulcvPvfJD1LRFxIXaL8GJwqRAis54TZPfuZOgCFuSk/s1600/000rsw0c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="138" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_50_kI52pm-Rvg9GfOrh7KtWyFdZlSUd2I_JiHJwzdy2DYVHjDB3dZGrW4x1qSUlqqgKwU_7wVpu4IaPwd99phm3KswNOkUb_lulcvPvfJD1LRFxIXaL8GJwqRAis54TZPfuZOgCFuSk/s200/000rsw0c.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yeesh!</td></tr>
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After a brief interlude with the wraparound characters, our mayhem loving friends popped in the second tape, titled, "Second Honeymoon." This one featured a newlywed couple road-tripping through Arizona on their honeymoon and for whatever reason, they decided to videotape the whole thing. They film everything from hiking the grand canyon to your typical dude ranch and ghost town touristy shit. The husband even attempted to film a little sexytime back at the motel and as he's being rebuffed, there's a knock at the door. He answers, closes and locks the door and is clearly shaken. He's no longer "in the mood" so they decide to turn the camera off and go to bed. When the camera comes back on in the middle of the night, that's when shit got creepy. Creepy enough to get a collective gasp from the entire theater, and a "Jeezus Christ!" outta me. The twist in this story came straight outta left field, and yes, there was some more blood spilled. <br />
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We return to the wraparound story briefly and I noticed something was a little different about the room where they were watching these tapes. They then inserted the third tape titled "Tuesday The 17th" which featured more douchey college kids doing more douchey college kid things in the woods. Christ, I hope I wasn't like that when I was in college. *<i>reads back through some of my "<a href="http://thegolfmonster.blogspot.com/2011/01/in-which-our-hero-returns-with-another.html" target="_blank">Dorm Days" stories</a></i>* ahem, forget everything I just said. Anyway, these kids are romping through the woods, smoking grass, skinny dipping and telling scary stories and videotaping it all when they realize they aren't alone out there. But one of them seems to know a little more about what is going on than the others. Then the camera starts to flicker, and people start dying.<br />
<br />
"The Strange Thing That Happened To Emily When She Was Younger" was the penultimate short in this film and it might've been the most creative of the bunch. According to the director during the after-film Q&A, the entire segment was filmed and recorded with Skype. Pretty cool! This one features an attractive gal named Emily chatting over Skype with her boyfriend who is a couple states away in med-school. As their series of chats goes on, she starts hearing strange noises in her apartment. He can't see what's going on too clearly, but we can. HOLY SHIT CREEPY GHOST KID! For my money, there's nothing creepier than that! I clearly have issues. Anyway, the haunting continues as time goes on, and she starts developing these weird sores on her arm, and slipping more and more into crazytown. That's when things get even weirder, and like all the stories so far, there's a hint of a double-cross in there somewhere. This one was actually funny in parts and pretty chilling as well.<br />
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The wraparound story concludes in somewhat predictable fashion and finally we are treated to a final segment, titled "10-31-98." Directed by viral horror video sensations <a href="http://www.radiosilenceproductions.com/" target="_blank">Radio Silence</a>, who Ain't It Cool News described as the Broken Lizard of horror movies. This one follows a group of four guys on Halloween, 1998 (with one of them dressed as a nanny-cam) going to a party. Unfortunately, they take a wrong turn somewhere and end up at a giant house that seems empty, but all the doors are unlocked, and the lights are on. They roam throughout the house, thinking that they're going to stumble on a surprise party of sorts and instead stumble on what appears to be some kind of human sacrifice going on in the attic. At this point, the douchey guys decide to stop being douchey and start being heroes. And then all hell breaks loose. This Radio Silence group is going to do some great work down the road, as they created some pretty incredible effects on a shoestring budget. This flick ended on a high note and was pretty much my favorite horror film that I saw at the festival this year. This is one that definitely will see a wide release later this year. And then we can finally shovel some dirt on the found footage genre, because it's never going to be this good again. ~ Rating: 8.5 Severed Limbs out of 10<br />
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This year, I'll review every film I see in the theater here on the blog and since this is America and we love lists, I'll rank them as time goes on.<br />
<br />
The Golf Monster's 2012 End of the World Movie Rankings:<br />
2. Black Rock<br />
1. V/H/S<br />
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More Sundance reviews coming up in a couple days!Nickas!http://www.blogger.com/profile/04097270523968787259noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827663845602979613.post-14845566038762786762012-01-23T15:48:00.000-07:002012-01-23T15:48:33.685-07:00The Golf Monster Goes Hollywood!Typically my Winters are kind of a dreary time for me. The weather puts a damper on business so I typically have an abundance of time off. As you know, "idle hands do the devil's work," so I often spend a good chunk of January and February doing things I probably shouldn't be doing, causing possibly irreparable damage to myself in the process. But every late January, a little culture invades our area of the country and shakes things up a bit, and I look forward to it every year. I'm talking about the <a href="https://www.sundance.org/festival/" target="_blank">Sundance Film Festival</a>. <br />
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The Festival kicked off this past weekend here in Salt Lick and up in Park City, bringing with it, it's share of celebrities, what passes for "musicians" these days, starstruck onlookers and grumbling locals that hate anything different coming their way. I first started going to the festival way back in 2004 when my buddy Nick and I attended the documentary premiere of <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0387412/" target="_blank">Metallica: Some Kind of Monster</a></i>. Say what you will about the film's content or subject matter, but this was a totally different kind of movie watching experience. There were no screaming kids, everyone was polite and the filmmakers, Joe Berlinger and Bruce Sinofsky (the cats that produced the <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0117293/" target="_blank">Paradise Lost</a></i> trilogy about the West Memphis 3) actually gave their own insight before the screening and had a Q&A session after it was over. The ability to interact with the people "making the sausage" if you will turned me from just a casual fan of movies into a guy that was very interested in the whole process of film making and the stories behind it.<br />
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In subsequent years, I've added the amount of Festival films screenings that I've attended. I tend to avoid the "big" premieres featuring your typical Hollywood megastars. There's a better than average chance those movies will secure wide distribution and you'll be able to see them anyway. Instead we typically shoot for documentaries and weird, quirky, and often times pretty gruesome films that aren't likely to reach a wide audience any time soon. Sometimes, they're great, <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1588170/" target="_blank">I Saw The Devil</a></i>, a Korean revenge movie, was the third best movie that I saw all of last year. Sometimes, not so much.<i> <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1686327/" target="_blank">The Oregonian</a></i> might have been the shittiest film I've seen in my entire life. Last year, with my buddy VodkaRob and my sister, I attended four features that were paired with three shorts. This year we're due to see six features this week. Here's a quick preview. I'll be doing reviews of each after it's all over.<br />
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<b>THE FEATURES:</b><br />
<i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1930294/" target="_blank"><b>BLACK ROCK</b></a></i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlVpPyCNRwN7F_cmAB5LYDQsqDiaumf52FmeF4miHFez0sU-8dq3hhK3Le3VJK0H_y8r1dBpJ5mtEVf-pFD9lY7LkgigIp0BuvDGwowYTP9YrHQlV7lRxXA7ocV4ZDTLVkKEejBYzPXqM/s1600/MV5BMzI5MTk1ODkyMV5BMl5BanBnXkFtZTcwMTMxMjMxNw%2540%2540._V1._SY317_CR104%252C0%252C214%252C317_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlVpPyCNRwN7F_cmAB5LYDQsqDiaumf52FmeF4miHFez0sU-8dq3hhK3Le3VJK0H_y8r1dBpJ5mtEVf-pFD9lY7LkgigIp0BuvDGwowYTP9YrHQlV7lRxXA7ocV4ZDTLVkKEejBYzPXqM/s200/MV5BMzI5MTk1ODkyMV5BMl5BanBnXkFtZTcwMTMxMjMxNw%2540%2540._V1._SY317_CR104%252C0%252C214%252C317_.jpg" width="135" /></a></div>
Starring: Katie Aselton, Kate Bosworth, Lake Bell, Jay Paulson<br />
Directed by: Katie Aselton<br />
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Official Description: Sara invites her childhood friends Abby and Lou, on a reunion trip to a remote island in Maine. There will be laughter, tears and boozy catharsis. It's the sort of weekend that can transform the three into fully realized, grown-ass women. You already know this movie right? Wrong.<br />
Emotional release will come, but this is no weepy ballad of reconciliation. Working from a script by her husband, Mark Duplass, Katie Aselton returns to the festival with a taut, satisfying thriller. As the danger rises, the gorgeous cinematography transforms the bucolic island into sinister and formidable terrain. Kate Bosworth, Lake Bell and director Aselton capitalize on the material and deliver remarkable performances, imbuing moments of unbearable suspense with raw emotion.<br />
So get your chick-flick jollies somewhere else! The women of <i>Black Rock</i> have to confront something far more dangerous - and heavily armed - than their <i>feelings</i>.<br />
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My take: Wasn't terribly excited about this one until I saw who put it together. I'm a huge fan of the highly crude, yet fucking hilarious show on FX called <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1480684/" target="_blank">The League</a></i>. And both director/star Katie Aselton and writer Mark Duplass are two of the anchors of the ensemble cast of that show. So this is worth taking a flyer on based on that alone. And hey, Bosworth played Lois Lane, so she's got that going for her.<br />
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<i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2105044/" target="_blank"><b>V/H/S</b></a></i><br />
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Starring: Joe Swanberg, Adam Wingard, Sophia Takal, Calvin Reeder<br />
Directed by: Adam Wingard, Glenn McQuaid, Radio Silence, David Bruckner, Joe Swanberg, Ti West<br />
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Official Description: When a group of petty criminals is hired by a mysterious party to retrieve a rare piece of found footage from a rundown house in the middle of nowhere, they soon realize the job isn't going to be as easy as they thought. In the living room a lifeless body holds court before a hub of old television sets, surrounded by stacks upon stacks of VHS tapes. As they search for the right one, they are treated to a seemingly endless number of horrifying videos, each stranger than the last.<br />
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My take: It seems like this one is right up my fucked up alley. I love the weird stuff. There are two red flags though. First, there's SIX directors. Could be a case of too many cooks spoiling the soup. And then there is the involvement of Calvin Reeder, the "visionary" behind the shittiest film I've ever seen, <i>The Oregonian</i>. Could be trouble.<br />
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<i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2085910/" target="_blank"><b>ROOM 237</b></a></i><br />
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Director: Rodney Ascher<br />
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Official Description: Have you ever seen a hidden message?<br />
In 1980 Stanley Kubrick released his classic horror film, <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0081505/" target="_blank">The Shining</a></i>. Loved and hated in equal numbers, the film is considered a genre standard by many loyalists, while others viewers dismiss it as the lazy result of a director working far below his talent level. In between these two poles, however, live the conspiracy theories of ardent fans who are convinced they've decoded <i>The Shining</i>'s secret messages regarding genocide, government conspiracy, and the nightmare we call history.<br />
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My take: Kubrick was awesome. <i>The Shining</i> is awesome. A documentary about Kubrick and <i>The Shining</i> has got to be awesome, right? We'll see.<br />
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<i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1984153/" target="_blank"><b>EXCISION</b></a></i><br />
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Starring: AnnaLynne McCord, Traci Lords, Ariel Winter, Roger Bart, Jeremy Sumpter, John Waters<br />
Directed by: Richard Bates Jr.<br />
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Official Description: Pauline isn't your typical teen. She picks scabs, dissects roadkill and fantasizes about performing surgery on strangers. Her fascinations disturb her parents and her classmates. Pauline reserves special disdain for "the church" and her "therapist," Reverend William, who, in Pauline's mind, is in no position to judge, or indulge in, her psychosexual fantasies. No one understands Pauline except for Grace, her younger sister, who suffers from cystic fibrosis. An outcast at school and at home, Pauline decides she is ready to lose her virginity...and this is where the weirdness really begins.<br />
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My take: HOLY SHIT! LOOK AT ALL THE BLOOD! Plus, you've got the involvement of John Waters and Traci Lords. Should be awesome. Evidently this one has been making the festival circuit for several years now and just now made the Sundance cut. So who knows how much they had to punch it up to get it in.<br />
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<i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2040560/" target="_blank"><b>THE PACT</b></a></i><br />
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Starring: Caity Lotz, Casper Van Dien, Haley Hudson, Sam Ball<br />
Directed by: Nicholas McCarthy<br />
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Official Description: Annie returns home to attend her much-despised mother's funeral as a favor to her older sister. Sleeping in her old bedroom, Annie senses something unfamiliar in the house. She enlists the help of a local cop and a clairvoyant to answer some questions surrounding her mother's death. As long-repressed nightmares begin to haunt Annie's life again, an unsettling presence emerges in her childhood home.<br />
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My take: This film debuted at last year's festival as a short. It played before the aforementioned <i>The Oregonian</i> and completely blew it out of the water. There wasn't time for your normal horror movie payoff, but the tension built up in the short was insane. I'm pretty excited to see a fully fleshed-out version of that film. <br />
