Some Thoughts on Fire, Water, Lawn Chairs, & the Insufficiency of Language

Above you will find a picture of a face that formed eerily in my sink. Frightening, isn’t it?

I’d just poured dish soap onto some old coffee that had mostly turned to mud by that time. Earth & Water: This is the sorta fury you can expect when the elements meet.

Which reminds me of where I left off when I was telling you about Hawaii…

So but then Stefan, Niko and I gathered our gear about us and headed up the road. There were clumps of people all ahead of us, walking along the cliffs that lined the ocean. Everyone was stopping and gaping downward as they walked ahead of us. When we got closer to the cliff line, it became apparent what they were looking at.

As I write Hawaii, I am consistently frustrated by just how inadequate language is. You can say these things are amazing. You can say that the sea was frothing like an infant’s saliva, that the cliffs were colored in hundreds of eggplant shades and had the texture of an ancient person's skin. And the lowering sunlight was, no shit, like the orange you find in one of the middle layers of an open flame. Clichéd? Maybe. Exaggerated? Sorry, no. And still, still, damn unequal to what I saw when I looked down toward the water. The wind coming off the water was powerful, but beautifully warm. Not at all what I expected. The waves, in truth, boomed.

So we gawked and snapped pictures. Stefan kept looking to me for a reaction. I don't know what he saw on my face. I do know that it was exhilarating. There really are experiences in life that are thrilling in this way. Somehow, strangely, it's easy to forget feelings of this nature, but I experienced them then. All I can offer you now are these paltry words and a picture. The truth, predictably and sadly, is that you had to be there.

Anyway, the light was quickly changing, so we shouldered our packs and got moving. I often walk around the city with the very same backpack that I was carrying then—sometimes for a few miles. What's more, when I was a kid, my parents had coerced me into several backpacking trips. So I figured the hike wouldn't be very difficult. Thing is, I underestimated the distance—not badly enough that it would've killed me, but, even worse, I’d also forgotten a piece of backpacking knowledge I'd picked up as a kid: hiking on irregular terrain is a bitch. Especially with a pack throwing off yr. sense of balance. Even if this had occurred to me I think I wouldn't still've been surprised by how punishing this hike was. These walking conditions weren't just difficult—they were downright bizarre—if you're not used to hiking across lava anyway.

And the beginning of the hike was deceptively easy. Even after we'd left the road, the first stretch was easy—level and stable. It was flat and open. There wasn't a proper trail, but the ocean was on yr. right. It was pretty obvious where you had to go. There was some scrubby vegetation, but for the most part, we'd entered abnormally rocky terrain. There wasn't even dirt to speak of, just these deep chocolate brown plains of rock.

If you remain in rough alignment with the road you left behind, you hit on a display of the profundity and peculiarity of volcanic forces. In fact, it's downright funny—I mean funny “ha”—chunk of paved road, complete with yellow line, embedded in the lava. It's maybe 10 feet long—and somehow it survived one of the recent eruptions, while all the rest of the road was obliterated. It appears that the lava just jumped over it.

Very slowly, dusk was building up around us. The light was becoming blue. We noticed a large group of people spread out on the rock in front of us. There were whole families—with plenty of kids in tow. They were seated on blankets—even a couple of lawn chairs—and looked, for all the world, like they were waiting for the fireworks to start in Grant Park. Thing is, they were looking east and down—toward the sea—where an enormous, violent cloud of steam was rising out of the sea.

The mood was something like I'd expect you’d find at one of those mass UFO campouts—friendly and outgoing—as 'tho everyone wanted to acknowledge your presence and the experience you were all having together. Many a beer can was lifted in our direction. Many a friendly salute was tipped our way. We reciprocated, then got down to the business of viewing the lava flow.

Here's where fire meets water: the lava flow empties into the Pacific. And people come from all over the world to just sit and watch—esp. at dusk when the darkness allows you to see the lava more clearly, but isn't so heavy that you can no longer appreciate the texture of the ocean and its angry response to the lava.

It grew even darker, and most of us there were getting out shit together and preparing to move on. At first I was surprised to see that so many people were going the other way—back to the cars. Somehow the communal spirit had led me to think we'd all just go on together. When I realized how many of them did not have packs of any sort, it became clearer to me. Also there were the kids. It was only then that I realized how much the difficulty of the walk might, understandably deter people.

There was also the fact that what we were proposing to do was not thoroughly endorsed by the park, 'tho due to intense demand, they do allow it. There have been shelves of lava that have taken hikers with them as they've collapsed into the sea. There are rope borders surrounding the safe area, but as you go further up the side of the mountain, they become few and far between. You've moved away from the sea, but the ground is unstable in places. There are the flashing buoys the ranger mentioned, which are fairly easy to find in the dark, but there were times over the course of the night when we lost them altogether.

