how to eat like a prisoner

The employee lunch break policy at Paragon is as follows:

A) If working less than 6 hours, you are NOT (not!) entitled to a break. No sir! Should one politely approach a floor manager, however, odds are on the fat side of the scale that he’ll (she’ll? Let’s don't be sexist…) find someone to cover your department for 15 minutes, which is more than enough time to retrieve a tissue from your pants pocket, blow your nose, and return tissue to pocket. The ambitious might even dare a sip of water from the fountain (located in right rear of store, one hundred and twelve paces from the golf department).

B) If working 6-8 hours, you are awarded a 30 minute break. Well, most of the time. In truth, break length varies depending on whether you’re scheduled as a full- or part-time employee. The managers mentioned something about this at the last morning meeting, but I wasn’t really listening all too good. Seeing as I’m part-time and whatnot, perhaps I’m only allotted 15 minutes (is this conceivable/humane?!), even during a 7 hour shift. Maybe I've been at it all wrong, taking these mastodonian breaks. But I'm a renegade, baby. The drummer in my head plays half-hour sets. So it goes.

C) If working over 8 hours, you are entitled to a full hour. Not sure how the whole full- vs. part-time thing plays into this. Perhaps the managers oughta put these directives into writing?

Chris Rock:

“You know how you can tell you got a real bad job? (Pause.) When you get that half-hour lunch break. By the time you put on your jacket, walk around the corner, go to the sandwich spot, order a sandwich, wait for them to make it, then get in another line to pay for it, TWENTY EIGHT MINUTES have passed! Now you’re rushing back to work, you’re eating your sandwich, you’re spilling beer down your shirt, and when you get in your boss has the nerve to say, ‘Hey man, you’re eight minutes late.’ ‘Fuck you!’”

I know the half-hour break all too well; it’s been part of my routine for more than a few months. But I’ve got a system (which, admittedly, looks and sounds a lot like the scenario Chris described above). Let's break it down:

1) One, first: Decide on a restaurant. My options, of course, are limited to those eateries--Chipotle, GoodBurger, Chop't (salad joint), Dogmatic (gourmet sausage place)--within a two-block radius. Should I, like a reckless fool, choose to venture deeper into the East Village, I perform a routine check of the ol' laces to assure their tautness, so as to avoid a mid-jog wardrobe malfunction.

2) Remove nametag (required flair) and Save 15% Of The Difference button (more flair, and please don't ask), put in left pants pocket. Fold morning daily to crossword page. Place pen in right pants pocket, tip down, so as to make for a faster, more efficient de-holstering when I turn my attentions to the crossword.

3) Proceed to punch clock. Wait until digital time thingy turns from one minute to the next before swiping out, so as to maximize my 30 mins.

4) Swipe.

5) Haul ass up the stairs (time clock is located in the lower level, twenty seconds from the front door), bowling over/elbowing slow-moving tourists.

6) Jaywalk across street, traffic be damned.

7) Order salad/chicken sandwich/burger/taco/turkey club, breathlessly.

8) Pay, frantically.

9) Wait.

10) Wait a bit more.

11) Receive salad/chicken sandwich/burger/taco/turkey club, jog to nearest available table.

12) Eat/graze. (No time to chew, or for proper utensils.)

13) Complete two items in crossword puzzle. (Clues: Giants slugger (answer: Ott) and fencing weapon (answer: epee).)

14) Check time on cell phone. (Twenty-three minutes have passed.)

15) Dab lips with napkin.

16) Deposit contents of tray into garbage can.

17) Jaywalk.

18) Bust into front door of store with elbow. Half-run/half-walk to stairs, half-run/half-walk down stairs, turn corner, elbow through another door, remove time card from wallet (hands shaking all the while), slide time card through machine. Report to golf department.

19) Affix flair. Sell stuff.

Done. Easy!
...

music, r.i.p.

...
Kid Rock’s “All Summer Long” (U.S. release date: April 25, 2008) is the worst song of all time.

You’ve all heard it, even if you haven’t. I’ll attach it here, ‘case you’re feeling particularly masochistic:



What Kid basically does is weld together (is that redundant?) two snoozers, Warren Zevon’s “Werewolves of London” and Lynyrd Skynyrd’s omnipresent “Sweet Home Alabama,” passing off the end result as an original creation. Both riffs are shamelessly plagiarized, but not in a cool, schizophrenic, Beastie Boys/Girl Talk sorta way (sampled briefly, and for a singular desired effect); rather, Kid milks these tunes ‘til the udders chap and crack, offering up nothing from his own teat.

Having stolen his backing music, Kid half-talks/half-sings for a few minutes about women, beer, and youthful debauchery, pausing only for gutless guitar solos and keyboard plunkeries that are exact facsimiles (again…redundant?) of every solo ever.

The resulting mashup represents The Death Of All That Is Well And Good, musically speaking.

Though Kid is the foulest, most odiferous dingleberry (slang. a small clot of dung, as clinging to the hindquarters of an animal) in this great tragedy, a few others deserve mention:

1) Mike E. Clark.

Clark, who co-produced the track, was the wanker who suggested “Werewolves” and “Alabama”--two of the most stale, overplayed songs on classic rock radio--as viable mash options. Wikipedia, Mike Elwood’s one-stop research destination (sue me), tells me Clark’s also produced nine studio albums for the Insane Clown Posse, which is kinda hilarious. Recession casualty Blender (whose print edition is, as of April 2009, defunct) once rated Insane Clown Posse the Worst Band Of All Time. Now, it’d be easy for me to take a shot at Clark for producing the WBOAT, but that’d be lazy, reprehensible blogging on my end, seeing as I’ve never really listened to the Insane Clown Posse. Therefore, I won't hold that against him. Mike E. Clark--ICP or no ICP--is still a jerk, though, for contributing to “All Summer Long” and encouraging such destructive, irresponsible mashupping.

2) The Listening Public.

“All Summer Long” went #1 in a number of countries, which just goes to show that people will listen to A-N-Y-T-H-I-N-G. Seriously, Public, are you really this easy to please? Have you no standards? If this is “good,” what’s “bad?” Where’s the line? Do you not have one? And don’t FOR A SECOND tell me you “like everything,” because you do not. That ain’t human. When we stop discriminating between shite art and real art, the world begins to die, one brain cell at a time.

3) Kid Rock’s High School English Teachers.

Try these lyrics on for size: “And we were trying different things/We were smoking funny things.” Is it legal to rhyme ‘things’ with ‘things?’ Or how ‘bout this: “She was seventeen/And she was more than in-between.” Understand? Me neither.

4) Anthony DeCurtis.

DeCurtis, a contributing editor at Rolling Stone magazine, wrote a review. Here’s his incisive analysis of this seminal, genre-defining track:

(Kid) Rock shows his wistful side, too. "All Summer Long" takes its inspiration from "Night Moves," by Bob Seger (Kid's Michigan idol), mashing up the piano lick from "Werewolves of London" with bits of "Sweet Home Alabama" for a story of sexual awakening. It's stirring stuff.