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<b>THE SHORTS:</b><br />
<i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1828228/" target="_blank"><b>LAZAROV</b></a></i><br />
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Starring: Nietov<br />
Directed by: Nietov<br />
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Official Description: Refusing to accept the decline of the USSR, a handful of Russian scientists work secretly to resurrect Soviet power through the mysterious program, Lazarov.<br />
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My take: Hell and yes. This one is paired with<i> Excision </i>and from the short trailer I've seen, it looks like an entry into the "found footage" genre. The holy grail of which is stuff from behind the Iron Curtain. For a good example check out Metallica's music video for <i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=spsnQWtsUFM" target="_blank">All Nightmare Long</a></i>. The movie is only five minutes, but it looks pretty cool.<br />
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<i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1954705/" target="_blank"><b>ONCE IT STARTED IT COULD NOT END OTHERWISE</b></a></i><br />
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Starring: Who knows?<br />
Directed by: Kelly Sears<br />
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Official Description: A mysterious force invades a 1970's high school.<br />
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My take: Short and sweet. Might be good, it might suck. They don't give us a hell of a lot to go on here. It screens with The Pact.<br />
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So there you have it. This is going to be a very interesting week of movie watching. But like I said before, it's not just the entertainment value that makes these screenings worth it, it's the educational insights into the independent film-making process and the interactivity with those involved in making these films that make this festival a "must attend" event year in and year out. For my Utah friends, I encourage the hell out of you to get out and see some of these movies. The vast majority won't see the light of day otherwise. And it's only fifteen bucks a feature, which isn't all that more expensive than a usual night at the movies anyway! The American version of Cannes is in our backyard folks, give it a shot! Reviews coming up next week!Nickas!http://www.blogger.com/profile/04097270523968787259noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827663845602979613.post-10383020273915903552011-12-21T01:33:00.000-07:002011-12-22T17:40:58.091-07:00Time Just Fades The Pages In My Book Of Memories...Well, the air outside is freezing-ass cold and so filthy you can taste it. The grass is turning random shades of brown and there's barely enough time after the frost comes off to finish eighteen holes these days. Yep, it's Winter, and that means I finally have some time to sit down and put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, or something to something. After a summer in which I finally achieved some success, made a competitive comeback, fell back into some bad habits and ultimately walked away from my dream, I've got some shit to get off my chest. And in the next couple months, I'm going to cover that and a whole lot more. It's time to GET IT ON!<br />
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Last week Guns N' Roses made their way back to Salt Lick for the first time since the <i>Use Your Illusion</i> era, eighteen years ago. In that span a whole lot of things have changed. Everybody knows that the band is completely different these days. Lunatic frontman, Axl Rose, is the only member left from the famed <i>Appetite For Destruction</i> lineup. In the twenty years since <i>Appetite </i>era drummer, and famed coke fiend, Steven Adler quit/got shitcanned, the band has gone through almost as many lineup changes as my beloved Chicago Bears have had starting quarterbacks. Yet still, Axl remains, after eighteen different members have come and gone and come back and went away again, he's the only really consistent thing about that band anymore. <br />
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In that same period of time, my own life has taken many turns as well. Even in my early teenage years, where every kid is a crazy, loud asshole, well I was still and asshole, but a quiet and reserved asshole. Thinking back, I kinda was the creepy kid in the back of the classroom that liked reading non-age appropriate novels and listening to oldies bands that went out of fashion twenty years previous. But I did play baseball, and I was pretty good at it so nobody gave me any shit. As much as I loved it though, the game eventually started to feel more like work than anything else. So I took up golf, simply because it was something almost nobody my age was doing at the time. In fact, since this was the pre-Tiger Woods era, playing golf was about the least cool thing you could probably do at that age.<br />
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But a new kid came to school in the ninth grade, Bryan, a big Texan kid and the first person my age that I knew could swing a club. Together we were the lone freshman kids on the Carbon High golf team that season and through that, we started hanging out. He was really one of the first post-baseball world friends that I had where we'd hang out other than at school or practice. It was Bryan that introduced me to one of the segments of pop culture that have really defined me in the last twenty years, the world of hard rock and heavy metal.<br />
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As I mentioned before somewhere along the line, we didn't have much for local radio in Price. We had a right-wing talk station, a soft rock station, six or seven country stations (at least that's what it seemed like) and the one I gravitated towards (because that's all my dad listened to), the oldies station. We had cable, but outside of <i>Remote Control</i>, I didn't watch a ton of MTV back then. Of course, why would I? Most of the bands I knew and loved at the time had their heyday twenty years before then! I think I was hipster before hipster was hipster! But I remember vividly, always stopping while flipping channels by three videos in particular: Bon Jovi's "Living on a Prayer," Metallica's "Enter Sandman," and Guns N' Roses' "November Rain." So I kinda always was a closet hard rock fan, but I felt like I'd painted myself in a corner as far as my musical tastes go. I was so scared to fucking death of looking ignorant discussing it, because it was one of the few things I didn't feel like I had and encyclopedic knowledge of and because I was so afraid of being considered "uncool." I ultimately didn't realize that I was already the least cool kid in my hometown (which considering where I grew up put me in contention for least "with it" guy nationwide,) simply because I was always afraid of being true to myself. In other words, a typical teenager.<br />
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In keeping with the trend of staying about ten years behind the times, I got my first stereo and Sony Discman for Christmas in '95 and began spending almost all of my job and lawn mowing money building a music collection. My first two CD's: <i>The Best of The Doors</i>, and the soundtrack to <i>The Big Chill</i>. I WAS 16 GOING ON 50! But in the Summer of '96 things kicked into high gear as far as my musical education goes. We had a full-fledged group now. Bryan, Odie, Jahon, White Chocolate, Trey, Olie and myself formed our very own band of idiots. Also that Summer, Bryan introduced "The Tape."<br />
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"The Tape" was a mixtape he had made containing all the popular standards of heavy music from back then, Metallica, Megadeth, GN'R, Ozzy Osbourne, Nirvana, Alice In Chains, Van Halen and more. We played that fucking thing back to back in Bryan's "Pimp-Mobile," a shit-brown 1982 Buick Regal, all summer long. And while the grunge tunes didn't excite me too much, I was fiercely attracted to the speed and power of the thrash bands, the technical mastery of Eddie Van Halen and Randy Rhoads, and the sleazy swagger of Guns N' Roses. I set about spending almost every spare penny I had for the rest of my high school life finding every recording I could of the 80's hard rock and thrash bands. I'd finally found a real passion about something outside of sports that I could share with my friends. And with the way the dynamic of that group was set up, and the way we busted balls, quiet and shy no longer cut the mustard. So I was forced to discover a confidence that I never thought I had. Didn't help much with girls, hell, I still clam up and have no idea how to act cool around the ladies, but I was at least finally sociable.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Crew. Probably before a nice night of roadblocking or committing random acts of mischief! </td></tr>
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Two years later, my folks split up and my family melted down. By that time, I'd taken a couple sophomore kids (Little Nick and Ben) under my wing and brought them into the fold. I'll always be thankful for the support of my friends during that time, but I was a mess. I took up drinking as a hobby and started to retreat back into myself again. To their credit, they wouldn't let me crawl all the way in that hole. But I was a pretty pissed off guy and not happy with life in general. Other than gaining another new friend in my Junior College coach, Skwez, by the time the JC years were over I was ready to get the fuck out of town. I was ready to put it all in the rear-view and move on.<br />
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Towards the end of that last summer, we got the whole gang back together for one last barbecue. I spent a good chunk of the evening out on the patio, brooding, pounding Miller Genuine Drafts and generally being a drag. Bryan sat down and started talking, but I wasn't in too much of a listening mood. He was talking about who was hooking up with who, how they had the dog eat some of the tapped melon and how excited but nervous he was about Metallica's upcoming album release of their collaboration with the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra, <i>S&M</i>. He realized he wasn't getting through too well until he launched in with a tirade that has stuck with me since that day. My recollection for detail in that era is for shit, so I'll paraphrase:<br />
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"Nickas, stop being a dick. Do you think you're the only one here with any problems? Tomorrow, I'm leaving for Colorado, and you're moving to Salt Lake. Tomorrow, we're both starting from square one in the friend department. Sure, there might be a few people you know in the community, but that's not going to be enough. We're both living in dorms and are going to be around strangers nonstop. Would you want to live with someone that hates the fucking world?"<br />
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He was right. I had a real choice to make. Be the type of antisocial asshole I always was scared shitless of becoming, or at least put on a good face and be sociable. Thankfully I made the right choice. As luck would have it, or maybe it was some kind of sick experiment in the Dean's office, everyone in my dorm unit came from a broken home. Some more recently than others, but we all had that in common so we had a place to start. And we all helped each other deal with those issues that will always linger.<br />
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It didn't take long, but soon I was no longer faking happiness, I was enjoying my place in the world. That confidence came roaring back, and soon, some of my more overbearing personality traits took over and I got LOUD. I started to preach the gospel of rock and roll to my new friends and before long, I was getting them into hard rock and metal tunes too, dragging them to shows, meeting some rock stars. I was simply excited to share my passion, and I was going to do it whether they liked it or not. It was like I didn't just come out of my shell, I completely obliterated it! Some of them probably didn't like it, but by the time school was done, I'm pretty sure they at least had an appreciation for it that they didn't have before.<br />
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In late 2008 Guns N' Roses released their first all-original album since I was twelve years old, <i>Chinese Democracy</i>. My old college roommate, and biggest GN'R fan that I know, VodkaRob and I hit the indie record store on the very night of its release to pick it up. By then we'd both settled into careers. He was a computer tech, I'd just been promoted to Head Golf Professional at the University of Utah. And even though that record sounded absolutely nothing like the classic GN'R of my youth, and you can argue that it doesn't hold up at all, I couldn't deny that chill I got when I heard the first chord on the title track officially (heard tons of demos over the years,) for the first time. I realized that while the band was completely different, I was completely different as well. An hour later we came to the conclusion that with the exception of a few songs, that album basically sucked! But deep down, I didn't really care, I was just happy to share that experience with a friend. And folks, that's one of those things that makes life worth living. Experiencing that kind of shit with your friends.<br />