So Long...

Just a word, and it has nothing to do w/ Carlos Zambrano's no-hitter yesterday...

It seems fucking stupid to say this at your blog, but where else can you say it? I can't begin to express how hard the suicide of David Foster Wallace hit me. All the more reason for not say anything, Right? Still...

David Foster Wallace was the real deal: a "genius" if such a thing exists. (He had an award that says he was!) He was so far beyond most people who try to write... That's not to say that you shouldn't try. I don't know much about the guy, but my suspicion is that he would want you to write. (Possibly because he'd want to see what you came up w/.)

I also don't mean that you might not be a better writer than him if you did try. You should. Write. I only mean that the man understood language and that he was compelled by the curious twisting of ideas of both the real and made-up kinds. And somehow these traits (and prob. others that I know nothing about) allowed him to express so many things so beautifully--most notably, to me, the expression of loneliness and of the desire to connect w/ others around you--no matter how imperfect you or they are.

Some people called Infinite Jest, his best known book, gimmicky, but for all its twists and turns--which I also enjoyed--what spoke to me the most was its heart.

And to watch somebody who could create that--who is so far beyond me in areas of my life that mean a great deal to me--to see him destroyed just tastes like copper and shit. It's just as desolate as a car-less 3 a.m./3 mile walk home from the bar in the dead of winter. It's worse than the hangover you have the next morning--the kind where you're still puking, altho' you're sober. It's one more piece of evidence in the ol' life sucks case-file, that I, as a P.I., have been looking into.

If it came to that for him, how are so many other things gonna end up? And what kinda stupid ass world is this if that's where things can go?


Anyway, like I said, I really know very little about the dude, so I'll just be grateful for his writing and how in a small way, it made me feel and see differently. Then I'll shut the fuck up...

I Quit...

Just wanted to say that since no one ever reads this blog, I’m closing it down. I just don’t see the point if no one’s going to read it. So long, suckers…

Mmf… Snicker… Gotcha!!!

Juuusssttt kiddin’… Sorry. I’ve just always wanted to do an entry like that. It seems like the people who put them up at their blogs are having so much fun!

See ya soon…

The Road to Ruins

Hawaii. Now where were we? Wait! I know…

After some heel-dragging of the "Ida know, what do you wanna do?" variety, we finally grabbed our packs and headed up the trail. The sunlight was angling more sharply now—on its way toward setting, but taking its time about it. Beneath the trees, the shadows were getting heavy. It took my eyes a minute to adjust. The dimness made it seem later than it really was. The little blots of sunlight that bled through the shadows shifted and moved about. It was pleasant, dreamlike.

We weren't very far into the woods when we heard someone tramping in front of us. I expected it to be a stranger, and it was difficult to be sure, but after a moment I recognized Stefan. He was lugging his pack, and looked as sprightly as ever

After a brief greeting, Stefan asked us what we thought of the crater. I felt too dazed to verbalize, but he was clearly waiting for an answer, as he led us into the parking lot. Niko, of course, said it was O.K or something to that effect. I still found it difficult to form words. It was all too disorienting, and Stefan seemed to think that Niko & I understood what procedure we would be following from this point on. Maybe he'd communicated it to Niko, but all I'd ever heard was a request that I bring his kid up to the park, and if I had extra time, to shuttle him around the crater; (which I would enjoy as well, I was told). Then I would meet Stefan at 5 p.m., Niko in tow, in the parking lot near the trailhead, from whence we would all depart to see the lava flow. (I had only the vaguest idea of where the lava was flowing, BTW, 'tho I coulda figured it out if I'd looked at the map.) That was all I’d been asked or told. But OK, some people aren't real adept with the whole communication biz, no matter what language you or they are speaking. (Or not.) (Or something.)

So Stefan headed over to his Jeep and began re-arranging the contents of his backpack, adding some materials he thought he might need for his camp on Mauna Loa. He asked me if I had water. I said that I did. He didn't ask how much I was carrying, but I had a 1.5 liter bottle in my pack. Being the avid hiker that he is, I suspect he would've thought I was traveling a little light. So was he 'tho, as I’d find out later.

What followed was another one of those annoying and increasingly familiar moments in which Stefan either believed, falsely, that he'd explained his wishes to me before or that I would just intuitively understand: Seems that he wanted me to drive us to the edge of the lava field whereat we would be obliged to begin hiking toward the lava flow. I'd been in the goddamn car enough that I wasn't thrilled at the prospect of more driving, but recognized that, yeah, we weren't all gonna fit in his jeep, esp. w/ all his camp gear. So I guess his expectations were warranted after all, assuming I wasn’t kinda dumb. (And here’s an object lesson in why you shouldn’t assume.)