Stirring stuff? I challenge you, Mr. DeCurtis, to identify even one (1) element of this song that is aurally or intellectually “stirring” on ANY level. Call it listenable, call it harmless, call it light, call it a “feel-good summer track” (ack), but do NOT call it "stirring." Shame on you.

Sorry for being so curmudgeony and embittered, but I’m forced to listen to this damn song every day at Paragon. Perhaps, given this new bit of information, you might forgive me? Paragon’s all about the Top 40. All the time. I hear Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face” literally once an hour. Seeing as I’ve been on the clock for 240 hours since my hiring…
...

notches

I’ve kissed Judd Nelson, that dude from The Breakfast Club. (Pic at right).

Not directly, mind you. But I’ve kissed a girl (and I liked it!) who once made out with country singer Keith Urban at a party. Keith dated superfox Niki Taylor intermittently from 2002-2004, and is now married to Nicole Kidman, a well-known actress and albino.

Kidman’s other bedpost notches include Lenny Kravitz, Robbie Williams, and possibly Adrien Brody (to be fair, the latter was an unsubstantiated rumor). Her most cavernous, conspicuous notch, of course, is the sometimes affable, sometimes maniacal Tom Cruise, whom (did I use "whom" correctly?) she married in 1990. They divorced in 2001.

British pop star Robbie Williams once dated model/actress Rachel Hunter (pictured).

Hunter married irrelevant cheeseball and housewife panty-dropper Rod Stewart in 1990. They separated in 1999. She’s also bedded Bruce Willis, Kevin Costner, some dude named Michael Weatherly (I’ve lazily copped all this info from Wikipedia, ‘case you haven’t noticed), Oasis’ Liam Gallagher, and perennial bad boy Tommy Lee.

Tommy Lee slept with half of America while touring behind Crue in the 80s. He also married Heather Locklear in 1986. (Divorce: 1993). Two years later, he married Pamela Anderson. They called it quits in 1998.

Anderson has been married three times. Tommy Lee was the first, followed by scrum maggot Kid Rock and a guy named Rick Solomon. (You may remember him from the Paris Hilton sex tape.)

Solomon had a thing with Paris, as mentioned, but also with 90210’s Shannon Doherty. They married in 2002 and divorced one year later.

Shannon Doherty was also engaged to Judd Nelson, but the wedding never took place.

Syllogistically, I've had my tongue in Judd Nelson's mouth. Must admit, I'm rather surprised Kevin Bacon's name didn't pop up.
...

cut your hair, hippie

I tumbled out, naked and triumphant, on December 6, 1982, shortly after my father and mother were pulled over by a police officer for exceeding the posted speed limit on a four lane highway. They received no penalty, though, because my mother was about to lose nearly ten pounds (me) in just under an hour.

Sometimes the law doesn’t mean anything at all. Sometimes the urgency of the moment demands a breach of legal contract. The world is not cut-and-dry.

In this particular case, my parents couldn’t afford to color inside the lines. The situation forebade it. See, I was sick of placentas and whatnot. I wanted out. I’d been kicking and hollering. My dad did the right thing; he pressed the gas pedal all the way to the mat, ignoring the numbers on the signs. He pretended they weren’t even there, or that they said 85 instead of 55. All the while my mom breathed, very carefully.

Anyway, they (cops, pigs, 5-0, po-po) pulled him over for violating the Law, which is written down in books and on those black and white signs all down the highway. When the officer approached the driver’s side window, prepared to tell my father that he’d screwed up, my dad pointed at my mom’s belly. That was enough. The officer ran back to his vehicle, flipped on his emergency lights, and escorted them to the delivery room. That was twenty-six years ago. Just now (10:48 Eastern Standard time on May 4, 2009), I phoned my mother in LaGrange Park, IL to ask if I was born with hair. “A little,” she said, “but not much. You looked like E.T.”

My hair was blonde, once. I know from the pictures, which are pressed into faux leather albums and shelved according to year in the nether bowels of our dining room Lladro cabinet. Up until the age of four or five, my hair was blonde. I guess I mentioned that already in the first sentence of this paragraph.

Then shit got weird. My forehead began to expand and broaden, but the rest of my face didn’t catch up. On a proportional human being, eyes are located halfway between the crown of the head and the tip of the chin. Go to a mirror. See for yourself.

I'm the exception. For many, many years, my eyes were where most people’s cheeks are. In the words of Matt Dillon’s character in There’s Something About Mary, I “had a forehead like a drive-in movie theater.”

To compound matters, my hair began to grow straight up, rather than falling across my forehead like a normal person’s. A fearsome cowlick developed in the mess of hair above my right eyebrow. Nothing--not spittle, not gel, not a tightened baseball cap--tamed it. That two-inch wide patch fought gravity at every turn. As you might imagine, I looked ridiculous. Cute, yes, but ridiculous nonetheless. Suddenly, inexplicably, I found myself cursed with an eight-inch forehead and indecisive hair that assumed the shape of a sine wave.

Then fifth grade came around. I grew into my forehead, finally. To mark the occasion, I buzzed off most of my hair and rocked one of those squarish, militaristic, Mickey Mantle crewcuts that went out of style sometime in ’62 or ’63.

By this point, my hair had darkened into a deep brown, as it is today. Not sure what precipitated that cosmetic change (diet? lack of sun exposure?), but it was probably for the best. Blonde hair doesn’t suit me.

The man who cut my hair back in Illinois was from not from this country. He was from another country. Poland, maybe, or perhaps Italy. I’m pretty sure his name was Carmen. He was a barber, not a stylist, and he was pretty old. Nice guy, very cheery. When he spoke (which was rare), I didn’t understand a damn word, even though those words were English. His accent proved inpenetrable, so I just stopped trying after awhile.

Carmen’s barber shoppe was a barber shoppe, all right; it even had one of those cylindrical candy canes rotating outside, like in the movies. After Carmen finished the trim, he’d use a vacuum on my neck to suck up any rogue hairs that hadn’t made the floor, and then he’d reward me with a palmful of free Bazooka Joe bubble gums (the $.05 ones that come with a wax comic) at the register. Eight dollars for a buzz. Carmen rung up the sale on a machine that may have been around before the first World War.

Oh yes, before I forget:

After Carmen vacuumed my neck and removed the cape, he’d reach for a small stick of product that looked and smelled a lot like roll-on deoderant and gel the front of my hair, effectively pushing it straight up and freezing it into place. Now the whole front of my squared head was a short, angular cowlick, which meant that I was doomed to girlfriendlessness for another few months.

I maintained that hairstyle for all of the fifth grade.
Also, sixth.
And seventh grade.
Eighth grade, too.
And all of high school.
And the first year of college.