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When I started writing this, I fully intended to do a concert review of that GN'R show from last week. Instead I had a flood of memories and got a little sidetracked. If ya'll don't mind, I'll give the review its own post later this weekend. And down the road, I'll be sharing a few stories from the shenanigans that my old crew of high school buddies and I would get into. Think of them as a "dorm days prequel!"</div>Nickas!http://www.blogger.com/profile/04097270523968787259noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827663845602979613.post-81195753488714930292011-02-26T01:56:00.003-07:002011-02-26T02:04:59.512-07:00The True Confessions of a Film Freak: Second Edition<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I've been back to work at Rose Park for the last couple weeks and that's seriously hindered my movie watching time. Gotta pay the bills though, right? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Here in Salt Lick we've got a pretty sweet movie theater called <a href="http://www.brewvies.com/">Brewvies</a> that actually has a full liquor license. They showcase films that are kind of in that limbo area in between their prime theater run and their appearances at the dollar theater. So last Thursday we ventured down there and finally saw True Grit. Also being reviewed this week after my brief TV watching week is a film a few years old called Pauly Shore Is Dead, a documentary titled The Two Escobars, a short called Nosebleed and my Basic Cable Standard for the week, Rocky IV. We've got a little snow in the forecast and the Griffin Golf team is on Spring Break this week, so hopefully I'll get to see a few more movies before my next update. On to it!</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">THE FEATURES</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Starring: Hailee Steinfeld, Jeff Bridges, Matt Damon, Barry Pepper, Josh Brolin</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">My little old Great Aunts down home are big western movie fans and I remember watching the <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0065126/">original</a> 1969 version of this flick back with them when I was twelve years old. I'll be honest with ya'll, I never quite got the reverence folks had for the John Wayne. There's no denying The Duke had a great body of work, but for the most part, I always thought he was severely lacking range, and most of his performances seemed wooden as hell. His rolling over for HUAC and selling out his fellow actors and writers to that McCarthy douchebag back in the early 50's doesn't exactly make me want to root for the guy either. As far as westerns go, I preferred Clint Eastwood's stuff a lot more anyway. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">While I didn't like the original that much, it's a great story of frontier justice and revenge. So when I heard that the Coen Brothers were remaking <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1403865/">True Grit</a>, all I could think was, "that's gonna be badass!" Ever since Raising Arizona, those two guys will always get a lifetime pass from me. And holy shit, they cast <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000313/">The Dude</a> as Rooster Cogburn? Sign my ass up!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Bridges was fantastic as U.S. Marshall Cogburn, as was <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000354/">Matt Damon</a> as Texas Ranger LeBoeuf. But the breakout role belongs to newcomer <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm2794962/">Hailee Steinfeld</a>. It's hard to think of a fourteen year old girl as a badass, but she absolutely was. Of course, seeing as how most folks died at 45 in those days, she may as well have been an adult. She took absolutely no bullshit from anyone in this flick and chewed up scenery in every act. Give her the Oscar! Of course though, it says a lot that <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000982/">Josh Brolin</a> has his name in huge letters on the poster and she gets nary a mention. Especially considering that he's in the movie for all of about ten minutes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">For as huge of a flick as this was, it didn't fall into the typical trap that most epics fall into these days in that it wasn't overly long. In fact, I'd say this was the most well-paced Coen Brothers flick since The Big Lebowski. Safe to say, this was my favorite movie of 2010. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Starring: Pauly Shore, about a million other stars</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Back in September of 2004, I took a little vacation out to Los Angeles for a concert. I stayed in the Sunset Hyatt Hotel, famous for being trashed by various rock stars back in the 70's. Next door to the "Riot House" as it was called, is the world famous <a href="http://www.thecomedystore.com/home.html">Comedy Store</a>. The greatest stand-up comedy club in the world. On the marquee the weekend of my vacation was the message: "MY SON ISN'T DEAD." I had no idea what this meant, other than I did know that the Comedy Store was owned by Mitzi Shore, mother of 80's MTV personality and actor <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0001736/">Pauly Shore</a>. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Three years later, I'm shopping at my favorite indie record and movie shop <a href="http://www.fatfin.com/Home">Graywhale</a>, and I saw <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0284674/">Pauly Shore Is Dead</a> on the shelf. I couldn't pass it up. Bought that sucker and was not disappointed. This film is a single-camera mockumentary of Pauly's life in the mid 2000's. Pauly in the late 80's and early 90's was never really that funny, and his movies were pretty shitty (although Carla Gugino, Joey Lauren Adams and Tia Carerre were pretty nice to look at at the time). Pauly in the 2000's however, was pretty much how you'd expect given the beating in popular culture just about everything from the late 80's and early 90's takes. Jobless and semi-destitute (although still having a couple ducats in the bank), the film begins with Pauly being evicted by his home's new owner, Carrot Top. Forced to move back home with his mother, he wanders LA, running into random celebrities and unsuccessfully begging for movie roles. He eventually takes a job parking cars at the Comedy Store. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">One night he's visited by his guardian angel, the ghost of legendary comic Sam Kinison, who advises him to kill himself so he could go down in history as a legend who died before his time. So he fakes his own death and becomes a media sensation with every celebrity you can think of weighing in on how much of a genius Pauly was. Pauly holes up in a motel room and cackles maniacally at the TV as for once, he's back on top. But it's only a matter of time before he gets found out. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">This flick definitely doesn't take itself too seriously, with Pauly and the multitude of celebrities taking shot after shot at his act and career. It's hilarious. And what a lineup! No less than Pamela Anderson, AJ Benza, B-Real, Todd Bridges, Tommy Chong, Vern Troyer, The Dahm Triplets, Carson Daly, Ellen DeGeneres, Screech, Andy Dick, Snoop Dogg, Dr. Dre, Fred Durst, Perry Farrell, Heidi Fleiss, Paris and Nicky Hilton, Clint Howard, Kato Kaelin, Craig Kilborn, Carl LaBove, Tommy Lee, Kurt Loder, Michael Madsen, Bill Maher, Mark McGrath, Jason Mewes, Pat O'Brien, Nancy O'Dell, Sean Penn, Matt Pinfield. Sally Jesse, Chris Rock, Ja Rule, Britney Spears, Jerry Springer, Vince Vaughn, Montel Williams, Sully Erna, Whoopi Goldberg, Wes Borland, Hanson, Dexter Holland and Ben Stiller all show up to weigh in. It really becomes more of a game of spot the cameo as the story gets a little more ridiculous as time goes on.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">It does have some really goddamn funny scenes though, such as Corey Feldman trying to score drugs, Tom Sizemore getting emotional and tearing up about Pauly's "death" even when he's completely surrounded by half-naked hookers and Pauly getting some helpful advice from Charlie Sheen!</span><br />
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<tr style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Would you buy produce from this man?</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Not to mention a totally awesome scene where Pauly comes across 80's Latin act Gerardo (AKA Rico Suave) who happens to be reduced to selling oranges on a freeway off-ramp. Beyond ridiculous, but it might've been worth the purchase for that scene alone. Netflix it for some mindless fun for a couple hours.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">MY FEATURE DOC OF THE WEEK:</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> Directed By: Jeff and Michael Zimbalist</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I'm not a fan of soccer, but for some reason I'm fascinated by the drug culture of the 70's, 80's and early 90's. This is kind of weird, because I'm not really a drug guy, but some of the stories are incredible. <a href="http://the2escobars.com/">The Two Escobars</a> chronicles the rise of soccer in Colombia in the mid 80's, and its inevitable fall after a horrible mistake costs them the 1994 World Cup. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Soccer in Columbia was pretty much in the doldrums in the early 80's. They had some good players, but there was no money in it back then. Along came Pablo Escobar, leader of the Medellin drug cartel and one of the most polarizing figures in Colombian history. People either felt he was Satan incarnate or a modern day Robin Hood with no in-between. He starts sinking thousands of dollars into the local club team, Atletico Nacional, which soon becomes class of Colombian and eventually South American soccer. Back then though, nobody really talked about where the money was coming from (even though they knew), but they were enjoying the spoils. "Narco-Soccer" ushered in a golden age for soccer in Colombia with drug lords all over the country competing with each other to have their team be the best. And very few ended up being as good as Nacional. The film examines this period as well as the violence that drove it with no qualms whatsoever. They even managed to score an interview in a prison with Pablo Escobar's right hand man, a dude who claimed to be personally responsible for something like 80 deaths on his own. Unreal. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Along side the batshit-crazy stories of violence and revolution, the film also chronicles the rise of another Escobar, Andres and his rise to fame as the captain of first Atletico Nacional and then as the undisputed leader of Colombian National team. By all accounts, he was a shy, spiritual, family man who did all that he could to rise above and shun the violence the drug cartels created. Unfortunately, his career was tied to it whether he liked it or not. And when he accidentally kicked the ball past his own goalie in a 1994 World Cup elimination game against the host United States, the cartels sought their bloody retribution. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">This film was incredibly dark and sad. I'm still no soccer fan, but the way it was edited with old game films and newsreels from Colombia as well as some classic period music kept me enthralled throughout. This one stands right up there with Billy Corben's <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0380268/">Cocaine Cowboys</a> as two fascinating portraits of that era.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">AND NOW, A SHORT REVIEW OF A SHORT:</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1196950/">Nosebleed</a>: <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000274/">David Arquette's</a> nose starts bleeding. He tries to stop it. Sticks a bullet up his nose. Should've fired it out of a gun. </span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">THIS WEEK'S BASIC CABLE STANDARD:</span></b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf_7SsO8wTsa41HA-WTrzErAwrIrN0VdlSTaqs_8uayrkLLJarl8YzBCWI_DIMw6z3d6CkQ__uGShaxoAwv4rglFgAgo-bu77uiNOd4bV5kocdznyRZ1oGxfYIsusIJrGXE9v68612Z3U/s1600/Rocky+IV.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf_7SsO8wTsa41HA-WTrzErAwrIrN0VdlSTaqs_8uayrkLLJarl8YzBCWI_DIMw6z3d6CkQ__uGShaxoAwv4rglFgAgo-bu77uiNOd4bV5kocdznyRZ1oGxfYIsusIJrGXE9v68612Z3U/s1600/Rocky+IV.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Starring: Sylvester Stallone, Dolph Lundgren, Talia Shire, Carl Weathers, Brigitte Nielsen, Burt Young, Tony Burton</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0089927/">Rocky IV!</a> Between HBO in the late 80's, and TNT, USA and TBS since then, I'm pretty sure I've seen this movie 1327 times. And before I shuffle off the mortal coil, I'm pretty sure I'll see it a thousand times more. It's easily the most accessible Rocky flick to get into, I mean, who can't get into the old-school USA vs. USSR conflict? Okay, anyone not born after 1985, but I digress. Once again, this passes the "remote control test." If I see it while flipping channels, I'll watch no mater how far in this movie is. </span><br />
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<tr style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Who didn't want one of these things to bring you beers as a kid?</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">The plot is beyond simple. Rocky's back on top after knocking out Mike Tyserrrrrrr... Clubber Lang in III and is seemingly content with polishing his Lamborghini and hanging out in his mansion with his wife, kid, alcoholic brother-in-law and their creepy-ass robot servant. He gets a call from his old adversary and unlikely trainer Apollo Creed who is looking to take on the first professional fighter out of the Soviet Union, Ivan Drago, in an exhibition match. </span><br />
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<tr style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">THROW IN THE FUCKING TOWEL JAGOFF!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> Oddly enough, this turns out to be a horrible idea. I mean c'mon, the Russian was half his age and may or may not have been a fucking cyborg! Anyway, Rocky ruthlessly murders Apollo by not throwing in the towel as Drago rains titanic shot after titanic shot down on Creed's head. This leads to the inevitable revenge match in Russia, on Christmas (OOOOOH SYMBOLISM!) with Rocky battling Drago in a fifteen round fight for the fate of the free world. Or something like that. </span><br />
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<tr style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">DRAGOOOOOOOOOOOO!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Along the way we're treated to no less than three badass sports-movie montages. The hallmark of any good sports movie of the 80's. First, after yet another one of his wife Adrian's wet-blanket "just give up" speeches, Rocky tears ass through the Philadelphia streets in his Lambo, going at least 150 miles an hour with a deeply contemplative look on his face as he flashes back through the series. As a matter of public safety, it might've been nice though if Rocky just once WATCHED THE FUCKING ROAD! Then there are two fantastic training montages in Russia that juxtaposed Rocky's grass roots, farmer-in-the-dell training methods (SEE HIM DIG A SLEIGH OUT OF THE SNOW! WATCH AS SCRAPPY ROCKY DOES CHIN-UPS IN A BARN AND LIFTS A GIANT NET OF ROCKS!) with the high-tech, steroid laced methods of his Russian killing machine rival. The funny thing is, that at the time in real life, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000230/">Stallone </a>was 'roided out of his mind. The montage is capped by shots of Rocky ditching his KGB chaperones and running up a 25,000 foot mountain in a pair of boots and a leather jacket. Utterly ridiculous, but fucking awesome all the same.</span><br />