So off we did drive up Chain of Craters road and away from the caldera and towards the Pacific in the south. Along the way, Stefan and I made small talk. Turns out he's a meteorologist, specializing in climate change. His job necessitated frequent travel all over the place. Poor fucker.

As I said before, he didn't seem particularly interested in the realities of my own job, which was a relief because it's boring as hell. Instead he asked me a buncha questions about my writing, the drawings I'd been making, my guitar, etc. He was making me out to be a real Renaissance Man and complimenting on my evident gifts. I wasn't sure how he'd been able to evaluate my "gifts" at all—unless he saw more in that rudimentary sketch of the mountains than I did. Cynic that I am, I thought he mighta been kissing my ass a little—prob. to placate me for all the horseshit I'd been obliged to do. 'Tho again I don't know why he'd have thought I needed placating.

I may be bitching a lot here, but at the time, I wasn't really upset, and to the extent that I was irritated, I don't think it showed much. I just think that's how this guy is: inclined to curry the goodwill of everyone around him. But then I may be unfair—at least partially. Maybe he’s just capable of what’s seeing what’s good or interesting in other people—an area in which I myself am not gifted, but I try.

As we drove, Stefan maintained this running travelogue, noting the signs of various volcanic phenomena. I was impressed, but he told me he didn't want to take too much credit for his knowledge. Seems he'd just asked a lotta rangers a lotta questions—here, and around Mauna Loa, where he was planning on setting up camp.

As you drive along Chain of Craters Road, the hardened lava your moving over represents several past eruptions. Its texture ranges from smooth, brittle sheets to thick, dense solid rock. Its color varies from reddish-brown through a deep chocolate black to a grayer, blue shade of black. Occasionally you find these peculiar glass-like chunks of brightly colored rock—greens or reds or golds. The landscape is bizarre and ever-shifting. You pass steaming craters, uneven rock formations, and dry, scrubby vegetation.

The drive takes a while, but seems to go very quickly. Stefan and I kept just staring at the shit around us. (Niko was again engaged with his writing.) Stefan would giggle and hop around in his seat, while I just watched, amazed.

At some point, the road ran up against the sea and curved back east along the cliffs that lined the water. Not long after that, I realized I wasn't in a national park at all, but rather was looking for a parking spot outside a major rock concert. There was that endless line of cars you always find at a large rock show, resting along both sides of the road with people milling about them, but mostly headed in the direction the cars were facing. Shit! And I didn't even know who I was gonna be seeing! And then something really frightening occurred to me. Now I ain't a kraut-hater when it comes to contemporary popular music. I like Kraftwerk and Oval and Einsturzende Neubaten and Neu! and pale and frog-croaking Nico—who should not be confused w/ my current traveling companion.

But so like OK, I was with krauts—and much as you might not wanna generalize, they do have these weird musical predilections. Some of the performers above support this thesis, I'd say. Worse, part of my present company had already shown himself to be, well, a bit eccentric when it came to the toonz he liked. Riverdance! Holy shit! I might be going to see Riverdance! As soon as that occurred to me, I was tryin' to find my false tooth that contained that cyanide capsule, y'know, for just this sorta fatally hopeless situation. But then I remembered that I didn't have no false teeth nor deadly cyanide capsules, and that in fact that was just some shit that happened in a movie or 2 I saw once.

So I was screwed. I was gonna hafta sit through Riverdance. And like, you know these krauts would stay for the whole thing, and like now I was responsible for the assholes cuz they'd coerced me into driving them 45 min. into this volcanic desert, and like what was I gonna do now, leave 'em there?

Sure, they could prob. hitch a ride home w/ some other Riverdance enthusiasts. (And if so, I would rather be a fly on the wall of a shithouse belonging to Liz Phair—whose hygienic habits we already know are obscene—than I would be a fly on the walla that fucking car. They'd prob., like, compare and contrast the relative strengths and weaknesses of all these various performances of Riverdance that they'd seen and like who had the best tap shoes and which guy was the gayest and wouldn't you like to lap away at his asshole to get him all good and loosened for yr. post show dressing room assault??? Huh wouldntcha?????