Then, sophomore year, something happened to me. I decided the Mickey Mantle cut was no longer suiting my needs. Since arriving to college, I’d (re-)discovered Floyd, Zeppelin, Sabbath and all the other classic rock delinquents, so it seemed natural that I rockify my style a bit and adopt the look. The summer before my sophomore year, I stopped cutting my hair and expanded my wardrobe. Shelving my rugby shirts and button-downs, I invested in band t-shirts and jeans that eventually bore holes in the knees.

The mop got impressively shaggy. Within a few months, my ears were no longer visible, and the hair in front of my eyes, when stretched, reached all the way to my mouth. It began to curl, too. Have you seen Almost Famous? I looked just like the kid journalist.

Reaction was mixed. My parents hated it, naturally, but some of my friends really dug it. Girls began paying more attention me. I felt more attitudinal. Long hair presents some obvious problems, though. Here’s a few:

1) For every twenty days, one or two are legitimate “Good Hair Days.” The rest are a blinded punch in the dark. Maybe I’ll connect; maybe I won’t.

2) My hair, because it’s so thick (barbers have told me that it’s some of the thickest they’ve ever cut) and strawlike, does not respond well to humidity. On warm, sticky days, my hair gets LARGE.

3) Every time I wash my hair, it looks downright crappy for 48 hours afterwards. I used to combat this problem by going a week or more between washings, but that brought on a whole other slew of problems.

4) Sometimes people get married. Married people tend to like clean-cut people at their weddings.

5) Employers tend to like clean-cut people at their businesses.

6) Four out of five people on the street assume I’m a stoner.

7) I can’t fall out of bed and roll into public. Not with eight-inch hair.

8) I’m forced to wear a stocking cap immediately after showering, so that my hair will dry in the appropriate manner.

With few exceptions, I’ve maintained this shaggy look for seven or eight years. It’s my trademark. My calling card.

If you’re wondering why I just wrote an entire post about hair, I’ll tell you why:

Two days ago, I got my hair cut.

It used to look like this:










Now, it looks like this:









Notice that in Picture #2, the mullet's been isolated and conquered. Here I am, ladies. Come and get it.
...

bruce beds a classic car

Sometimes my musical myopia astounds me. Seeing as I long ago hypnotized myself into thinking I’m an authority of some kind in all things rock (I’m wrong, of course; New York tends to humble the prideful), I’ve become that asshole who utters inanities such as this without batting an eyelash:

“Bruce Springsteen? Ehhh. I mean, I guess his quiet, contemplative stuff deserves attention. Nebraska's 'State Trooper' (1982) is admittedly flawless, as is ‘I’m On Fire.’ A few other tracks warrant repeat listens. Vocally, he did some interesting things on ‘Streets Of Philadelphia,’ what with that chopped, restrained delivery. e.e. cummings probably would have appreciated Bruce’s curious line breaks. Very poetic. His louder cuts, though--all those bombastic, 4/4, arena anthems--bore the hell outta me. ‘Glory Days’ and ‘Born To Run’ receive far too much credit from the listening community, seeing as both are oversimplified rock songs tailored for mass consumption. Spare me the blue-collar, bolt-turning sentiment, Bruce.”

(I’m not this eloquent, of course. In truth, it comes out like this:)

“Bruce? Not a big fan. I like ‘I’m On Fire’ and ‘State Trooper.’ Spare me the rest.”

Satisfied with Me, and Myself, and My Smug Analysis Of Bruce’s Merits And Demerits, I pronounce my verdict with the finality of a--well, a sentencing. And why wouldn’t I? I’m right. Bruce gets the ol’ Side Thumb.

Then, as tends to happen, I encounter a track/album that negates all my original premises; now there's a foot in my mouth, and it don't taste none too good. So it goes. (Note to KP: Glad you picked up on KV. Rock star.)

that track/
was Pink Cadillac

Holy Jamole! Have you people heard this thing? Bruce freakin’ nails it! Rock and roll never sounded so good!

There I was, fine-toothing my music collection so that I might assemble a listenable, digestible playlist for Friday’s DJ set, when I rediscovered this slumbering ox. (I'd previously dismissed it as a Paint By Numbers snoozefest.) What a track! Never even made it onto a proper record, if you can believe it. Instead, the song was shoved off to the B-Side of “Dancing In The Dark,” Bruce’s most successful single off Born In The U.S.A. (1984).

Other day, I found myself in my friend Lucas’ room. We were sharing tunes, as is our custom.

Me: “Lucas, I’m going nuts over Springsteen’s ‘Pink Cadillac.’ The rhythm section is mindblowing.”
Lucas: “Oh man! Great song! Play it now!”

So I did. We bobbed and nodded and smiled and said things like “Damn!” and "Yes!”

Lucas: “Dude, have you ever considered that this song might be all about sex? Think about it…”

So we listened to a few lyrics. Even looked ‘em all up online. I still wasn’t convinced.

Me: “Eh, you may be overreaching here. I get the whole car-as-sex metaphor, but it seems a little forced in this case. I think he was talking about soda fountain, poodle skirt, Make-Out Point America. I mean, ‘Waving to the girls/Spending all my money on a Saturday night?’ That’s pretty ambiguous. A pink Cadillac would fit into that whole scheme. You know, kind of like a Pleasantville vibe, or something. Maybe I’m wrong, but…”

We reached no resolution.

Then I went home, listened up some more, revisited the lyrics. Here they are:

You may think I'm foolish
For the foolish things I do
You may wonder how come I love you
When you get on my nerves like you do
Well baby you know you bug me
There ain't no secret 'bout that
Well come on over here and hug me
Baby I'll spill the facts
Well honey it ain't your money
'Cause baby I got plenty of that
I love you for your pink Cadillac
Crushed velvet seats
Riding in the back
Oozing down the street
Waving to the girls
Feeling out of sight
Spending all my money
On a Saturday night
Honey I just wonder what you do there in back
Of your pink Cadillac
Pink Cadillac

Well now way back in the Bible
Temptations always come along
There's always somebody tempting
Somebody into doing something they know is wrong
Well they tempt you, man, with silver
And they tempt you, sir, with gold
And they tempt you with the pleasures
That the flesh does surely hold
They say Eve tempted Adam with an apple
But man I ain't going for that
I know it was her pink Cadillac
(^^^^^!)
Crushed velvet seats
Riding in the back
Oozing down the street
Waving to the girls
Feeling out of sight
Spending all my money
On a Saturday night
Honey I just wonder what it feels like in the back
Of your pink Cadillac
Now some folks say it's too big
And uses too much gas
Some folks say it's too old
And that it goes too fast
But my love is bigger than a Honda
It's bigger than a Subaru
Hey man there's only one thing
And one car that will do
Anyway we don't have to drive it
Honey we can park it out in back
And have a party in your pink Cadillac

I was wrong, obviously. Bruce, like Marc Bolan before him, uses the car as a metaphor for sex Sex SEX. (For an equally entertaining automobile-as-woman song, check out T Rex’s “Jeepster.”)