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<tr style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">AMERICA! FUCK YEAH!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">And how about that fight! Forget about the ridiculous circumstances (Rocky vacating his title, no prize money, in the Soviet Union, on the Baby Jesus' Birthday) and just revel in the violence! If this fight were real, I'm pretty sure it would've shattered every PunchStat record in history. You could count the misses for each fighter on one hand! Back in the day, title fights went fifteen rounds instead of the twelve from the current era, and you just knew this one was going at least that far; with the (SPOILER ALERT FOR IDIOTS) hamburger faced Rocky vanquishing his Soviet foe and single-handedly ending the Cold War all in a two minute span.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I'm pretty sure Rocky was summarily tossed into a gulag, never to be heard from again after that. My cousin Pete swears he had a Poli-Sci teacher quote that speech in class once, cracking him up and getting him in trouble. I'd have laughed to, because between the two of us, we've both seen each of the Rocky flicks enough times that we now just refer to them as "Rocky," "II," "III," and "IV." We both agree that Rocky V never should've gotten out of a pitch meeting. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Sure, at this point, they're cliched, predictable, and no doubt overexposed, but if I'm ever flipping channels and I see a Rocky flick on there, I can guarantee I'll be sucked in for a couple hours at least. Hell, I'm pretty sure the TNT channel never would've gotten off the ground without showing this and Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome on an endless loop back in the day! </span>Nickas!http://www.blogger.com/profile/04097270523968787259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827663845602979613.post-28987378972104323422011-02-21T00:47:00.000-07:002011-02-21T00:47:00.377-07:00Why don't you have a seat...<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">"What are you doing with that rope and a bag of Trojans?" </span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">If there's one thing I love almost as much as bad movies, it's bad TV shows. It's really the baser elements of popular culture. The stuff with so little redeeming value that it almost has some in an ironic sense. Author Chuck Klosterman refers to this stuff as "Low Culture," and I'm hooked on it like a coke fiend. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">When NBC News' <i>Dateline</i> program started filming their <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/To_Catch_a_Predator"><i>...To Catch A Predator</i></a> series, their goal was simple. Expose the dangers to your teenager that creeps online pose. And right out of the gate, they achieved that goal. But like everything else in life, too much can sometimes be a bad thing. As they did more and more of these specials, the reactions from the viewing audience changed from the anger and shock of the proliferation of pedophiles online, to reactions of joy from the entertainment contained within each episode. I know I laugh at these shows a lot more than I probably should. I don't think that's necessarily the reaction the producers of the show intended.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">After a while, the show begins to get a little predictable. They show a few online chat-logs between the predator and a decoy. These start innocently enough (for as twisted as this shit is), but almost always devolve into said predator emailing pictures of his junk to the "kid." The guy shows up at a sting-house and is let in by the decoy, who always manages to stay out of the direct eyesight of the predator. As she steps into the back to take care of some last minute laundry, we are treated to a few uncomfortable seconds of the sicko mentally prepping himself for action. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">One beat later, the hand of god steps through the curtain. Chris Hansen, surely representing all of our collective judgment, walks onto the scene, along with four cameras and a boom mic; commencing to give the shell-shocked pedophile an interrogative colonoscopy. After two minutes of grilling, the whimpering pederast is allowed to leave the house, and makes his exit into the gentle arms of the local police department. The show usually wraps up with text line of each featured subject and the amount of time he received from the court. Simple and effective, it's public justice for the 21st century.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">As predictable as it can be, it's the little details that had me hooked on the show. Hansen's deadpan reading of the chat-logs are awesome: <i>MenudoFan69: do you like the angle of my dangle?</i> I love the amused look on the decoys face as she describes whatever kind of regional snack she's prepared for the predator to nosh on while she throws her soiled shirt in the off-camera washing machine. It's always sweet tea if they're down South, lemonade in California, and cookies or a bowl of candy anywhere else. The guy almost always denies he was there to do anything sexual, but for some reason always has a bag full of rubbers and either a six-pack of Miller Genuine Draft or a bottle of Boone's Farm. And it's always a kick to see the glimmer of hope that he is off the hook in the creep's eyes when Chris says the magic words, "You're free to leave." Of course that always results in about ten angry cops pinning the guy to the driveway as they slap those weird plastic handcuffs on him. Good times.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Sadly, they don't seem to be doing these shows anymore. It came to an end when a District Attorney in Texas suspected of soliciting minors committed suicide rather than face THE LONG DICK OF THE LAW. His family blamed the show, who was in the area filming at the time and a lawsuit was filed. It was later settled and NBC moved on to other stories. There's no doubt the show was effective, but it does bring up some legal questions. Chief among them are the possible entrapment issues their stings brought up, as well as a possible tainting of the jury pools in the cities in which they were filmed. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">But when you think about it, they really don't have to film anymore, do they? Because nobody recycles old shit better than current shallow Cable-TV, and that's where <i>...To Catch a Predator</i> lives now. <i>Predator Raw: The Unseen Tapes</i> on MSNBC shows the original stings WITH BONUS COMMENTARY! And even though I've seen it all before a hundred times, and I know what's going to happen, here I am on a Sunday night waiting for my fix. And I highly doubt that I'm the only one. </span>Nickas!http://www.blogger.com/profile/04097270523968787259noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827663845602979613.post-20091316661237779772011-02-10T03:31:00.004-07:002011-02-10T23:11:28.767-07:00The True Confessions of a Film Freak: First Edition<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">For anyone that knows me well, they know I'm a movie junkie. I like them all, from great movies like <i>Casablanca</i> to films that are pretty much universally considered to be tripe. <i>Freddie Got Fingered</i> comes to mind there. I like long movies, short movies, documentaries, and everything in between. As I was mentioning in my previous entry, I'm a regular listener to a weekly podcast called <i>The Film Vault</i> on ACE Broadcasting. This ought to be required listening for anyone into the cinema. On each show, the two hosts, Anderson Cowan and Brian Bishop spend a segment discussing the last few films each of them have watched in the previous week. This often leads to some frank discussion of each others tastes, and frequently involves some bustin' balls. Always good stuff. So I figured I'd bare my movie loving soul for ya'll on a weekly basis. I'll confess a few movies that I've watched in the last week. This will typically include two or three features, a documentary, and a segment on a basic cable standard, and I'll sprinkle my opinions on each. I'm not going to pretend to be highbrow. But hopefully, I can point you in the direction of some decent movies, or some horrible movies if you need a laugh. Oh yeah, there will be a spoiler or two, but only on the older flicks. Here we go!</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: large;">The Features:</span></b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy1Ds-HKHC74C1YUSvAmkkj3XI3ywnd0XsT4v1peMSXlva3SliGtF1Oq3nvIhC6ixiyIRbvnzq7Jjs5L3JYF6gwUFa6OLRl5SZjWpnHG8M8aVIb4vrtXn9kEg0HEbyOMrnE9zEjK3rXnY/s1600/51G0YPSW53L._SL500_AA300_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy1Ds-HKHC74C1YUSvAmkkj3XI3ywnd0XsT4v1peMSXlva3SliGtF1Oq3nvIhC6ixiyIRbvnzq7Jjs5L3JYF6gwUFa6OLRl5SZjWpnHG8M8aVIb4vrtXn9kEg0HEbyOMrnE9zEjK3rXnY/s1600/51G0YPSW53L._SL500_AA300_.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">(1984)</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Starring: Michael Keaton, Joe Piscopo, Maureen Stapleton, Marilu Henner, Peter Boyle</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">What the hell happened to Michael Keaton? That guy was all over the place between <i>Night Shift</i> in 1982 and <i>Batman Returns</i> in 1992. It was an incredible body of re-watchable work in a ten-year span, many of which I'll be profiling in this space. And then, really nothing of note save for the occasional cameo here or there. Damn shame if you ask me. Dude was every bit as comfortable playing an over-the-top role (<i>Beetlejuice</i>) as he was as a straight man (Hunt Stevenson in <i>Gung Ho</i>). He could even play a stone-cold psychopath (Carter Hayes in <i>Pacific Heights</i>). He had great range. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0087507/"><i>Johnny Dangerously</i></a> features Keaton as a mobbed up guy with a heart of gold in a sendup of 30's gangster flicks. He takes up crime as a young boy as a means to pay for his mother's comically expensive surgeries. Joe Piscopo (who made Keaton's post '92 workload look like Bruce Willis') plays his rival in the gang, Danny Vermin. Great fucking name. Maybe the best sounding internet handle after Jackie Treehorn. This flick throws out sight-gag after sight-gag and wacky hijinks ensue.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">This came up on the HBO comedy channel at around 1:30 AM the other night, and that might be the best time to see it, in a sleep-deprived haze. </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I must have seen this movie a hundred times growing up. </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">It was one of my old man's faves. His favorite character being that of evil nightclub owner Roman Maronie, played by another 80's character staple, Richard Dimitri. Maronie unsuccessfully attempts to murder the leader of Johnny's gang and commits wholesale slaughter on the english language as shown here: </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Fargin Iceholes! Goddamn hilarious. Bottom line, if you like stuff like <i>Airplane!</i>, give this a shot.</span><br />
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<tr style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">(1976)</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Starring: Sissy Spacek, Piper Laurie, Amy Irving, William Katt (The Greatest American Hero!), Nancy Allen, and an if-you-blink-you-miss-him John Travolta</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Yeesh! <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0074285/">Carrie</a></i> was goddamn creepy the first time I saw it when I was twelve, and it still gives me the chills to this day. This story of a teenage misfit with telekinetic abilities taking out the frustrations of a shitty home-life on her tormentors by ruthlessly massacring them on prom night will freak you out. Jesus, the first time I ever saw the very last scene I nearly pissed myself, and it still gives me the douchechills! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Director Brian De Palma's set design did a great job of making ordinary, benevolent things look strangely menacing. The creepy-assed St. Sebastian statue in Carrie's prayer closet is a good example. LOOK AT IT'S FUCKING GLOWING EYES! But he really gets his money's worth out of his sound designer who combined popular soft-rock songs of that era with creepy sounding organ music, and enough squeaks, screams, and bangs to create an almost Hitchcockian atmosphere. </span><br />
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<tr style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">I don't know whether to pray for forgiveness or run away screaming like a kid with a skinned knee and shit</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> But the real standout star in my opinion was Carrie's psychotic, religious fundamentalist madre, played by Piper Laurie, who, sadly ended up doing mostly TV Movie of the week work after this. She had several awesome monologues in this movie. Just absolutely chewing scenery in an unreal performance. Here's my personal favorite: </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I LIKED IT! IIIIII LIKED IT!!! What a whackaloon! See this one if you haven't already. IFC's been playing it at night every few days lately.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> </span><b><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: large;">My feature Doc of the week:</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Directed by: Josh Fox</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1558250/"><i>GasLand</i></a> popped up on HBO last summer the day I got back from a vacation to see the Yankees in Phoenix. It begins with the filmmaker, Josh Fox receiving a letter from an energy company offering a few bucks to drill for natural gas on his land. The most popular natural gas extraction method is known as hydraulic fracturing or "fracking" in which a highly pressured mixture of water and volatile chemicals is injected deep into the ground to break up shale rock formations and release the gas. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Not sure what that would do to his land, he set off across the country to see how this method of natural gas extraction is affecting the people who made the decision to allow the drilling rigs on their land. I know you guys want an example. Here ya go:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Here's the thing. These gas rigs are absolutely dotting the landscape all over the place these days. Where Saudi Arabia and "The-Iraq" have the world's largest petroleum deposits, the United States is pretty much the exact same way with natural gas. So there's tons of jobs at stake, and a glimmer of hope for energy independence. But for fucks sake, people's water shouldn't be lighting on fire. This flick was a real eye-opener, and it was recently nominated for an Academy Award. It's damn good. And it kinda freaked me out considering my hometown is virtually surrounded by huge natural gas fields.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: large;">And now, a short review of a short:</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1585616/"><i>Moth</i></a>: Hot actress burns a J, hoovers three rails, and pops a handful of pills. Trips out in a bathtub and sees wolves and shit. Kinda sucked.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">This Week's Basic Cable Standard:</span></b></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB5h9RkHSjkTIAyMrqxTCKYG4A6JyZihQQ1ZdqXg-xpFIvS1S32STCqnleFEiKeKRqYrJP11qxzVeu0zfJY1M2s7Da_mTX8Ujj2nD_LptYJcpzhIN3xQTuCO-3BSt5xjeg6vjtmflxgDU/s1600/KKIII.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB5h9RkHSjkTIAyMrqxTCKYG4A6JyZihQQ1ZdqXg-xpFIvS1S32STCqnleFEiKeKRqYrJP11qxzVeu0zfJY1M2s7Da_mTX8Ujj2nD_LptYJcpzhIN3xQTuCO-3BSt5xjeg6vjtmflxgDU/s320/KKIII.jpg" width="217" /></a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Starring: Ralph Macchio, Pat Morita, Thomas Ian Griffith, Martin Kove, Robyn Lively, Sean Kanan </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0097647/"><i>Karate Kid 3</i></a>! While the first <i>Karate Kid</i> movie is an undeniable watershed moment of my formative years, the brand got a bit watered down as the years went by. But this one might be one of the most re-watchable of any of the multitude of unnecessary sequels to early 80's flicks that were released in the latter part of that decade. Simply because the plot is beyond ridiculous. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Millionaire industrialist asshole takes time away from doing whatever it is that millionaire industrialist assholes do to assist his old buddy from Vietnam's attempt to ruin the life of a high-school karate champion and resurrect their evil dojo franchise. After about twelve beers that actually seems to make sense. Sober however, it fails miserably.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">What makes this flick enjoyable are the little things you notice when you watch it for the 563rd time. It also benefits from a small amount of research. I'm fascinated by the fact that Ralph Macchio, the aforementioned Karate Kid, was actually a year older than Thomas Ian Griffith, playing Terry Silver, said billionaire industrialist asshole. Daniel-San was supposedly a senior in high school in this movie. This means Terry Silver was up to his asshole in the muck in in Southeast Asia, mowing down the North Vietnamese with John Kreese AS A ZYGOTE during the height of the Vietnam war.