And Stefan would squirm around all girly like, talkin' about how he was gonna do all these really unpleasant German type things to the guy like shit on him and piss on him and write words on him with earwax and braid his nose (not his pubic) hair and maybe stick a paper towel tube up his urethra and pour lemon juice in there—which not only hurts like hell but makes yr. piss even more yellow—and but then he'd prob. make the guy sculpt things out of years of accumulated toe jam that he keeps in a jar in his backpack and also make him eat a kidney stone he'd passed—the guy couldn't bite it neither like sometimes how you want to bite a mint, but you know you should suck it to make it last longer even tho it’s less fun, well this guy'd have to do the same thing w/ this kidney stone and that would take who the fuck knows how long? Maybe kidney stones don't decay any faster than bones, which would mean that the guy would prob. be long dead and have that stone still decomposing in his skeletal puss till Judgment Day? And that'd be really embarrassing I mean if there really was a Judgment Day cuzz how like all the dead bodies there are supposed to rise up or something, and this guy'd rise up sucking on another dude's kidney stone, & all the other cadavers would be pausin' periodically in the midst of their post-apocalyptic rapture or terror or some shit to laff at him for being such a punk that not only was he in Riverdance, for fuck’s sake, but like he was suckin' this kidney stone!!! And the poor jerk would still hafta keep suckin', cuz Stefan's rotted remains would be standing right next to him with a moth-eaten riding crop, (don't ask me how much or even why a riding crop could hurt you if you were like mostly a rotting bag a bones,) making sure he kept sucking on it. And what would it taste like at that point??? I guess the guy wouldn't prob. have entirely if at all functional taste buds by that time. So but, wait, what the fuck would it taste like in the first place???

I never passed a kidney stone, but I vow that if I ever do I'll pluck it from its watery resting place and begin workin' on it in hopes that at Judgment Day when I'm called on to explain all the shit I did, I can at least go hey look! I figured out whatta kidney stone tastes like. That's gotta be worth something, right? And but I'm guessing it tastes sorta like nut sack sweat combined with myrrh and incense and Robotussin, (which I drink alla time, cuz it gets me real high). And but you could maybe use it in a recipe or 2. Not too many, cuz unless we can get some dudes to sit around repeatedly passing kidney stones, they're prob. not gonna turn up too often. But they'd be kinda a delicacy that way and besides you could prob. get some poor guys in the 3rd and even 1st worlds to do that cuz they're gonna get exploited anyway, so why not make ‘em pass a buncha stones alla time? Whazzat you say? That's not funny? Well, who the fuck said I was tryin' to be funny? Not me. Now I'm not sure if a dude can even pass more than one kidney stone, but like say if you did that'd create a whole new industry, and that's good right? Kidney Stone Farming.

Don't worry, we could do it free range style? OK??? And y'know industry's what drives the economy and that's good for some why or other. And it uplifts us all. All our leaders agree on that, so we're stuck w/ it anyway. ‘Cuz I'm doubting there's gonna be any mass uprising till, oh, maybe Judgment Day, (there's yr. fucking mass uprising!!) and we've already discussed what that'll be like vis-à-vis this whole kidney stone thing...

Anyway...

But so there were long lines of cars on either side of the road, and slow animal that it is, my brain was trying to make sense of it. Stefan was giggling away knowingly. He'd had a feeling it would be like this, he said. I hadn't.

My mind finally clicked. Here was a concept with which it was all too familiar: we needed to find a parking spot. I cruised slowly along the line of cars, but it was like looking for a spot in Wrigleyville during a weekend Cubs game. A little farther up was a woman in a park ranger shirt—complete with tie—was standing in the middle of the road. She was talking to the people who were milling about. She walked directly toward us, so I rolled down my window.

For a moment I thought maybe the eruption had gathered some steam, and that she was going to tell us it to highball it back up the road. The eruption’s been fucking with the coastline all along there, reshaping it on a, like, daily basis. I started having this visions of panicked crowds from Toho Pictures. Funny but not completely ridiculous. Lava had almost wiped out Hilo not too far back there. But being as no one was running or screaming I decided it was more likely that we'd arrived too late. Nothing had been said about set hours of park operation, so I was gonna ask her if we could still hike out to see the lava.

I always expect people in uniforms to be assholes for some reason, even 'tho it seems to be true about 50/50. (Same odds you get w/ a plain clothes type person in my experience.) She was not at all formal or unfriendly. She told me that if I could find a spot to park, we were free to head on out. The only request she made was that we park on the roadside, not off in the lava nearby.

Ha but OK, while the ranger was coo’, the situation was not quite so much. I've lived in Chicago for 13 years. By now, you might think I'd be aces at parallel parking. You would be wrong. I suck at parallel parking. Fact of the matter is if I can take the L somewhere I usually do. I am aces at navigating the subway system. When it starts getting into the need for buses 'tho, I'll usually opt for the car. 'And ‘tho there are, of course, plenty of work situations in which I hafta drive, here, faced w/ these little tiny gaps that might be construable as a parking spots, if you were good at the shit, I was lost.

Finally Stefan offered to park the car, saying he was a sooper dooper parallel parking impresario. I sed u go girl, hopped outta the driver’s seat then proceeded to watch him park. He'd, like, gun it, the car would leap forward about 2 inches, and then he'd like immediately slam on the brakes. Surge screech surge screech. Glad the fucking thing was a rental. Prob. wouldn'ta had much of a transmission left if you did that very often.