My question:

Is the whole band in on it? In other words, before the E Street Band laid down “Pink Cadillac," did Bruce offer, “Hey, Max (Weinberg, the only E Street Bander I know), I’ve written another song; it's about sex. On the surface, though, it'll be about an old Cadillac. Whaddya think?” Is that how it went down?

The other options, of course, are these:

1) Band recognizes what he’s doing, lyrically speaking, but there’s no discussion about it. They lay down the track, Bruce lays down the vocal, everybody goes home. No questions asked.

2) Band doesn’t pick up on the bald-faced double entendres, just as the three other members of Joy Division didn't pick up on Ian Curtis' blatant cries for help when they cut Closer (1980). (Curtis committed suicide shortly after the final tracks were laid down. Even a cursory inspection of his lyrics suggests a man in crisis.)

3) Mike has been wrong all along; there ARE no double entendres. This song is about a vehicle. (Hiiiiighly doubtful, though, considering the crotchal pyrotechnics Bruce displays in the attached vid (below)).

If you don’t own the studio version of this track, acquire it NOW. Steal it, buy it, borrow it. Raunchy rock at it's finest.

netflix 1, mike 0

I’ve always been a few years behind the culture curve.

Probably won’t surprise any of you that I was the last of my friends to acquire a cell phone. My current phone lacks a plastic protector for the battery, which dislodges when I slam the flip too quickly. (I lost that little plastic piece on the day I walked the length of Manhattan. <--Click the link.) Sometimes the screen goes inexplicably white. No clue how to silence the phone, so I’m forced to settle for vibrate when I’m at church. An iPhone it ain’t.

During my epic roadtrip with Travis Brooks at the tail end of 2005 (Chicago, New York, Baltimore, Miami, Key West, New Orleans, Nashville, Louisville, Muncie), he introduced me to MySpace, YouTube and Wikipedia, three websites which I had never even heard of. Frightening, no? Old people with dust covers on their couches are more internet-savvy than I.

In keeping with the Mike-Is-Woefully-Behind-The-Times theme, I should probably explain my latest venture. Back in the fall, recognizing my own ignoramity in all matters film (my friends are all buffs), I converted to this dude known as “Netflix,” a keen, magical samaritan who teams with the United States Postal Service to deliver movies to my place of residence. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. I immediately set out to defeat Netflix at his own game, scarfing films at blitzkrieg rates in hopes of getting the best bang for my $8.99/month buck. By my calculations, I’d be able to get in 7+ movies per month, assuming I watched them the day they arrived and popped them in a mailbox the following morning.

It all started out so smoothly. In those first weeks, I viewed a number of classics--The Godfather, Psycho, Raging Bull--that I’d never gotten around to renting. Rosemary’s Baby, too. That was a good one. Since this marked my first committed foray into the medium, I consumed these films with an enthusiasm bordering on psychosis. See, I’ve never been a movie guy. Music guy, yes. Literature guy, absolutely. Painting, sure. Film, though, has always been my artistic Achilles Heel. I’ve never even seen The Goonies, which makes some people very angry.

Anyway, I watched a shitload of classic films. This went on for a couple months. Then Cool Hand Luke arrived. This was in January. Cool Hand Luke is still sitting on my shelf. I’m looking at it now. There’s actually a layer of dust on the surface of the envelope.

Netflix, you asshole. You knew my weaknesses. You knew this would happen. Now I’ve got a $40 film on my bookcase, which better be the best goddamn film I’ve ever seen. Probably won’t return it ‘til July. If it weren’t for jerkoffs like me, you wouldn’t be in business. Kiss my hairy keister.

i'm a hustler, baby...

...
Poker played a significant role in my life for nearly three years.

For a brief (1:33) video about the basics of Texas Hold ‘Em poker, click here. I don’t feel like typing it all out.

I first learned the subtleties of the game back in ’03 when Chris Moneymaker (his real name, if you can believe it) won the World Series of Poker and sparked a bit of a boom. For a few days that summer, I watched ESPN with rapturous attention while Moneymaker outlasted 838 opponents to pick up the $2,500,000 payout. (He gained entrance to the WSOP via a $39 satellite tournament in an online card room.)

Poker blew up that year for a few reasons:

1) Moneymaker (pic at left) is an Average Joe. Utterly unqualified for poker stardom, he was working as an accountant when he won the tourney. Casual viewers, sensing that the poker world ain’t as insular as, say, the darts world (a world in which luck doesn’t play a role), quickly adopted an “If Moneymaker can do it, why not me?” mentality and commenced weekly house games with their buddies, Eyes>>>Stomachs.

2) ESPN showed “hole” cards on camera for the first time. “Hole” cards--the two cards you’re dealt in Texas Hold ‘Em before any community cards are revealed--are the cards that determine one’s initial betting strategy. In previous years, ESPN did not advertise the players’ hands, meaning the viewer was allowed little insight into player posturing, betting patterns, etc. “Hole” cards wouldn’t be divulged until after completion of a hand, if at all (you’re forced to show them only if an opponent calls your final bet). In 2003, that all changed. The voyeuristic nature of the pocket cam added immeasurably to the viewing experience and allowed laymen to practice their poker decisionizing in real time.

3) Lon McCarren and Norman Chad, ESPN’s go-to guys for the tourney, are two of the raddest announcers around. Lon’s a bit of a nerd, though his banter is spot-on and never superfluous; Norman is a sexually ambiguous, always-witty snarker who maintains (and demonstrates) sharp knowledge of the game.

4) ESPN provided incisive, comprehensive coverage in ’03. They highlighted crucial hands and omitted quiet, unimportant lulls in chip movement, meaning that poker was--for all intents and purposes--visually interesting to a television audience. That’s a rarity.

Anyway, that was around the time I began to play. Poker appeals to me because I recognize it for what it is: An engaging, cerebral match of wits where intellect wins out over luck. (In the long haul, anyway.) As Matt Damon proclaims in Rounders, there’s a reason the same fellas tend to end up at the WSOP final table, year after year.

Poker is a skill game. The best poker players in the world (Daniel Negreanu immediately comes to mind) can often identify your “hole” cards within two or three rounds of betting. Think about that. There are 1,326 distinct combinations of “hole” cards in a standard, 52-card deck. Everyone at the table is dealt one of those 1,326 hands. Let’s say you’re protecting one of them. After a few rounds of betting, there's a good chance that the highly skilled player has determined--beyond much doubt--that you’re holding one of four (4) hands. He’s essentially eliminated the other 1,322 possibilities, thus putting himself in position to plunder. The mental acuity required to perform such a feat is downright staggering. On the other end of the spectrum, the novice poker player relies solely on “gut” instinct, and rarely (if ever) has any idea what cards his opponents are holding. Astigmatic, he’s usually too concerned with the strength of his own hand to care about the rest of the table.

Strong players base their conclusions on your stratagem, which is probably not as opaque and inpenetrable as you presume. Math, intuition and their knowledge of human behavioral tendencies lead them to your cards. If you bet $50 into a $150 pot, the seasoned veteran picks up on that number and sets to ruminating: “Why did he bet $50, and not $25? Why not $75?” Your $50 bet says something about you. (Or, more specifically, it speaks volumes about the strength of your hand.)