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Robyn Lively puts up with a lot as Jessica, replacing the iconically yummy Elisabeth Shue from the first film, as Daniel-San's apparent love interest. I say apparent because he seems much more interested in hanging out with a 65-year-old maintenance man than with her, Describing Mr. Miyagi as "my partner and best friend." But hey, Miyagi has the ability to massage a body part back to life. The jokes write themselves. This movie might be joining Top Gun as two of the most sneakily homoerotic movies ever made.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">It's a great testimony as to how much of an unlikeable douchebag Daniel-San was, that in three movies spanning the course of a year, three different groups of people on two different continents took time out of their busy lives to fuck with him. Is it any wonder that people are making homemade cuts of these flicks, casting the Cobra Kai in a more sympathetic light? They were obviously just misunderstood. STRIKE FIRST! STRIKE HARD! NO MERCY!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">This flick had a great run on basic cable throughout the 90's. TNT, USA, and TBS were literally built on the backs of films like this, <i>Road House</i>, <i>Rocky IV</i>, and <i>Beastmaster 2</i>. And now it's popping up again on Encore or HBO 8, The Ocho. It still passes the remote control test.</span>Nickas!http://www.blogger.com/profile/04097270523968787259noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827663845602979613.post-18132943072915148272011-02-07T23:44:00.000-07:002011-02-07T23:44:33.169-07:00The one where a random musing reminds me of an old Dorm Days Flashback...<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Coming up later this week will be the debut of a weekly feature here on the ‘Monster. I’m calling it the “True Confessions of a Film Freak.” If you listen to the awesome weekly podcast on ACE Broadcasting called <a href="http://www.adamcarolla.com/TFVBlog/">The Film Vault</a> (and if you aren’t, you should, it’s a must-listen for any fan of the cinema), they have a segment on each of their shows where they confess to the movies they’ve watched in the previous week. Their tastes tend to run fairly high-brow. Mine, unfortunately, do not. It’s been established that I have very little in the way of shame, so weekly here on the blog, I’m going to confess the films I’ve seen that previous week and accept your mockery. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Today I was spending some time filling out a little paperwork. But it wasn’t just any paperwork; it was a Resident Advisor Candidate Recommendation Form for one of my Griffins Women golfers. She wants to be an RA next year. Now, for anyone who has read my writing, especially the stories about my college life, The Dorm Days, know I was never a big fan of rules back in the day, and would expend a foolishly ridiculous amount of effort to circumvent them. I was a moron. So the irony wasn’t lost on me as I answered some questions as to why I think she would be an awesome college dorm authority figure. She’s going to be a great RA. And not by the “college-me’s” fucked up standards, but because she’s exactly who they are looking for. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">That leads to tonight’s entry. It was one of the last on the old site before it died, so a lot of you probably missed it. It’s a tale of heartbreak, frustration, debauchery and redemption. This is the final classic piece of my writing from my old blog, and the last of the original “Dorm Days: The Penthouse Chronicles” stories. Don’t worry, there will be some new ones coming down the pike: </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">“The Good, Bad Week” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">(August 2001) </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Originally posted to the old blog in January, 2008 </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">There was a light at the end of the tunnel and it was called my senior year of college. The old digs had been abandoned. The Penthouse of Room #302 in Residence Hall #3 had finally passed on to some new denizens as Big Nick, VodkaRob and I had just moved into the newest building on campus, Residence Hall #5. The standard 6-bedroom setup was no more, now we had a choice between 2, 3, 4, and 5 bedroom apartments. In the springtime of the previous year, the administration had an open sign-up date to request roommates. Big Nick and I thought we’d give the 2-bedroom apartment a shot, but there were only three available in the new building so we figured we’d have to be the first in line to sign up, like waiting in line for concert tickets or something. So I slipped a buddy of mine on the maintenance crew twenty bucks and he let us into the Dean’s office waiting room at 5:30 in the morning. Not even the cafeteria cooks would be coming in until 6:00! We had it for sure! The cafeteria opened at 6:30 and people started crowding in around the waiting room’s locked door. They were pissed when the Dean finally showed up to unlock the door, only to find Big Nick and me already in there! Especially considering we were already her favorite targets of scorn, (see: pretty much every story up to this point!), it made it especially satisfying at the time to get our requested room. </span></div>
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VodkaRob and Crazy Pete were the next ones in. In retrospect though, it turned out to be a mistake. Crazy Pete ended up getting a spot in the Navy House, and left VodkaRob on his own. Big Nick and I should’ve gotten the 3-bedroom setup with VodkaRob. As it stood, the only thing that could split up the chemistry of #302 was our own stupid decisions. We shouldn’t have left him hanging like that, and that’s one of my big regrets from that period in time. We could’ve had some fucking fun. Luckily VodkaRob ended up only two doors down in room #304, so it wasn’t like he was clear across campus or anything. Not only that, but it turned out his bedroom seemed like it was as big as Big Nick and my whole apartment! But still, it was kind of a bummer. As luck would have it Big Nick and my top-floor 2-bedroom unit had a familiar number. Yup, we were in Apartment #302 Part II! </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Anyhow, that may be the very first example of somebody starting a story off with an aside. Kids, that’s guaranteed to get you a “D” on any paper you write in the future! But fuck it, it’s been awhile, so I figured I’d better bring you folks up to speed. This story is going to chronicle the third week of school, my senior year. It was easily one of the most eventful weeks in my college life, and certainly the biggest roller coaster. I went through damn near every emotion there was that week, and still somehow came out of it with a smile on my face. We’re just gonna take this one in chronological order. </span></div>
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Tuesday, August 28th, 2001 </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I was getting ready to head to work when Coach DP called me down to his office for a chat. I should’ve known something was wrong when he was sitting in there with the athletic department’s liaison to the registrar’s office. She was the one that certified us and made sure we were all academically eligible to play our chosen sports. “We’ve got a problem Nickas,” coach said with a concerned look on his face. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">“What’s up?” I replied, wondering what the hell was going on. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">“According to the NAIA rules of progress, we just discovered that you are 1 credit hour short over the course of the past 4 years of your eligibility. We just caught it, and we’ve filed an appeal on your behalf, because it was our mistake. But during the appeals process we’ve got to hold you out of the first two tournaments this season,” said the liaison. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Evidently I’d been borderline eligible throughout my stay at Westminster, but I had taken a just-above-full-time schedule the previous semester that pulled me a single hour short of the limit. The one summer-session class that I’d signed up for getting cancelled due to my being the only registrant didn’t help either. They explained the steps I needed to take, and had me sign the appeals paperwork, and I just walked out of the coach’s office, pissed off. I went to work and lost myself in the driving range. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">What a shitty start to the school year! Golf Girl was gone, she’d transferred elsewhere two weeks before school started, never to be seen again. My buddy VodkaRob got ditched by his roommate, and now this! Things can only go up from here, right? Nope. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Wednesday, August 29th, 2001 </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">After a mostly sleepless night, I awoke to a brand new day. After meeting up with VodkaRob and Crazy Pete for breakfast down in the cafeteria, I cruised to my first class, sociology of the elderly, and realized I’d forgotten my notebook and a pen. Not good, but luckily, the swingin’ gal sitting next to me, Jan, hooked me up. “You all right?” she asked. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">“Must be losing my mind or something,” I mumbled. Smooth man, real smooth. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Sitting in class was like pulling teeth, but it just seemed like I was biding my time for the afternoon. I was scheduled to play in an 8-man team golf match with my co-workers at Rose Park Golf Course against those rotten bastards from Park City Municipal Golf Course. 12:30 hit and I jetted across campus like I had a rocket up my ass, grabbed my sticks and loaded up in my Blazer, affectionately known to my high school friends as the “Sweet Ride.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I popped a copy of Pantera’s <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_7EQlfprV9E">“Cowboys from Hell”</a> into the CD player and turned the key in the ignition. Dead silence. Hit the key again and the indicator lights lit up my dashboard like a Christmas tree. Nothing. “No no no no no no no!” I yelled. “Fucking electrical shit!” That was one of the few things I didn’t know how to repair on my own. Things had been acting strangely with the truck and I was hoping to get my pops to look at it that Sunday when I went down to the old hometown to play in the “Beer League.” </span></div>
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It looked like I was going to need a jump to get it started, so I figured I’d save it and take my chances on the trip home Sunday. I dialed one of my bosses at Rose Park, D, who thankfully was still in town to get a ride up to Park City for the match. “No problem bud, I’ll be right over,” he said. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">We arrived at the Park City Municipal Golf Course at 1:30. Just enough time to warm up for a half hour before my partner, a plastic surgeon named Doc Baldwin, and I led off the pairings against Park City’s #3 and #4 players Richtenburg and Veloso. I went through my pre competition routine of washing down 3 big and blue Advil with a can of Mountain Dew; sticking my wallet, keys, and cell phone in my bag; putting my divot tool and ball marker in my left pocket and two green tees in the right; and taking about five swings with each club up through the bag. It wasn’t my greatest warm-up session, but I felt like I was ready to go. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The rain started to fall early on and just got worse as the round wore on. The four-ball match was a dead heat as Doc Baldwin, while overmatched was just playing out of his mind. I struggled to put Richtenburg away and as we hit the 18th tee, he had pulled to even. He absolutely smoked his drive right up the pipe on short par-5 hole. “Gotta pull out the big dog,” I said as I reached for my Titleist 975 D (yes, all you golf aficionados, I was still rocking this model in 2001. Best center weighted driver ever!). I cranked one down the right side of the fairway, leaving myself about 190 to the center of the island green. Unfortunately the ball managed to settle into an old divot. Richtenburg pulled out his 5 iron and gave it a run at reaching the green in two. His shot landed about 4 feet over the water and struck a sprinkler head, catapulting his shot straight into the air and finally landed about eight feet from the hole! </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Needing to reach the green in two myself, from a ridiculously shitty lie, I pulled out my six iron. Needless to say, that the way this week was going, disaster had to be looming. I smothered the ball out of that divot, pulling it about ten yards left of the green right into the middle of the pond. Game over. Our team as a whole got blitzed by the Park City guys on their home track that day, so my match didn’t mean much, but it still sucks to lose, you know. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">So D and I pulled up to the dorm, I took my gear out of the trunk of his car and reached into the pocket to grab my keys and wallet. Oh shit. Something was missing, and it wasn’t my keys. My wallet was gone. Jesus Christ! Can things get any worse?! After sticking my head out the window and unleashing a growl that probably could’ve been heard in Magna, I jogged through some scenarios and did what I could to recover it, including borrowing VodkaRob’s Explorer to drive to Park City to retrace my steps. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">It was long gone. After making some phone calls to cancel my ATM and charge cards, I took a double shot of NyQuil and passed out. Tomorrow, it was time to crawl out of the hole. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Thursday, August 30th, 2001 </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">BRRRREEEEEP! BRRRRREEEEP! </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">At 8:00 AM I awoke in a daze, my phone was ringing; it was the front desk of Residence Hall #5. My Godmother had arrived to bring me her spare junker car, a banana yellow and rust 1987 Pontiac Grand Prix. “I’ll be down in a second.” I said, groggily. God bless her, my νονά had taken on a motherly role to me in absence of my own (at the time). She wasn’t going to let me miss a day of work just because my truck was dead. I gave her a lift back home, kissed her on the forehead, and scrambled back to campus to get to class. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">After four hours of Abnormal Psychology and The Sociology of Marriage, I cruised on out to Rose Park to clean up the driving range. One of the two jobs I carried through college, (the on-campus job gets a chronicle of its own eventually), I was in the words of Bud Light’s Real American Heroes - Mr. Driving Range Picker Upper Guy: </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Yup, that about sums it up. It was a fun job, I got to blast some tuneage in my not so protective tractor and play human target for four hours. But what it did get me, besides some extra spending cash and an occasional welt when a ball would fly through the net, was free golf anywhere in town. Unfortunately, as fun as that job was, on Thursdays I needed to leave an hour and a half before closing time in order to make it to my night class at 7:30. So back across town to the campus I drove, stopping by Room #302 to pick up my books. Big Nick poked his head out of his bedroom door.