The funny part is, I don't think his approach got him into the spot any faster than my own creep-tap style woulda, but I will acknowledge that he didn't once kiss the bumper of the either cars. Very impressive.

Whoopeee!!! It's Opening Day!

Wow… aren’t you amped? I mean, Opening Day for the greatest sport in the world: baseball. I am so fuckin’ psyched!

Wait a sec. Whatcha say? Last night was the All Star Game. C’mon. Yer just funnin’ me. Except that when I consult my calendar, I see that you aren’t.

Fuck! Did I nod off on Opening Day? What am I, Rip van Winkle? Or is this some sort of selective memory loss—was Opening Day so bad that I’ve blotted it out?

Could be. I am, after all, a Cubs fan. But no, no. Gotta have more faith than that. Besides, it is only rational thought, logic and clothing that distinguish us from our animal slaves. So we must scientifically reconstruct what happened here. I am, after all, a professional detective. Sooooooooooo…. Let’s re-create the crime!

First, lemmee put on my Sherlock Holmes hat and take a quick sniff o’ blow, just like the Great Detective did. I’d break out my violin and start playing the sorta atonal free jazz that gave Doc Watson the runs, bit I don’t have a violin. OK. How do they usually start these investigations? I went to film school. I seen a lotta film noir. Why do ya think I got into this biz?

Where do the guys in those movies usually start w/ these amnesia things? I know! What’s the last thing I remember that happened on or around Opening Day? Less’ee… I was anticipating Opening Day, and then it was here. Five minutes ago. Except apparently it happened once before that—it really happened—when all of this started…

On Opening Day, I pulled down my filthy window shades just like I always do. Don’t want no sunlight breakin’ my concentration or depressing me. (Except for the virtual sunlight on TV, I mean.) Then I plunked three freezer burnt Ball Park™ franks in the toaster oven and pushed down the little slider. Then I rolled in my mini cooler, filled to the rim w/ cans of Old Style™ beer and cracked one open. I checked and made sure my pint of Seagram’s™ was within reach, in case things went bad by the seventh inning stretch and we were losing by more than 10 runs, or if things went really bad and Bernie Mack was singing “Take Me out to the Ballgame” at the seventh inning stretch. I turned off my phone because I didn’t want anyone pulling my attention away from something so special, and I know some assholes who are actually so crass that they might try to do so, like my mother. We rarely speak, and if we do, you can bet your ass it’s Opening Day or Elizabeth Elmore night on the local independent music channel. She’s always ruining something.

But filial affection aside, just what the fuck did happen on Opening Day anyway? We’re losing track here, and that’s no way to run an investigation. Remember, ol’ No Shit Sherlock hizself said that when you’ve eliminated every possibility, (thus the No Shit part, I guess,) then what’s left, however improbable, has gotta be the real deal It. So no more sleeping at the switch. As that other great detective, Joe Friday enthused over saying, Just the facts.

Ho-K. Shades: down. Beer: in hand. Seagrams™: just in case. Weenies: charred. Ah well. I have walked the dog. I have turned off the phone. Nothing can distract me—except for trips to the restroom.

Click on the TV. No problems there, still working, ‘tho you have to sit through about 5 minutes of static before you get comprehensible sound, but, like, who cares? Mostly I’m just watchin’ jigglin’ packages or boobs, and they don’t talk. Only their owners can, and really good, artful TV makes it so you don’t have to know who those are, let alone listen to their inane and depressing speech. And I’m not just talkin’ ‘bout porn here. I’m talkin’ ‘bout every well made commercial, sitcom, cartoon, or infomercial there is.

But god damn it. We’re off track again. Opening Day. I’m beginning to have some suspicions as to how I might have lost all memory of it, being as I can’t even stay focused on an attempt to remember it. I’m developing a theory here along these lines, but I’m not gonna reveal it to ya yet, because altho’ they’re all about having an open mind and shit, great detectives like Holmes and Columbo always obviously have a theory early on, but they won’t tell anybody, ‘cuz that wouldn’t let ‘em be smug assholes, and since that’s the tradition of detectivery, (or whatever,) I’m gonna have pride in my profession and uphold it’s sacred precepts like this one about being a smug asshole.

Now. What happened next? Oh yes! I know…There were a lotta commercials! Can’t believe I forgot that one. There are always way, way too many commercials when you’re watching a ballgame. Makes you feel kinda dirty, doesn’t it? Or maybe not. Well there are even more of them when it’s a special ball game, like Opening Day, the All-Star Game, a playoff game, or when some baseball legend, like, say, Ronnie Belliard, nobly achieves a heroic statistical accomplishment, like, say, being the first player ever to noisily break wind while turning a double play for the 5^th time in his career. (My condolences to all the sports journalists following Ronnie around for the 37^th game in a row, just waiting for him to rip one off. Thought waiting on Glavine or Bonds or Maddux was bad? Sit down and enjoy a cup of this.)