Now that I’ve scared away all six of my followers with this confusing poker analysis, I’ll talk about myself. No one’s reading, anyway.

Here’s where I’ve played:

1) The LaGrange Country Club (IL) caddyshack.

2) The loft/attic in my buddy’s garage. (LaGrange.) He’d host bi-weekly poker parties. These usually entailed crumpled twenties, makeshift poker chips, domestic beer and violent cursing.

3) Lloyd’s Bar (Bandon, OR). Lloyd’s hosts a weekly Hold ‘Em tournament for caddies and locals. $25 to enter, plus the option to re-buy if you run out of chips in the first two hours of play. In the last four weeks of my first Bandon summer, I placed fourth, sixth, third, first. (There are 45-65 contestants, depending on the week.) That final payout was a smooth $1200 in cash. I’m awesome.

4) The Arcade Tavern (Bandon, OR). I wagered thousands of dollars at this place. They had a table set up in the back. We’d play $2/$4 limit games until 2 in the morning, five days a week.

5) Las Vegas. I bought in for $250 at the Bellagio (see pic) and sat down at a $4/$8 table. That $250 didn’t last long.

6) Online. At one point, I banned myself for one year from PokerRoom.com because I couldn’t stop playing. I’d swing $200-$500 a day, which just ain’t healthy for a person earning less than $50K a year. After a while, I had the good sense to nip it in the bud before grinding myself into financial straits.

7) Online (reprise). When I was unemployed and very nearly bankrupt about two months ago, I realized that I was gonna be $75 short on rent. Desperate, I transferred $25 from my checking to PokerStars.net and set out to earn the missing dollars. Four hours later I cashed out, $100 richer. A $125 check arrived in the mail at week's end. Haven’t played since.
...

an exercise in futility

Actual conversation with a woman buying golf clubs for her husband:

Me: “Hi there. Whatcha lookin’ for?”
WBGCFHH: “Oh, hello. Hi. My husband turns 50 on Wednesday. He wants to get into golf. I’m here to buy him some stuff to get started...you know, the basics. Poles and a bag--he’ll need a bag, right?--and some balls. Kind of to surprise him.”
Me: “A gift?”
WBGCFHH: “Yeah.”
Me: “Great. Has he ever played before?”
WBGCFHH: “I don’t think so. No--no, he hasn’t.”
Me: “Ok. As far as clubs go, you’re gonna want to start him off with something forgiving and easy to hit. I've got just the thing. Follow me.”
WBGCFHH (fingering a set of irons on the wall, then another set): “I’ve noticed that the metal part on these poles is smaller than the metal part on these poles. Why?”
Me: “Well, these CLUBS are smaller and sleeker because they’re for better players. People new to the game usually opt for fatter clubs. The part that actually strikes the ball is known as the clubface. The larger the clubface, the larger the “sweet spot.” This means that poorer players aren’t penalized very harshly for their errant shots. These puppies are easier to hit than the ones that look like tableware. Small clubfaces are for people who know what they’re doing.”
WBGCFHH: “Why are there so many?”
Me: “So many what?”
WBGCFHH: “So many poles. Can’t you unscrew the metal part at the bottom and switch it out?”
Me: “Switch it out?”
WBGCFHH: “Are these not the same? Why are there eight or nine of them, and not just one?”
Me: “Oh. Well, all these clubs are different. They perform different functions. Clubs come in varying degrees. By degrees, I mean the angle at which a club will project the ball into the air. See? (I demonstrate the difference between a 3-iron and a pitching wedge.) This means that the ball will fly at different heights when hit with different clubs.”
WBGCFHH: “Well, they should just put it all one one metal pole. That way, you’d save metal, and all you’d have to carry would be the big parts at the bottom. Then you could just screw ‘em on.”
Me: “Haha. Yes, they already developed that, actually, but it never caught on.”
WBGCFHH: “I should re-invent it.”
Me: “You should.”
WBGCFHH: “How are they different?”
Me: “Pardon me?”

WBGCFHH: “The poles--clubs--how are they different? This one is longer than this other one, and the heavy part at the end isn’t as--fat and clunky.”
Me: “Oh. Well, they vary by degrees, as I was saying, and by length. That's standard. Clubs with a very low degree--say, 9 degrees--are longer in the shaft and used when you want to hit it low and far. Clubs with a very high degree--this one in my hand is a 49 degree wedge--are shorter in the shaft and used to pop the ball up in the air. It's all science. The longer irons--the ones that propel the ball the furthest--tend to have less bulk at the clubface. That's just the way it is. It's science. I don't mess with science.”
WBGCFHH: “How much is a collection of these clubs? $75? $100?
Me: “No, no. They start at $399. The premier sets on the wall sell for $1299. It’s an expensive game.”
WBGCFHH: “I’ll say!”
Me: “Yeah.”
WBGCFHH (walking to the rack of fairway woods): “And then there’s these. What’s up with these? These don’t look like those.” (She gestures back to the wall of iron sets.)
Me: “No, you’re right. These are woods. Woods are used for hitting the ball a long way.”
WBGCFHH: “Why?”
Me (confused): “Well, sometimes you want to hit it a long way. These clubs have the most meat behind the face--the most muscle--so there’s more of a wallop at impact. Plus, they’re much easier to hit than many of the irons you just saw.”
WBGCFHH: “Do all golfers have the metal ones and these ones?”
Me: “Irons and woods? Yes. I’ve met only one man who carried nothing but irons, and he was a bit eccentric. Plus, he wasn’t a very good player.”
WBGCFHH: “So what do I buy?”
Me: “I wouldn’t buy anything yet. Have your hubby come in. We’ll get him fitted for a set.”
WBGCFHH: “Gosh, you really know what you’re doing.”
Me: “Not really, but I’m getting there.”
WBGCFHH: “I’ll bring him in.”
Me: “See you soon.”
...

mike contemplates his navel

[ed. 10/28/09: Tonight, to my stunned dismay, I learned that most of the population does not know what it means to "contemplate one's navel." Selfishly speaking, that's a problem; if my readers don't recognize the phrase, the following entry A) makes no sense and B) alienates you from my blog in a damn hurry, since you're sure to miss the humor and tag me a narcissistic asshole.

So, without further ado, here's a link that might offer up a few explanations:

>>CLICK HERE<<]

My navel is a circular, concave indentation in my abdominal region, centered equidistantly between my xyphoid process and the ventral tip of my pubis. It's also known as a belly button.

Today, my navel serves me no purpose; once, though, it allowed me to siphon nutrients and whatnot from my mother when I occupied her uterus, or so they tell me. I'm not entirely sure where these nutrients traveled once they passed thru the umbilical and into my navel, nor do I understand biological science in any capacity, but I DO know that without a navel, I'd be one of two things: 1) Not alive, on account of my not getting any nutrients, or 2) an alien. (Aliens are probably navel-less.) (Czech model Karolina Kurkova's dubious, wholly inconspicuous stomach marking may or may not be a navel. See pic here. Karolina is an exception to the rule...or, she is an alien.)