“Where are you goin’?” He asked with a goofy grin on his face. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">“I’ve got to go to class man, Greek and Roman History,” I replied. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">“No, you’re not.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">“Uhh, yes I am.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">“No, you’re not.” He said laughing. “You’ve had one of the shittiest weeks known to man. You’re going out tonight. Rock, Pablo and the other guys are waiting for us. We’ve got the cure, a Death-Star.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">“What the fuck are you talking about?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">“Just get cleaned up, you’ll see.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">“I guess I’m not going to class,” I said as I looked at the clock, now reading 7:35. I grabbed a can of Fosters out of the fridge and hit the shower, cranking Def Leppard’s Pyromania album. I threw on a pair of jeans and a Superman t-shirt. On our way out the door, Big Nick, shot a look my way. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">“You got any ID man?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">“Fuck, I didn’t even think of that.” I said. “Waitaminute, I’ve got an idea.” I ran and grabbed a couple of items from my desk. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">We jumped into Big Nick’s Jeep and pulled into a little strip mall up in Highland in front of a Mexican restaurant called <a href="http://www.elchihuahua.biz/">El Chihuahua</a>. I’d be lying if I wasn’t thinking that Mexican food sounded pretty fucking good right about then. We walk into the cantina where Roc, Pablo, Trig, the Masshole and a few of our other buddies were sitting around a huge table munching on chips and salsa. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">“Something to drink?” the waitress said as she approached our table. One by one everybody had the same answer, “DEATH-STAR.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">“I guess I’ll be having a Death-Star.” I said, wondering what the hell I was getting myself into. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">“I’m going to need to see some ID” she said, as everybody pulled out their drivers licenses. Seeing as how I was sans-wallet, I laid a copy of my birth certificate and my Salt Lake City employee card out on the table. The poor girl called out her manager, who also happened to be tending bar, who noticed that my Social Security Number was on both documents and hooked me up. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">After about ten minutes of cracking jokes and busting balls, the drinks arrived. The Death-Star came in a giant fish-bowl sized glass that looked like a purple version of that drink Garth ordered in the first Wayne’s World flick. The bartender/manager guy came over and explained to us that in order to get around some of Utah’s more archaic liquor laws, certain alcoholic parts of the drink had to be labeled “flavorings.” The Death-Star was comprised of ten shots of different “flavorings” and five shots of various juices. I took a drink, “Wow! This tastes just like antifreeze!” I thought. I took another drink, “sweet, sweet antifreeze.” And another, “hey this isn’t half bad.” And another, “this is actually pretty good.” And finally, “I think my face is numb, and I can’t even taste it anymore.” The Death-Star folks, it’s a keeper! </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">After we all had a Death-Star (one was all it took) and a shitload of various Mexican delicacies, we cruised back to the dorms. That Death-Star plus a couple of beers pretty much made me forget the next hour or so, but the next thing I remember was rolling down the road in Big Nick’s Jeep, while Pablo and Trig shot fire extinguishers out the back. Not sure where those came from. Typical college, drunken behavior but it was still funny for some reason. Oddly enough, "Death-Star" night is a tradition among college kids in Salt Lake that continues to this day. What can I say, we were trendsetters!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Friday, August 31st, 2001 </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I awoke with such a headache, that it felt like somebody was stabbing me in the right eye with an ice-pick. “Christ, I can’t handle the hooch like I used to.” I thought. Thankfully, there were very few Friday classes at Westminster, which allowed for maximum “Margarita Thursday” recovery. I went down to the Dean’s office to fill out the paperwork to get a new school ID. Surprisingly the picture actually looked better than my previous ID. Maybe things were looking up. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I got back to #302 just in time to meet Big Nick. He gave me a lift out to the hellhole known as the DMV. We blasted Anthrax’s The Sound of White Noise on our way out there. Nick had never heard them before, I think he was hooked, but that might’ve been because it was cranking out of his ridiculously awesome system. I forgot to mention, he had the top off of his Jeep and we had to take the freeway to the DMV, so I ended up with one of the most bizarre hairdos in the world for the next 5 years on my new driver’s license. I looked like a husky version of Wayne Static! </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPuYas2xlJ6m10jLDJ81JXhVP13I3ns2rfHFUKFZLcA2sOC_UWSPU6bIOARRZ2bQQrvuiFykr9IBRqkAJ-mjspiiIHl7Ek0QEWUaVdFmCe2AG7MLV1-lJbygRwz_lA-NcwXya_8ybErIo/s1600/static-x-singer-400lvg032309.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPuYas2xlJ6m10jLDJ81JXhVP13I3ns2rfHFUKFZLcA2sOC_UWSPU6bIOARRZ2bQQrvuiFykr9IBRqkAJ-mjspiiIHl7Ek0QEWUaVdFmCe2AG7MLV1-lJbygRwz_lA-NcwXya_8ybErIo/s1600/static-x-singer-400lvg032309.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">We got back to campus around 1:00. On our way back up to our building, I ran into my friend Jess, (the girl I took to the AC/DC show, as well as several others, plus, her dad had owned a record store). “I’ve got some CD’s for you if you want ‘em,” she said. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">“What do I owe ya?” I asked. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">“Not a damn thing,” she said, “I’ve already got most of them. It’s all extra stuff my dad had lying around.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">“Sounds good, just drop by a little later this afternoon, I’ll be around after golf practice.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">“Good luck.” She smiled. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Well, after that, how could I not shoot a 1-under par 71 in practice that afternoon? It was easily the best round I had shot on Wingpointe since I was in Junior College. And it just made me even more frustrated about my eligibility situation. But still, it felt good to be striking the ball purely and putting out of my mind. If only Golf Girl had been around to see that. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I got back to #302 around 5 o’clock to find a stack of about ten CD’s on our counter. Pretty good shit there, some Danzig, Slayer, Tears for Fears and several other pretty decent bands of stuff that I didn’t have already. Goddamn that Jess is a sweetheart. It was time to get ready for the evening’s festivities. Nick and I were “bouncing” at a house party, and it promised to be one for the ages. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Friday Night, August 31st, 2001 The Party
Big Nick, Rock, and I piled into his Jeep and drove up to Pablo’s condo up on Wasatch. The first thing we noticed was two giant tubs full of red liquid that would’ve made the Reverend Jim Jones proud. “Jungle Juice man!” Pablo jumped into the room. Good god! There had to be $200 worth of liquor in those tubs. I wonder how many people they expected to show up for this shindig. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Big Nick and I took our positions at the door. In order to keep the “ratio” good, and to pay for the provisions, Pablo had erected a sign. “Chicks - $1.00 Dicks - $5.00 Cups - $1.00 We reserve the right to deny entry” I guess we were taking money at the door too. People started to arrive, in droves. The music was thumping, the booze was flowing and everybody was having a good time. Nick and I busted up a couple of fights, and had just finished tossing a couple of punks out on their asses when I noticed I yellow object sticking out of Nick’s back pocket. “What is that?” I asked. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">“My taser,” he replied, matter of factly. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">“What in the blue hell do have that for?” </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">“Just in case, man.” </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">“What, a rampaging gorilla decides he really needs a drink, or wants to fight?” </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">“You’re paranoid,” he said, grinning. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The party raged on, and I must’ve had $400 in my pocket. Hate to admit it, but damn, I was having fun. It was like every shitty thing that had happened that week didn’t matter anymore. Everybody seemed to be having fun, and this was easily the biggest party I’d ever been to. There had to be at least 100 people crammed into this condo with another 30 or so in the back yard and hot tub. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Suddenly, an obviously wasted party-goer crashed into me. “Duuuude, I think the cops are here man.” </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">“I haven’t seen any, none have come in the door, and we haven’t let any in.” </span></div>
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<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">“Man, I got to get out of here maaaan…” as he ran out the door. I walked outside to get some fresh air and looked down the road to see a massive caravan of police lights rolling up the street. I heard some thumping and looked up to see a helicopter with one of those giant spotlights trained down on the house. Oh shit! It’s the cops! </span></div>
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<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I ran back into the house, just in time to see the “one guy that nobody knows at the party” pull a Salt Lake County Sheriff’s Office badge on a chain out of his shirt. As more of his buddies popped in the door, and people started scrambling around I couldn’t help but kind of snicker at the scene. The house looked like a giant circle pit. The biggest deputy bellowed, “All right! Everybody over twenty-one, whip out your ID’s, show them to the deputy at the door and leave! Everybody under twenty-one, go to the backyard. You’re in for a long night!” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Big Nick and I were two of the first few back through the door. God knows, I was happy to have an ID again. As we made our way out, I overheard some of the cops talking about possible charges they could ring our friends on. Things you wouldn’t even think of, beyond shit like contributing and things like that. They were talking about things like the size of the party and the amount of people constituting an “event” which would require an “event permit” and an actual liquor license. On our way out, they asked if we owned the house or knew who did. We denied everything. Hell, they’re the government, if they want to know bad enough, they have the resources, they can find out. </span></div>
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<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">We got half a block away, when Big Nick decided to turn back, explaining that he had left the faceplate of to his Jeep’s stereo in the house. I didn’t think that was a very good idea, I mean, we just got away from a virtual hornets’ nest with a shitload of cash in our pockets, but there was no stopping that dude. He handed me his roll of the door money and took off on a dead sprint back to the house. Bad idea. </span></div>
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<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">About a block away, I ran into one of the guys who owned the house who was just coming home to join the party and had missed the chaos. I handed him the stack of cash. “You might need this to bail out your roommates, bro.” He asked what all had occurred, so I laid the details out to him and suggested that he make himself scarce. He agreed and made a hasty retreat back to his car. I made it back to the Jeep and waited for what seemed like an eternity, before starting back down the sidewalk toward the house. I paused at the corner which overlooked the back yard and quietly observed the carnage. There were at least four lines, twenty people deep waiting in line to blow into a tube. Cops were literally EVERYWHERE! I wondered just how much the local taxpayers paid to have their sheriff’s department bust up this gathering. It must have been a slow night on the crime front. There were perfect little Mormon college princesses with tears streaming down their faces, knowing that their reputations were now tarnished. It was a surreal atmosphere. </span></div>
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<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Suddenly, Pat, another one of our buddies ran up. “Nickas! They’ve got Big Nick down on the floor, spread eagle! I think they’re gonna cuff him!” </span></div>
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<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">“Oh shit!” I thought, “Maybe I should have hung on to that money to bail Nick out!” I started to mosey back towards the house, trying to think of what to do, when I saw Big Nick shuffling my direction. “Christ almighty man! What happened?” </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">“They found the taser dude.” </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">“And they just let you go?” I asked with a quizzical look on my face. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">“Yeah, but they confiscated it.” He replied, dejectedly. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">“Well shit man, let’s cut our losses, get the hell out of here and regroup back at the apartment.” I said, “Looks like we’re lucky to get out of here on our own terms!” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Aftermath </span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">We met up with Pablo and those guys at a local diner the next day. The statistics were staggering. Over 90 consumption tickets were handed out. I can’t remember for sure, but I think those guys incurred a small fine, which in this state is getting off light. Rock had to call his dad to tell him about his consumption ticket, but carried around his breathalyzer tube for a week, kind of like a merit badge. Big Nick, after his close call in nearly avoiding a weapons charge, mellowed out quite a bit after that episode. And that party went down in history. </span></div>
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<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">As for myself, well, I never did recover my wallet, but my dad figured out the electrical problem in my Blazer and managed to fix the problem in about ten minutes. I won my eligibility appeal and was reinstated for the last half of the last season of my collegiate career. That week put a lot of things in perspective for me. I felt like if I could weather that particular shitstorm and still come out smelling like a rose, then I’ve got to be pretty much bulletproof. It certainly helped later in life when I have come across a rough patch here and there. Things settled down and I had a pretty good senior year. I figured out that no matter how low I got, at least it has never gotten bad enough for the police to have to call my folks! And for some reason, I took a lot of comfort in that.
</span></div>Nickas!http://www.blogger.com/profile/04097270523968787259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827663845602979613.post-25944907383835019032011-02-01T18:29:00.012-07:002013-02-20T22:06:38.732-07:00Sundance Yourself To Death!<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I've always been a fan of the Sundance Film Festival and independent film in general. There's this retarded thing in hollywood where a director has a vision and wants to see it fleshed out. But by the time he brings guys on to finance it, a studio to back it, and a distributor to get it out there, suddenly there are hundreds of people all with a stake in the final product. Unfortunately, that means all these people have a say in the final product, and what might have once been a good, original idea gets watered down. So there's something to be said about guys that max out ten credit cards and deal with having to cut back on bloated effects and production values in order to distill their idea down to what matters. Characterization and story arc. The Sundance Festival is often times your only chance to see some of these films because more often than not, they're not going to see the inside of your local cineplex. Sometimes, there's a really good reason for that, but on the flip side, once in awhile, there's some truly great ideas that never get the chance to reach a wide audience. There's not a whole lot that I like about living in Salt Lake, but I do consider myself lucky to have access to something as great as the Festival every year. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Four feature films and three shorts
this year was by far the most I've ever seen in one Sundance Festival. Sadly, I didn't
make the trip to Park City for any of these, instead opting for the
screenings within walking distance of my apartment here in Salt Lick. I kinda missed the mountain ambiance (and the $10 beers) of a night in Park City, but
on the other hand I discovered a new independent theater, The Broadway Center, that I'm
planning on frequenting in the future. I'm even thinking of joining the
<a href="http://www.saltlakefilmsociety.org/"> Salt Lake Film Society</a> as well to support it. Here are my brief reviews
of the seven films that I screened at the Festival this year.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;">First up was a film titled <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1588170/"><i>I Saw The Devil</i></a>. It was directed by <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0453518/">Ji-woon Kim</a>, who was also one of the writers for <i>The Uninvited</i>. This movie was in Korean and thankfully had subtitles.