Come to think of it—and zoinks! This may be a clue—I was beginning to find myself nodding off in front of all these commercials, dreaming of that first pitch that was gonna be thrown out by Ethel Merman. (Isn’t she dead? Shit. This is getting kinda creepy.) But then one of the commercials got even loud than all the other commercials that were already 20-or-so times as deafening as the actual ballgames—and I’m always too dimwitted to look for the mute button till the commercials are mostly over. See, now there’s yr. clue. TV. Sleep. Maybe some aliens or the government or some terrorists or, gulp, Bernie Mack had conceived of a sleep ray that hit you whenever you started watching TV. (Just like Lex Luthor or Grodd the Gorilla or Cheetah.) Then the nefarious asshole(s) would sneak down and steal alla yr. toilet paper so you might run out at just the wrong moment: when yer makin’ Hamburger Helper for Two, over candlelight, in hopes of impressing yer latest paramour, ‘cuz fuck are you getting’ old and you just wanna make sure you don’t die alone and toothless. But this here… this is gonna really ruin yer chance of getting lucky tonight, isn’t it?

But wait. That isn’t a clue. That’s a theory. And if you’re a really good sleuth, you don’t mix up the 2…

Herm. Gotta think harder. And harder. Oh! I know! Back to that whole recreate the crime smegma…

Well, here it was. The first pitch. And boy, were my brains mushed up, ‘cuz that ain’t Ethel Merman. It’s Murray Ethel, affectionately known as Moray Eel, local Chicago broadcast legend, who for years has been calling high school girls soccer games throughout the greater Chicagoland area till he got busted for having naughty photos in his possession. Really disturbing degrading photos. Broke up his marriage. Got his name dragged through the refuse. All for some stupid photos of guys screwing llamas. Damn Michael Jackson and the influence he’s had on our culture!

“Moray” flings it—overhand and everything! —and the floppy waddles that line his upper arms jiggle about like the head of one of those toy birds w/ a spring for a neck. Ball goes about 3 feet, and backup catcher Henry Blanco is obliged to stand, knees crackin’, and trundle over toward the mound. National Anthem. Play Ball. Is that the order everything goes in? Don’t know. Feelin’ spacey.

A leprechaun. His lil’ pointy red beard juts at me. His corncob pipe pulses, then releases. Pulses, then releases.

We’re standing in this big, cartoon-green grass field, lined w/ flowers and butterflies. Off in the distance are shadowy, sinister mountains.

Lep gives me a naughty smile and lets his jacket drop to the ground. He undoes his vest, dancin’ a lil’ jig as he goes. Still starin’ straight into my eyes, he unbuttons his ruffled shirt. It falls to the ground, revealing pale flesh, lined w/ spotty red hair.

Fuck. He’s got these big luscious pointy nipples. They look just like raw carrot sticks, fresh dug from the ground.

‘Twouldst thou like to pinch my nipples?

Boy, ‘twould I ever! Lemme at ‘em! Look I’m a lobster! Pinch! Pinch!

Ow! Not so rough! Thou art hurtin’ me!

Oh yeah? Well thou art spurtin’ me! C’mere!

Woopf! Crack!

Ronnie that’s strike 2, as Dempster swings at a pitch in the dirt…

Y’know Pat, it’s kinda weird that Dempster’s at the plate, being as he’s not pitching for, like, 3 days…

You’re right, Ronnie. It is weird. Maybe because Steve Forcemen, P.I. is still dreaming. This is just like one of those false wakings like they do on bad TV shows when the writing staff is creatively bankrupt. Or like Nightmare on Elm Street, wherein the heroin, I mean heroine of the film—man she was a cute lil’ vixen, not that I, Pat in my gay-ass sweater care about chicks, no matter how many kids I’ve fathered. I mean, listen to me. Look at me. See me. Feel me. But then you’re one of those old-timey color commentators, so yer prob. a virulent homophobe, so let’s just pretend I did think that chick was hot. I mean, it’s not that much of a stretch. After all, she had very little in the way of curves in that body. All hard angles, as I recall, and here, sadly, I mean “hard” only in the literal sense. But she did have that weird little intriguing mouth. It sorta looked like she was sneering, and she had those big moist lips, all sloppy n’ shit. Boy that franchise went downhill pretty fast. The first one was kewl, but then they all sucked after that, and there were approx. 67 of ‘em (not even 69, which woulda been sorta redeeming in a lame kinda way). Anyhow, at the end she keeps waking up, and that was cool, ‘cuz it really fucked w/ yr. head, but when they do it on TV, it’s always obvious (and lame) that the person is dreaming. Hate that. And I think that’s just what’s happening w/ this blog entry here: a dream-w/in-a-dream, cuz, like, how else would I know this was a blog entry? Or a dream? Or a dream within a blog entry? (Within an enigma?) Or whatever?