In the first Ace Ventura film, Jim Carrey allowed a pet bird to pick seeds from his navel. Not sure why I told you that, other than the fact that a navel was involved.

It seems as if the size and depth of one's navel depends, proportionally, on one's body weight...at least, that's been my experience. When I ran 50+ miles a week and sported a well-defined abdominal region, my navel was scarcely a navel, since there was nowhere for it to burrow. (At the time, I had 6-8% body fat.) Now that I'm five years and twenty pounds removed from college, my navel has excavated further and further into my belly (or, more accurately, my belly has risen to greet me), to the point where now I might be able to pour a small thimbleful of liquid into my navel without spillage.

Once, when I was young, I remember finding some small fuzzy stuff in my navel, which I now know to be lint. The lint was a dull brown color, and--as you'd expect--quite small. Strange. How'd it get in there?
...

(dystopian) literary connections

"Whether (Winston) went on with the diary, or whether he did not go on with it, made no difference. The Thought Police would get him just the same. He had committed--would still have committed, even if he had never set pen to paper--the essential crime that contained all others in itself. Thoughtcrime, they called it. Thoughtcrime was not a thing that could be concealed forever."

-George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949)

"This is the age of the common man, they tell us--a title which any man may claim to the extent of such distinction as he has managed not to achieve. He will rise to a rank of nobility by means of the effort he has failed to make, he will be honored for such virtue as he has not displayed, and he will be paid for the goods which he did not produce. But we--we, who must atone for the guilt of ability--we will work to support him as he orders, with his pleasure as our only reward. Since we have the most to contribute, we will have the least to say. Since we have the better capacity to think, we will not be permitted a thought of our own. We will work under directives and controls, issued by those who are incapable of working."

-Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged (1957)

"The year was 2081, and everybody was finally equal. They weren’t only equal before God and the law. They were equal every which way. Nobody was smarter than anybody else. Nobody was better looking than anybody else. Nobody was stronger or quicker than anybody else. All this equality was due to the 211th, 212th, and 213th Amendments to the Constitution, and to the unceasing vigilance of agents of the United States Handicapper General."

--and--

"Hazel had a perfectly average intelligence, which meant she couldn’t think about anything except in short bursts. And George, while his intelligence was way above normal, had a little mental handicap radio in his ear. He was required by law to wear it at all times. It was tuned to a government transmitter. Every twenty seconds or so, the transmitter would send out some sharp noise to keep people like George from taking unfair advantage of their brains."

-Kurt Vonnegut, "Harrison Bergeron" (1961)

Meek and obedient you follow the leader
Down well trodden corridors into the valley of steel.
What a surprise!
A look of terminal shock in your eyes.
Now things are really what they seem.
No, this is not a bad dream.

-Pink Floyd, "Sheep" (1977)
...

tomatoes and lettuce may break my bones...

So I’m a DJ.

Once a week, I spin--er, click--records at Jake's Dilemma, a pub on 81st and Amsterdam. Pretty sweet gig. They pay handsomely, and beer is on the house. Anthony Barker (scholar, gentleman, all-around good fellow) alerted me to the position.

Being utterly neophytic in all things DJ, I’ve experienced a few minor setbacks during my shifts. Check it:

1) The mouse on my MacBook sticks, meaning I can’t maneuver songs up or down an iTunes queue for fear of the inadvertent double-click. Should I choose to deviate from a pre-prepared setlist, auditory seams begin to show. Let’s say I’ve assembled a 35-song list to get me started. All songs are set to fade cleanly from one to the next, effectively a) eliminating dead air and b) fooling people into thinking I’m a professional. Some clown approaches the DJ booth and requests Tonic’s “If You Could Only See.” Well, now I’m forced to employ a choppy, manual fade-out (one hand on the master volume, the other readied at the mouse) to grant his request. Not cool, dude. If any tech heads out there know how to move songs up or down a playlist without the standard click-and-drag, please 411 me. Stat.

2) My record collection leaves much to be desired. Nearly all rock from ’66 to about ’78 is covered, as is most 90s alternative and everything Radiohead ever released. I’ve accumulated a fair amount of 80s radio pop, too, and a few select rap/hip-hop artists, but there’s flagrant gaps all over the place. Hell, the other day I noticed--with astonishment--that I don’t even own “Layla.” (Never cared all that much for Clapton.) This is a problem. On my first night of DJing, some chick boozed her way over to the booth and requested The Killers, a forgettable band with forgettable, interchangeable songs. Suffice it to say, I own exactly zero of them (the songs, I mean). Chick wasn't pleased. This week I’ll be downloading music at a frenetic pace and researching my ass off. I need to figure out what 90% of the population has been listening to since the latter stages of the Carter administration, since my brain/soul/heart/wallet/liver are still lost somewhere in 1979.

3) I am not a friend of technology. What I mean is that I devolve into a full-fledged imbecile when confronted with digitized, sharply-angled machines. Knobs and buttons confuse me, as do these mythic concepts like “Wii” and “Twitter” and “cell phones.” Every time I set up my laptop in the DJ cubbie (an elevated, 3x3 foot space above the beer pong tables…yes, there’s beer pong), something goes awry while I attempt to decode the vertical whoozits on the display panel. That's usually when I freak out and begin to cry. Eight or ten fat, fat seconds pass while I try to achieve volume from two sticks and a knot of prairie grass. Nonplussed boozehounds hurl tomatoes, heads of lettuce, and Heineken bottles at my quaking body, which is protected--mercifully--by a barred enclosure which was featured once in an episode of American Gladiators, I think. (DJing is dangerous work, like shrimping or bike messengering.) After picking fresh ketchup and bits of green, broken glass from the folds of my shirtsleeves, I spin something delectably arcane--The Smiths, say--which only upsets them further. “What’s this gay shit?,” they grunt, shirt collars pointed at the moon. “You pug-nosed neanderthals,” I reply, “go buy yourself some taste.” That’s when I flip ‘em a quarter thru the caging, which always seems like a good idea at the time. More bottles, more lettuce. To spite them, I doggie paddle even further from the Top 40, playing Allman Brothers opuses a half hour long until I’m forcefully ejected from the cage by the biceps of management.

4) I deliberately break the rules. The fellas at Jake's Dilemma (a frat-ish "bro" bar) instruct me to stick to boring, straightaway rock, but do YOU know anyone capable of stomaching “Jet Airliner” nine or ten times without subjecting his ear to the fork? Didn’t think so. Other day, crazy bastard I am, I said, “Ah, the hell with it!,” and dipped my toe--hell, I went to the knee--into the Snoop Dogg/Ice Cube/Cypress Hill waters for about twenty minutes. Believe me, those beer-pongin’ honky cats ate it up. If management is wrong, I don’t want to be right. Wait...that makes no sense. But you catch my gist, right? What I'm trying to say is that I'm awesome, and more perceptive than my superiors. Jake's musical landscape is getting a makeover, one inflammatory track at a time.