Which was nice, because even though at least half of my lesson clients early on in my career were Korean, I still didn't understand a damn thing. But even if there weren't subtitles, you could still pretty easily figure it out. This movie
stars <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0496932/">Byung-Hun Lee</a> (who played Storm Shadow in that <i>GI Joe</i>
flick last year) as a Korean Secret Service agent whose fiancee falls
victim to a serial killer. He then sets off to find the killer and put
him through hell, possibly at the cost of his own humanity. </span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii-CblKgYYtEYXRTZnApw1_OKM3Oojj5M0tWc4cLUVIudsGLqXWSqL3ukMpVLT7G-M80I0rVeeEDWVN_IF00nL6_otg2389_bE3HLuxGvIEZVr9XOWfAz_pgb5dHlbdEMZLeWD4XhcKkI/s1600/Movie_StormShadow01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii-CblKgYYtEYXRTZnApw1_OKM3Oojj5M0tWc4cLUVIudsGLqXWSqL3ukMpVLT7G-M80I0rVeeEDWVN_IF00nL6_otg2389_bE3HLuxGvIEZVr9XOWfAz_pgb5dHlbdEMZLeWD4XhcKkI/s320/Movie_StormShadow01.jpg" width="224" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">He could have just nunchucked you right there and you would even have known it</span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;">This movie
was fucking violent, as most Korean revenge flicks tend to be, and at
times hard to watch. But as gory as it was, psychologically it was even
more brutal. Beautifully shot, but might've been a little too long.
Good movie though. Afterward, I stopped into the coffee shop next door
to the theater to take a piss, and ran into the Byun-hun Lee waiting
outside the door to the john. Talked to him about the movie for a few minutes,
seemed like a pretty cool guy. My buddy VodkaRob told me I should've
tried to fight him for raping our childhoods with <i>GI Joe</i> though. Good thing I didn't. Dude would have beaten me about the head and neck with my own severed limbs.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">A day later, we tied one on at <a href="http://www.tavernacle.com/">The Tavernacle </a>and walked down the street to the Broadway for the one we'd been looking forward to the most, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1640459/"><i>Hobo With a Shotgun</i></a>. It was preceded by a short film titled <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1632641/"><i>The Legend of Beaver Dam</i></a>.
It was the story of a group of wilderness scouts singing songs around
the campfire that according to legend, summons a crazy killer. Chaos
ensues in a bloody, vulgar, and musical fashion. As a fan of movies like <i>The Goonies</i> and <i>The Monster Squad</i>, I've got to say that I love kids that curse.
It was a fun twelve minutes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Where you
probably won't get <i>I Saw The Devil</i> at your local cineplex, there was
actually a legit buzz around the festival circles for <i>Hobo With A Shotgun</i>.
What can I say? People seem to like the truth in advertising. This flick
stars <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000442/">Rutger Hauer</a> (who seems to have entered the Mickey Rourke zone of guys who you aren't sure they are even acting anymore) as said transient. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfu_2scTS414XM3mY8DcwZrnC1E85ugsDOyJ9IxFlU38WbIx0pdsRilxme7rWVfFvyw1DV6tXJH20CaOJwIKoQXis7d3TpQ6voAMbf9ZGDNTLVEsssoWA47lxeWrzaU732TJBhKWV-Njs/s1600/Hobo-With-a-Shotgun-Rutger-Hauer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfu_2scTS414XM3mY8DcwZrnC1E85ugsDOyJ9IxFlU38WbIx0pdsRilxme7rWVfFvyw1DV6tXJH20CaOJwIKoQXis7d3TpQ6voAMbf9ZGDNTLVEsssoWA47lxeWrzaU732TJBhKWV-Njs/s320/Hobo-With-a-Shotgun-Rutger-Hauer.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Got any spare change?</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">He jumps off a train during a stopover in Hopetown, a run-down metropolis that makes Detroit look like Dubai, that is ruled by an evil gangster named The Drake. Seeing injustice at every turn and meeting the proverbial hooker with a heart of gold (usually they just take your wallet), he forgoes his dream of starting his own lawn mowing business and instead takes his last fifty bucks and turns it into a pawn-shop 12-gauge and a seemingly unlimited amount of ammo. From there he sets about taking back the streets of this urban hellhole, one shell at a time.
This one was a bizarre, bloody and overall batshit crazy
exploitation-type flick. If you like those types of movies from the
mid-70's you'll enjoy this one. From what I hear, they've sold this movie to a distributor, so come April it'll be in theaters nationwide.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Arguably, the best part of Sundance is the documentaries. So a few days later, I took my little sister to a screening of <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1787791/"><i>Resurrect Dead: The Mystery of the Toynbee Tiles</i></a>. Before the feature, was a five-minute documentary short titled<i> <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1673499/">The High Level Bridge</a></i>. The film
profiled the High-Level Bridge that spans the Saskatchewan River in
Edmonton, Alberta, its man-made waterfall and its reputation as a local
suicide hotspot. The filmmaker sounded clinically depressed himself.
One of the ladies on the golf team that I coach is from Edmonton, and
when I asked her about all the suicides off the bridge and if it's an
accurate representation of her hometown, she said "That's not what we're
aboot back home." Touche'. Here's the film in its entirety:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">A very interesting real life mystery is featured in </span><i style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Resurrect Dead...The Mystery of the Toynbee Tiles.</i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
Dating back to the early 80's, somebody has been gluing peculiar signs
to the streets of Philadelphia with a strange four-line message:</span><i style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> </i></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAkQH-hsAmXaoA9b0q6r1yo711NE5FwAwPqvUmbZRAQhBKaTUhDd0DgUtYgxHdqkDTJuRze1Qn1Ownp51KcGoU8fwrb3KSaWiM2bgGD-Sy4lkbniOXQMBJ-JwXv9e8gr35VZ_3h0jZzX8/s1600/toynbee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAkQH-hsAmXaoA9b0q6r1yo711NE5FwAwPqvUmbZRAQhBKaTUhDd0DgUtYgxHdqkDTJuRze1Qn1Ownp51KcGoU8fwrb3KSaWiM2bgGD-Sy4lkbniOXQMBJ-JwXv9e8gr35VZ_3h0jZzX8/s1600/toynbee.jpg" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Creepy!</span></td></tr>
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<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">These
tiles fascinated a local layabout named Justin Duerr who began a quest
to document all known locations of these tiles (which are found in eight
states and three South American capitals) and find the mysterious
artist who put them there. He teams up with the filmmaker, John Foy,
and two other like-minded individuals to attempt to finally solve the
mysteries of who, why and how. It was a fantastic documentary and it
was interesting to see how these four guys were able to tie together
seemingly unrelated clues into solid leads. I can't quite call </span><i style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Resurrect Dead...</i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> the best movie that I saw at the festival, but I can say that it was probably the most enjoyable of the bunch.</span> </span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Finally, VodkaRob and I wrapped up our Festival experience last Friday night with a midnight showing of <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1686327/"><i>The Oregonian</i></a>. Attached to this movie was a short titled <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1791641/"><i>The Pact</i></a>.
It features a pair of siblings in the home of their recently deceased
mother discussing a secret that they share, something that happened in
the basement. This one was genuinely scary, as opposed to the feature
it was paired with, which I'll get to in a second. And it brought on those feelings of dread without
any typical "payoff."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;">I went into <i>The Oregonian</i>
expecting a grindhouse-y type of horror flick. What I ended up getting
was a throwback to those late 60's early 70's psychedelic movies or
something reminiscent of those "Coffin Joe" Brazilian horror flicks from
the mid 70's. It featured a heaping helping of washed out colors and a horrifyingly brutal sound
design that was light on dialogue, but heavy on shrieks, grunts, squeals
and insane laughter. It was by far the loudest movie I've ever seen.
My ears are still ringing. It lacked any semblance of a plot, or
overall narrative other than a bloodied girl (<i>True Blood's</i>
Lindsay Pulsipher) wandering in the woods encountering strange
scenarios. It did, however, have plenty of horrifying visuals including
a creepy old lady breathing hard while grinning from ear to ear, a
redneck dude pissing all the colors of the rainbow during a pit-stop, a
guy in a furry frog costume jerking off against a window, random hicks
drinking pina coladas made with gasoline and some suspect-looking milky
liquid, and plenty of people drooling bile while laughing. Read that
sentence again. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Thank god this is a still photo!</span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;">Most of it was gross, and none of it was scary. It was
marketed as a horror flick and ended up being an arthouse flick. <i>The Oregonian</i>
was basically an hour and twenty minute acid trip and I was sorely
disappointed. But at least I made it all the way through it, which
can't be said about the twenty or so people that walked out in the
middle of the screening. It came into the festival with a considerable
buzz and left the festival getting absolutely crushed by critics and
viewers alike. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;">So in a week's span, we saw some pretty good films, and a real stinker. Like I said, sometimes there's a reason these aren't studio pictures. But overall it was an awesome experience for any film geek for sure. You ought to make it out here for the festival at least once in your life. I guarantee, if you spread it around a little bit, you'll come away seeing something you like. It literally has it all. </span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></div>
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Nickas!http://www.blogger.com/profile/04097270523968787259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827663845602979613.post-21804117930650717982011-01-31T00:43:00.003-07:002011-01-31T01:21:21.218-07:00In which our hero returns with another Dorm Days Flashback to whet your appetite for things to come…<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-size: 85%;" xmlns=""><i>Welcome back my friends to the show that never ends. We're so glad you could attend. Come Inside, come inside…</i><br />
<br /> After a couple "false-starts" I'm ready to give the blogging thing a go again. I've got a lot more direction these days, and a lot more creative fire. I'm also ready to talk about what has been happening to me professionally the last couple years. It's been gone now for two years, but I think the story of the last years of the University Golf Course need to be told. I'd also like to branch out a little bit and do some reviews, as well as sound off on a few things going on in the world to anybody that'll listen, or read. So sit back, get comfortable, and feel free to peruse some of my earlier work on this site.<br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-size: 85%;" xmlns="">Here's a little flash back to my Dorm Days to whet your appetite a little further (or turn you off completely.) I've cleaned it up a little bit, mostly for typos (of which there were many), and changed a few more names around to protect the guilty. I've got to say, I'm fairly shocked at the amount of F-bombs I used to throw around! Anyway, here we go! <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
"On The Map"</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
(January 2000)</div>
</span><br />
<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 85%;" xmlns="">Originally posted to the old blog in March, 2006 </span><span style="font-size: 85%;"><br /></span></div>
<span xmlns=""><div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">We had just returned from winter break, and I've got to say, it was great to see Apartment 302 once again. I was the first one back, and the first thing I noticed was my John Belushi "College" poster on the wall was stripped of its "frame" of about 90 friction-rubbed beer bottle caps. They had cleaned the joint up! That frame took a lot of work from Big Nick and me to put up there, so much work that I couldn't even remember doing it! But the snapshot Big Nick took of the poster was still stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet. "Oh Shit! Hope they didn't discover the stash!" I thought as I went into the back of the utility closet and found, thankfully in the box my stereo came in, five 20-packs of Bud Light 6-percent bootlegged from Evanston, Wyoming (You can only get 3.2 ABV beer here in Salt Lick). Well, at least it was going to be a good homecoming!</span></div>
<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">But coming back was a little bittersweet. The good news was, the missionary kid, who had threatened to report any of Big Nick's or my own "misbehaviors" to the Dean "for our own protection" no longer seemed to be rooming in The Penthouse, his room was empty. Unfortunately, the old guy "Jerry Flynt", the guy that cooked for us when the cafeteria just wasn't cutting it, was gone as well. While we tried everything we could to get the missionary kid tossed the previous semester, but Jerry's departure hurt. The dude fed us, man. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">I heard some keys unlocking the door, "I wonder who is left?" I thought as I hurled the door open to find The Hottie R.A. from across the hall leading a fresh-faced youngster into the apartment. The kid had a Yankee hat on, so well, he had that going for him, which was nice. "Nickas, this is your new roommate, Doug. He's NINETEEN (emphasis on the NINETEEN), make sure he stays out of trouble," she said with a wink as she sashayed out the door. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">Shit! Big Nick's birthday was last week. We were finally all twenty-one years old in here. Finally, we could all party out in the open in here without getting written up. And the fucking dean's office had thrown us a curveball. According to the ridiculously detailed ol' Westminster handbook, you could consume alcohol in the main area of the apartment if all residents were over the age of twenty-one. If not, the demon alcohol could only be consumed in the individual bedrooms or the bathroom. Which I always thought was kind of funny. Not that we ever really gave a shit about the rules anyway, but it would have been nice not to get written up for throwing on a drunk after class in our own living room. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">Always the fucking ambassador, I introduced myself and helped the kid haul his shit into the apartment. Like everybody else in the apartment, he was the child of divorced parents. But he was the only one with a father in prison! Hardcore! He'd recently quit the Mormon Church to become Catholic, but was having extreme difficulty getting his name off of the church rolls. I knew of a few people who had at one time the same problem, so I understood what he was going through. All of this, and this was his first time away from home. It was pretty overwhelming for the kid, and since he was now part of the family, I figured we all needed to help him out. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">Big Nick and The Nate showed up a couple of minutes later and they got their first impressions of Doug. They were admittedly pissed that the Dean's office had given us an underage roommate. But at the same time, and this is a good indicator as to how good those guys were, they made it abundantly clear that it wasn't Doug they were pissed at, but the Student Life office in general. And like I said, since when have we ever given a shit about the rules anyway? Big Nick had stacked one of the 20-packs in the fridge when he had walked in, and the four of us had a toast to a new beginning. The Nate even tagged Doug with a nickname within an hour, and "Junior" was born.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">We figured we needed to get Junior acquainted with as many people as we could. So the first week of class, we started introducing him to as many of our friends as we could. Big Nick took him down to the weight room, a newly returned Dowder (the "fifth" roommate in the way that Pete Best was the "fifth" Beatle) introduced him to the Frisbee guys in the quad and I took him door to door on the third floor and the apartment directly below us to meet the neighbors. You had to get in good with the girls on the floor below because then they'd be more likely to talk directly to you about excessive noise than an RA.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">We came to the apartment directly across the hallway from ours and I started to get a little nervous. Not only was this particular apartment the RA's room, but also this was where Jules lived. I'd kind of been crushing on this girl pretty much the entire holiday break. Before the break, I was working on the infamous "One-Night" fifteen-page term paper in the small Residence Hall 3 computer lab when this girl came in and asked if I could listen to her class presentation. Evidently somebody had told her that I'd done my fair share of public speaking back in the day and had some advice to offer. So I helped her iron the bugs out of her presentation and we shot the shit briefly before I had to get back to the term paper. A few nights later we met up again at the "Midnight Breakfast" the night before finals began, and I was pretty hip to the idea of asking this girl out. She went home to Alaska for the holidays, and I spent two weeks thinking about what to do.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">Junior knocked on the door, and Jules answered it. "Hey, hey! Just wanted to introduce you folks to the motley crew across the hall's newest member, this is Doug!" I bellowed. She invited us in. It was on. We sat down as two of the other girls, Alice and Elizabeth came out to say hello. They started chitchatting with Junior and Jules hollered at me to go into the other room. "How'd your presentation last semester go?" I asked.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">"Pretty good, I got an A." She said as she gave me a hug. It was on. "Hey Mike, I think Elizabeth's got a crush on Doug. She said she saw him in the hallway the other day and she won't shut up about it."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">"Well, that's certainly interesting. I don't know man, she's pretty Mormon," I thought to myself as I nodded my head.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">"You think you could maybe encourage him to get lunch with her or something?" Jules asked. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">
<span style="font-size: 85%;">"I'll say something; see if he's feeling it." And then my brain finally kicked in. For years, I'd been the kind of shy quiet dude, always afraid to really go after something or just plain say it. So instead I made an event out of shit. I wanted to get with this girl, so my primitive brain thought; "I've got to do something big." "I've got a better idea," I said, "Let's throw a party Friday night."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">"Like a mixer?" she inquired, eyebrow raised.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">"Like a big, wild mixer." I said nodding my head thinking to myself, "if the party in <i>Can't Hardly Wait</i> could be considered a mixer". "The Penthouse, Friday night. Tell all your friends." It was so on.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">Now, doing anything of this sort on a wide scale in the close quarters of the residence halls presented a few logistical problems. How not to get caught by the RA's and administration was chief among those concerns. One of us was going to have to fall on a grenade. We left that up to The Dowder, who asked The Hottie RA on a date that night. Hesitantly, she accepted. Next, we had to find out who was the RA on duty. Luckily it happened to be the Comrade. All it took was a bottle of Stolichnaya and a burned copy of Metallica's S&M album and the Comrade was properly bribed off. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">Next was the liquor. I had no idea how big this thing was going to get so I went to where I usually got some cheap advice, my Maxim Magazine collection. I found an article from issue #12 in the "How To" section titled "How to throw a soiree'" and followed its suggestions of two large jugs each of rotgut tequila, vodka, gin and whiskey. Plus I bought a new bottle of Makers' Mark and a bottle of Champagne for myself. Adding in the mixers and I must have dropped about $150 on liquid refreshment. With the girls across the hallway making the food, this sucker was on! There was an actual legitimate buzz going around the dorm about it. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">I got home a little bit late from basketball practice that Friday afternoon and hurriedly set everything up. Junior and Big Nick got the bar area up and running and cleaned up the house. I cleaned out my Bud Light keg bucket, filled it with ice and got the champagne chilling on my desk in my room. While I was taking care of the last minute preparations, The Nate took it upon himself to start the festivities, mixing himself a gigantic Electric Lemonade. He used his own high-end liquor and we estimated that particular drink in a bar would probably cost about $25. The Dowder, who usually resembled Pigpen from the Peanuts Gang, came out of his room as clean as I had ever seen him, in a nice sweater and khakis. He pounded a shot and left to pick up The Hottie RA. I grabbed a Fosters can out of the fridge and hit the shower for a long one. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">I wrapped up my shower about a half hour later and got dressed. "Fuck it. Let's go all out," I decided. I owned at that time this maroon and black Heffner-esque silk smoking jacket. I didn't even smoke! It was cheesy as all hell, but dammit I was feeling it that night, I was going to class this shit up. I was an idiot. One of my high school golf teammates used to wear one on the overnight trips and I always thought it was hilarious, so I picked a jacket up right after I'd moved to Salt Lick. I was comfortable. I walked out and we all had a good laugh. I looked over in The Nate's direction, "How many is that bro?" I nodded at his drink. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">"Number four dude." He replied, downing the last few drops of Electric Lemonade and started to pour number five. He was already getting a glossy look in his eyes.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">The doorbell rang; it was two of Big Nick's gal pals, Heather and Shauna. They came in, mixed drinks and retired with Big Nick to his room for some "entertainment." We wouldn't see them again until things were wrapping up. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">Suddenly people started showing up in droves, we got the music pumping and it was becoming a boisterous occasion. There were at least thirty people crammed into that little apartment. Some friends of ours, but mostly people we didn't know. I couldn't believe we'd thrown something like this together in a few days. The girls from across the hall arrived with a gigantic 7-layer dip in a huge baking dish. The Smokers descended upon it like buzzards to a fresh road kill. Elizabeth had a surprised look on her face. I don't think she imagined a dorm "mixer" to resemble anything like the rager that was taking place. And then there was Jules. She looked absolutely fantastic, with a smile that could launch a thousand ships. "Why the hell does she wear those baggy clothes all the time?" I thought to myself. She was in tremendous shape.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">Junior was really starting to get after it, and so was The Nate. The Nate was a big guy, probably twice my size. As I was mixing myself my third or fourth martini of the evening, I looked over at him sitting on one of the bar stools. He was HAMMERED! He saluted me with his sixth Electric Lemonade, leaned his head back and raised his glass to his gullet. As he leaned back, I saw it. Dude's eyes rolled back into his head and he kept going back, going, going, gone. BOOM! He landed flat on his back on the floor. Room 302 shook. The windows rattled. The stereo skipped. Everybody paused for a second, looked, and went back to their revelry. I still had my wits about me so I rushed over to where he was laying on his back, making that sick moaning sound that usually signaled that he was going to hurl. This was a problem. If he honks on the floor, the party is pretty much over based on the smell alone. So I got my buddy Little Nick to grab The Nate's legs and I snagged him by the armpits and we slowly dragged his 350 lb. ass down the hallway to The Nate/Dowder bathroom, I filled up a glass of water and set it down next to his huge, corpse like figure. That boy was destroyed. I looked at my watch, 11:30 pm. "This has to be some kind of drunk-record for Nate." Little Nick quipped. We rejoined the party.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">Dowder returned from his date. Dammit! He was supposed to keep The Hottie RA occupied until at least 1:00! "No worries brah," he said, "I dropped her off at her friend's house. That's a weird girl, man." He said as he gathered his crew of stoners and retired to his room to spark up. Everybody was having a good time, but people started getting paranoid. Every time there was a ring at the doorbell, everybody scrambled to hide their drinks and the sub-21 kids hid themselves in the closets and showers. Fucking hilarious. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">I had damn near worked up the courage to ask Jules out on an actual date when the first glass was broken. We looked up and saw Junior panicking in the kitchen. "What happened bro?" I asked.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">"Sorry, man. I broke your glasssssssss." Doug slurred.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">"Are you all right?" I asked as I saw the bottle he was holding in his other hand. It was Everclear, and there wasn't very much left in the bottle. "Dude, you didn't drink that whole bottle did you?"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">
<span style="font-size: 85%;">"Yeah man. It tastes like shit, but I can't stop drinking it. THIS PARTY IS GONNA PUT US ON THE MAP DUDE! WHOOOOOOOO!" He was starting to lose it.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">"Bro, that's like pure grain alcohol. I don't think you are supposed to drink that much of it (or any of it for that matter), especially straight up." I don't think he knew what he was doing. But hell, he was a fresh-faced nineteen-year-old kid. I was there once. "Just settle down a bit." I suggested. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">Things got progressively louder and more out of control. Everybody was having a good time. I made the rounds, being a gracious host by saying "hey" to everybody in my ridiculous smoking jacket and leopard print cowboy hat. I looked like I was half-crazy. I'd finally made it back to Jules when there was a loud knock on the door. "Campus Police! Open Up!" Everybody scrambled to hide their shit or themselves as I looked through the peephole. Sonofabitch. It was Squirrel fucking with us. He actually was a campus police officer, but he was off duty and ready to party. Sometimes it's good to have friends in high places.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">Things had reached a crescendo when there was another crash of breaking glass. This time it was from the living room. And once again, Junior was the cause. Only this time he was half hanging out of one of the windows! Little Nick, who was some kind of everywhere-at-once super-hero that evening, yanked him back inside. The booze had taken the kid over. Thankfully, I knew a couple of the maintenance guys on campus, and that hinge looked mighty rusty, so we were able to eventually go around the dean to get it fixed. Thank god for the lowest bidder. Poor Elizabeth, both overwhelmed and upset ran out of the apartment in a huff with Jules and Alice in tow. On her way out the door Jules gave me the "call-me" signal. So I had that going for me, which was nice. But I was definitely in a sour mood as Little Nick and I carried a now passed out Junior down the hallway and tossed him onto his bed. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">Around 3:00 AM, things finally fizzled out. People started heading home. Thankfully, they all seemed to have had a good time. I checked up on The Nate and helped him to his room with the trusty coffee can. He would have a three-day hangover. Little Nick and I commenced to cleanup duty. At 3:30 Heather and Shauna slipped out of Big Nick's room, giggling, and took off. Big Nick poked his head out the door, rubbed his eyes, looked at the carnage, laughed and shut his door. Little Nick and I finished cleaning up the broken glass, empty beer bottles and plastic cups. He went home soon after, leaving me and the bottle of Champ-an-ya that I had hoped to be sharing with my new lady-friend alone in my room. I popped the cork, took a giant swig and passed out. This was a sad attempt at seduction gone horribly awry. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">The next day I woke up and made myself a bowl of fruit-loops. As I walked into my room a girl busted out of my wardrobe, apologizing profusely holding her head. Evidently she had gone in there to hide when there was a knock on the door and had fallen asleep. I shooed her out of the apartment and turned around to find Junior and The Nate sitting on the living room chairs with identical "death-warmed-over" looks to them. "Rough night, fellas?" I asked. Neither of them remembered anything from the night before. They looked at the busted window and then at me. "Last night put us on the map." I said to them as I cruised back to my room for breakfast.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">EPILOGUE:</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial Narrow; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Well, the administration found out about us. Not from our odd request for a new window, but from an upset Elizabeth mentioning the party in conversation to the wrong people. I reckon we were on "double secret probation" for the rest of the semester. I finally worked up the stones to ask Jules out, and we went to a hockey game for our first real date. This kicked off my first real relationship in college. Good times! Junior and Elizabeth never did hit it off, although he did take a run at The Hottie RA, later in the semester. That night however resulted in us having more friends than we knew what to do with for the rest of the year. The Super Bowl party a few weeks later went swimmingly, and the motley crew of Room 302 became sort of the unofficial leaders of the campus community.</span></span></span></span>Nickas!http://www.blogger.com/profile/04097270523968787259noreply@blogger.com0