Pat, you’re getting’ a lil’ overexcited w/ alla this cogitation Look atcha…you’re salivating like a rabid dog! (My dog… why doesn’t my dog like me? I give it treats n’ walks n’ Salisbury steak n’ stuff…)

C’mere, sweet meat.

Pat, let go of that intern!

Ouch! Mr. Hughes, that hurts!

Take it, bitch! Strike 3 called…

Y’know, Pat, I think you’re gettin’ into somethin’ like sexual harassment here!

Ronnie, did you know that if you scramble the letters in the term “sexual harassment,” you can get “ah net mans ass rr?”

Cheh heh har har har! Wait a second… no you don’t! That’s too many esses, Pat.

Astute as ever, Ronnie. Now tell us about the opposing pitcher, Babe Ruth…

Well, Babe’s got a wicked changeup, esp. when he’s dead and inhabiting someone’s dream. He can work both sides of the plate. Throws about 3000 mph, but he’s also got a sinker, or maybe it’s a split finger pitch or a fork ball or maybe a screwball or maybe a blue ball or maybe a lollygagger or an echinoderm or a pachyderm or a chiaroscuro or…”

So I was like Rip van Winkle! I slept through Opening Day… I’m so ashamed. I mean, in my defense there was that rain delay. 41 minutes? I mean, c’mon, cut me some slack. Except, but wait! You have to cut me some slack. I remember some of the game! Really! It’s coming back to me! Hmmm… Ah! I know! Carlos Zambrano struck out to open the third inning, and then… wait… This can’t be right… Another rain delay! 49 minutes!

I wasn’t happy about this at the outset. I decided to play an old drinking game that I roll out when I’m alone: I started calling people I’ve had sex w/ before parting on bad terms. Call ‘em up, say, “you’re pathetic,” laugh insanely for approximately 12 minutes and/or/maybe until they hang up, and then hang up on them. It’s hilarious!

Except for that the rise of caller ID has made the whole thing less fun. Now a lotta of um can tell who you are. Ya just can’t get yr. name listed as Dipstik Shittoes on the old Caller ID Database, wherever and whatever that may be. So yr. party knows it’s you. And they can rehash and magnify certain moments of weakness from yer past during which you couldn’t stiffen, open, part, pant, whatever you couldn’t do, and that gets a little depressing, which is counter-productive, as what you were tryin’ to do was uplift yer mood by depressing the other person.

So instead I opened up a copy of Blow Hunks and considered whackin’ off to all the moist n’ perky beef I found therein, but the mood just didn’t seem right, so I put on a Barry White record and started mumbling at the magazine, trying to get it in the mood, but it seemed all distant and cold still, so I turned to some EC Comics reprints. I was readin’ this one about a guy who gets revenge on the owner of this orchard who tried to kill him by dropping him down an elevator shaft that he had lined with acid—in advance, of course. The wounded party, who’s all scarred and has flesh falling offa him like Star Jones, peels all the skin offa his would-be murderer’s head, candies it, then bakes it into this gigantic pie, which in the last panel, he stretches toward you and sez, “Want it ala mode?”

And I said, “Good lord! Choke!” realizing that alla this pie shit had made me hungry, and not for apple nor even hair pie, but for mincemeat pie, and I went to the freezer, where I usually keep things like mincemeat pie, when I have them around, which is never, and couldn’t find any mincemeat pie but after I dug through the ice for approximately 3 hours, what I did find was an almost entirely crystallized tub of strawberry ice cream. I was left to wonder just what the fuck it was doing there, as I fuckin’ hate strawberry ice cream, but mayhap I’d been stickin’ my dick in it and then tryin’ to get some house guest or other to blow me. I do stuff like that when I’m really drunk some times. I plan it in advance just like that dude in that EC, and I prob. got the ice cream in advance, selecting the most loathsome kind, on accounta that making the whole thing seem dirtier, but then whoever it was prob. wouldn’t blow me, ‘cuz they never do, and the ice cream got left sitting there ever since, cuz like no fuckin’ way wuz I gonna eat strawberry ice cream, except for that now I was cuz I was bored and hungry and couldn’t go out the door to get anything cuz I hate it out there, and besides it was Opening Day, and I didn’t want to miss one minute more, and plus I couldn’t have anything delivered, cuz I was a lil’ broke, so I hadda eat this shitty ice cream, and sure enough, it had a big, deep dick print in it. (OK you got me—not too big, and not too deep.)

So tub n’ spoon in hand, I did return to the ol’ sofa. I slurped on the foul, freezer burned crusty stuff and further studied the foul otherwise burned crusty stuff in Blow Hunks. It wasn’t very satisfying. I was suckin’ on that spoon mmm mmm. But my mood was still shitty. I threw the tub of ice cream on the coffee table, hoping my cat would go at it, ‘cuz I just couldn’t motivate myself to put it away.