5) Amy Winehouse’s “Back To Black” (the song, not the album) does NOT translate well to the dance floor. “You’re depressing the hell outta me,” some non-appreciative floozy informed me after my first--and last--spin of this colossal mood-killer. To spite her, I doggie paddled even further from the Top 40, playing Allman Brothers opuses a half hour long until I was forcefully ejected from the cage by the biceps of management.

DJing has been good for me, musically speaking. For purposes of completism, I’ve consciously ventured outside of my comfort zone and explored sounds/genres that I previously deemed unlistenable. Without further explanation (or a viable defense), let me just say that I’ve become hopelessly addicted to this song, a song so un-Elwood it’s disgusting:



^ Attached vid isn't much of a vid, unfortunately. The official, MTV-approved clip--the one that made me fall in love with an underage/very illegal Gabriella Cilmi--won't allow embedding in a blog, so I'm forced to post this dubious substitute. Anyway, give a listen and feel free to tomato/lettuce me for my new, non-discriminatory pop leanings. By now, I'm used to it.
...

life in bandon, part III

[Author's note: Seeing as I have no relevant photographs to upload as supplement to this entry, I'll be posting random pics of (or concerning) Public Image Ltd., the band currently spinning on my iPod. Good day.]

Triple Diamond Transportation Service is a small, locally owned cab company in Oregon that serves Bandon, Coquille and Coos Bay. (Because I'm into the whole brevity thing, I'll be referring to ^ as <> <> <> from here on out.) The business still exists, so far as I know, though an acrimonious pillow fight two summers ago pitted brother against brother (or, more accurately, driver against driver) and led to the ramshackle formation of a second, rival company, Par 3 Transportation.

Let’s meet the players of the game, in order of descending relevancy.

1) Frank. The head honcho, the Don, the boss, the pimp. He ran the operation. Equal parts ruthless, greedy, villainous, misogynistic and embittered, Frank was a real joy to be around, a real cutup. My favorite Frank quote: “City people are all fucking stupid. I hate cities. Never met a city person that I enjoyed being around. They’re all assholes.” Frank, a failed musician, moonlighted as a casino lounge singer. You can’t make that shit up.

2) Renee. My favorite <> <> <> employee. Renee, a young mother of two, oiled and maintained the machine when Frank fell asleep at the controls (which was often--he spent four to six hours a day feeding his fortune into slots at the local casino). She had the fattest heart of the lot. I miss her.

3) Large-Breasted Patty. Large-Breasted Patty boasted very large breasts, which she crowbarred into elasticine bras intended for mammaries ¼ their size. Patty, your classic Two-Face, was the sweetest, most well-endowed woman in the world when you were in her cab, but, within seconds of your exit, she'd run your name thru the mud to anyone within earshot. Secrets weren’t safe with her (ginormous rack). In semi-related news, I remember Patty telling me that a group of drunken golfers offered her $2,000 in cash to flash them her jumblies for 10 seconds. “I didn’t do it,” she said proudly, nose and teats in the air. “Stupid,” I said, shaking my head. “Really damn stupid.”

4) Lori. Kind, polite, harmless, somewhat forgettable. (In spite of her seeming boringitude, I loved her immediately.) Lori’s porridge-brained 16-yr-old son worked at the course, and was perhaps the single worst caddie I’ve ever seen. I once watched that acne-scratcher read a three-foot putt to break six inches left. It carved a foot right. His golfer turned many colors and threatened to plant boots in certain orifices.

5) Frank’s Wife, Terri. Terri, bless her soul, really f***ed up. She married Frank--only God knows why--and doomed herself to a life of mindless circuitry in a two-bit town. Every time I encountered her, I wanted to shake those broad, mannish shoulders (she was a brute) and shout: “Escape! Get the hell out! There’s a whole world out there beyond the Coquille River! Your husband smells like ham!”

There were other players, too, though they assumed menial, insignificant roles in the Civil War of 2006. Six or seven other drivers drove for <> <> <> at one point in time, though they held very little stock in the company and, therefore, did not actively influence the fracture.

I rode <> <> <> every day for three summers. The prices they charged were too good to be true; a one-way ride from town to the resort (10-15 minutes door to door) was only $5, a true steal. They didn’t up the fare to $7 until early fall of ’06, when escalating gas prices necessitated a bump. All in all, <> <> <> proved an efficient, economical way to travel. Who needs a car?

The night before a loop (caddie slang for a standard, 18-hole round of golf), I’d ring <> <> <> and request a pickup time, which--more often than not--fell somewhere in the 5:00-5:30 range. The morning cab, a paddy wagon of sorts, burped and rumbled over the volatile Bandon streets (our “cab" was a hugantic Econoline van with very poor shocks), plucking up red-eyed caddies from brittle, wooden homes that looked as if a stiff breeze could do 'em in. Most of the caddies were either hungover or drunk, or brain damaged. They’d curse and mutter and sleep, voweling things that sounded like (but may very well not have been), “…can’t believe…how am I gonna…long day…wrong shoes…not enough water…alarm didn’t go off…damn wife…whiskey...two a.m...”

Incredulously, <> <> <> stocked canned beer, free of charge. Oregon law permits drinking in cabs. After a round or two out on the windy bluff, we’d collapse our sweating, aching bodies into the cab and pop a Budweiser from the cooler. On a good day, if one were feeling particularly ambitious and/or cheap, a looper could easily down three full beers before his drop-off point. If that’s not incentive to take a cab, I don’t know what is.

Okay, on to the fight:

Frank, as previously stated, was a goon. He paid his drivers roughly $8 an hour, but they deserved $15….if not more. Though no mathspert, I once crunched a few numbers and realized that Frank was banking a small fortune off of us. (On an average lift to/fro the course, there’d be 4 or 5 well-tipping caddies in the van. Frank also shuttled golf groups from the local airports, a practice which yielded enormous returns--often twelve or fifteen times the raw cost of the ride.) His drivers saw very little of this profit, though they logged inhumane hours and responded to his every beck and call. Some of them worked 14, 15 hour days. Frank, it seemed, worked once a week. The drivers quickly woke to the scam and demanded raises.

That’s when things got ugly.

Frank wouldn’t budge. I heard arguments from both sides, mostly because I knew all of the drivers intimately. Names were mentioned. Shit was talked. Backs were stabbed. Renee expressed to me that she was planning on breaking from the company. She’d been in discussions with Patty, she said. They had enough capital to pull it off, and all the proper papers. Weeks later, <> <> <> split in two. Somewhere in transition, though, Renee got pushed to the side and forgotten. Big-Breasted Patty took over the new gig and began calling the tits--I mean, shots.

Caddies pledged allegiance to one or the other. Some stuck with Frank. Others--myself included in this, the latter set--switched over to Par 3, the new, Patty-run company. Vitriol ensued as Company A slammed Company B at every opportunity, and vice versa. I’d like to think that Frank’s <> <> <> suffered, though I can’t be certain. He still monopolized the airport runs.

Big-Breasted Patty (for some reason, I feel as if “Big-Breasted” ought to be capitalized…perhaps those bosoms demand exclamation) turned out to be even flakier than previously suggested, so I eventually ditched her, too. See, a few times Patty forgot to pick me up in the a.m., forcing me to seek alternative transportation. I later found out that she often answered my evening phone calls while sauced at the local pub, which might begin to explain her inconsistencies. Crazy wench nearly cost me my job, on multiple occasions.

During those last months in Bandon, I appealed to the third cab service in town, a company whose name escapes me. These swell fellas arrived on time--if not five minutes early--and charged $5, the old rate at <> <> <>. Me: “Sold!”

And that, as they say, was that. Somewhere, at this very moment, Frank is probably pushing my crumpled bills into a Lucky Sevens machine.
...

life in bandon, part II

...
Story time. This is a good’un.

Fast forward two years. Fresh off a winter of East Coast road tripping, I’ve returned to Bandon to save for a fall move to New York City. Here we find Mike hopelessly depressed (New York : Bandon :: Tom Waits : James Blunt), living alone at the motel mentioned in part I of this installation. I become more hermetic by the hour, tangled in vague existential crises that know no antidote. My routine numbs the mind and sucks the soul; I caddie during the day, return to an empty room at night, read Vonnegut and Capote. Sometimes I watch very bad television, blinds drawn. I retreat further and further inside my head and rarely emerge from my four-walled cave.

Then:

A simple twist of fate (cheers, Bobby). My peepers fall on a handwritten ad thumbtacked to the caddie shack bulletin board. It reads something like this: “Room for rent. $275/mo. Clean, spacious. Inquire at 347-xxxx.” So I do. I inquire. Her voice sounds like alley rocks. She asks me where I am. “Ray’s,” I say. “Near the blue benches.” Ray’s is the supermarket. She: “I’ll pick you up.” Her car is a sleek, black Pontiac that exists outside of time and space. And taste. It may be from 1989 or, say, 2006. I'm not really sure. Of course the windows are tinted. Two white, fuzzy dice swing from the rearview mirror. "Get in," she says. Her name is Sandra. She is 54.

Minutes later, we arrive at her home.

RED FLAGS:

1) Chloe, the dog, is a monstrous creature who has not been bathed in months. Though diminutive and perfectly harmless, tempermentally speaking, she’s spoiled to shit and probably disease-ridden, judging from the odor. Chloe massages herself by rubbing her fetid hindquarters against the legs of the living room couch. That dog needs a good punting.

2) Mike, Sandra’s “roommate” (are they sleeping together? no one knows), is an older, vaguely creepy man with no teeth and sad, watery eyes. He occupies the bedroom across the hall from Sandra. Mike’s mustache is stone grey, except for a very thin patch between his nostril and upper lip, which is burnt to a fine orange from years of ciggie smoking. He looks like prison. (More on that later.)

3) Mike dates (see: sleeps with) Charla, a flannelled mother of two who belongs in a sentence with these three words: “archetypical,” “trailor,” and “trash.” She drives a rusted, dented Buick that is not of this decade, swills vodka straight from the bottle and wears--unironically--black, stonewashed jeans that rise to her nipples.

4) The bed in my would-be room is a 70s-style waterbed (see: lumps in all the wrong places, zero lumbar support).

5) The house reeks of cigarette smoke.

“I’ll take it!” I say.

First few weeks pass without incident. I discover that Sandra is a raging alcoholic, but a highly disciplined one. She drinks exactly once a week, from noon on Saturday to four a.m. on Sunday. My bedroom flanks the enclosed back porch, which is, admittedly, a pretty sweet party room. There’s a diner-style booth, a few scattered couches and a stereo. Full bar in the back. Every Saturday Sandra takes to her chair next to the record player and pours herself a malicious whiskey-‘n’-water, but not before queuing a Greatest Hits Of The 70s compilation and calling all her degenerate friends to take part in the festivities. Before night's end, ten or twelve locals--Sandra's posse--hiccup their way onto the porch, each louder than the last.

A window in my room looks out into the porch. I can see them, but, due to the lighting and the blinds, they can’t see me.

One Saturday night (er, Sunday morning) I awake to hear Mike and Charla doing the old in-out, in-out on the porch after Sandra and the trolls pass out. This horrid, eyeball-breaking act takes place ten paces from my window. I am nonplussed.

Sometimes I make an appearance at the Saturday parties. Sandra and Mike adore me because I’m young (they live vicariously through me) and fairly sociable, and because they get a kick out of my stories. Their crazy friends take to me immediately. I spend hours on that porch, sipping microbrew and yabbering away.

[A completely random aside: Sandra’s skin is frighteningly sallow. I know why. All she eats are mini Crunch bars and Reese’s cups. You think I’m kidding. I’m not. In my four months there, I never once see her consume regular, nutritional food. One day I peer into her room to confirm my suspicions, and, sure enough, there's five or six of those 10-Piece Fun Packs on the carpet next to her bed. Sandra runs on chocolate, yet--surprisingly--she’s skinnier than I am.]

Sandra’s daughter, Amy, is 23. Sandra tries to hook us up. “Amy will be coming down this weekend from Portland,” she says. “You MUST meet her.” Then she shows me pictures of Amy. I look at the pictures. They're nice pictures. “Ok,” I say. “I’ll meet her.” Amy arrives. She pretends I do not exist. Cold shoulder. On the third day, Amy offers this: “We--my friends and I--are hitting the pub, if you wanna go.” “Sure,” I say. “I’m in.” We go. We drink. After two or three, Amy gives me the eye and slinks over to my side, bolstered by that liquid courage. I don’t know what to make of all this. I was fairly convinced she hated me, but that hand on my arm suggests otherwise. That’s when Jay, her ex-boyfriend, steamrolls across the bar and takes a swing at me. My first bar fight! (Ok, so it isn’t really a fight. Four or five people intervene before any punches land.)

Amy and I flee the bar hand in hand. Twenty minutes later, we’re in her car en route to Portland. On the way up, we listen to Gnarls Barkley's "Crazy" probably 45 times. So it goes.

A few weeks later, I’m reading on the living room couch, minding my business, when Mike emerges from the back porch. He’s wrecked. I can see it in his eyes. He sways in front of me before slurring--inches from my face--something along these lines: “If you EVER cross me, Mike, I’ll fucking kill you. I’ll end you. I’ll fucking end you.” I realize, then and there, that this man is capable of murder. It takes me a few minutes to talk him down and put him to bed.

Days later, I discover (via Sandra) that Mike has spent 20+ years of his life in prison, though to this day I don’t what crime brought about such a sentence. She doesn’t volunteer that information. Swell, Sandra.

I get out of there, eventually. Alive, one piece, all my digits. Phew!
...