On TV, Wrigley sat soggily. How long could this fuckin’ thing go on? I began counting sheep, but kept getting’ distracted, so instead I counted Brian Eno’s. After all, he kinda looks like a fat, balding little sheep. There he went in a fleecy little suit. He flew over a little wooden fence, pad of paper in hand, writing ambient little electronic melodies to help you sleep.

In retrospect, it seems clear that combining jumpin’ sheep imagery w/ peaceful Brian Eno toonz was not a good idea—not if I wanted to stay awake for the game anyway. Pretty soon, I was out like George Takei…

But I did see a little more of the game, ‘cuz at some point, I was awakened by a very, very loud thunk. Turned out that Kerry Wood had just hit the first batter in the top of the ninth, which, through some chain of events that I very much would not be able to grasp later, they decided to walk Prince Fielder (along w/ his monolithic head, which might just as easily have represented another batter,) gave up a single to Ryan Braun, and then served up a double to Cory Hart. (Guess you really shouldn’t mess around w/ the guy in shades, eh?) And now it was 3-0 Milwaukee. Unfortunately, or fortunately, I guess, I missed alla that drama—after the plunking, I mean—‘cuz the shotta gin I took knocked me right back out. But at least I was wearing a small smile after seeing the plunking, as I drifted of to the Land of Nod.

Ronnie, I think I just wet myself.

Y’know, Pat, every time a Cub player hits a triple, the Dependz Co. will donate $75 to the Adult Incontinence Institute of Rhode Island. (Formerly known as the Rhode Island School of Design.) We thank ya for it Dependz.

I’ll say. Gotta towel? Damn, sticky already.

Pat, yer soundin’ kinda out of character…

Piss off, Ronnie. Woops! Ha! I just did! Hahaha!

No. Really. You don’t sound like yerself at all.

Sheeeeet beeyatch… You be trippin’ fooo… Ar. Matey. Ahm gittin’ thuh vapors, kind suh. Do carry me off to mah bed. (‘Tho I’m not a woman of low charactah.)

Shit. Can we get me a new partner? Pat’s losin’ it here!

Arf! Arf! Chirp!

Maybe somethin’ inna Winona Ryder. (Hubba hubba!)

They’re comin’ to take me away haha…Heehee…Haha…

Mmff… Wait. What? Now it’s the 10^th inning. Please tell me I’m still dreaming. I fuckin’ hate extra innings. I don’t think I can sit through (well… sleep through…) any more. Oh wait. It was the 10^th inning. It just ended. Thank god. Dodged that bullet at least. Butt, like, who won?

And wow, look, I seem to've nodded off again. It’s July 16^th. Last night was the All Star Game. And, lessee... The American League won? The hell you say!

OK, OK. So I did miss Opening Day, not to mention half the regular season. Not a very good fan, am I? Well then, I’ve admitted it, and now that I have, howza ‘bout you update me on what else has been going on in the baseball world… In Cubdom, Soriano’s on the DL. Predictable. Anyway, that’s OK—look over there, across the division: Aaron Harang’s choking. That’ll help us. Something else must be helping us—we’re in first place. Ryan Dempster’s 10-3??? OK, come on now. Dempster gives up long balls n’ walks like they’re nuts n’ berries, and the opposing teams are Yogi n’ BooBoo. (One of TV’s very first openly gay couples.) He can’t be the only thing carrying us. Jim Edmonds signed w/ us??? And he’s hitting well??? OK, c’mon… yer just fucking w/ me now…

Let’s move away from the Cubs, ‘cuz this is just getting too silly. What’s happening in what is theoretically the most dominating division in MLB: the AL East. OK, so the Yankees are buried in the middle somewhere? Well, I guess you could see that one coming, though it’s hard to believe that the end to this long ride has come. OK so as Lou Costello might say, who’s in first? Mmmf… yeah right. Dude, that’s so blatantly facetious. You’re just doing that inversion thing—picking the possibility that is the farthest from the truth for the sake of humor, and let’s face it—that’s never convincing and rarely funny. Y’know, like saying China’s the least populous country in the world.

OK. Now I’ve got the standings right in front of me and… Tampa Bay??? You were telling the truth! However could I have doubted you?

Shit, I really did sleep through a lot. Really. A lot. God damn it. I’m lucky we didn’t make contact w/ alien life, (who would immediately capture the NL West. It’s almost always wide open). Or that Bea Arthur didn’t take her shirt off on House Hunters. Or maybe, more appropriately, Ghost Hunters.

But there’s nothing to be done for it now. I’ll just have to enjoy whatever excitement the rest of the baseball season has in store for us. No matter how boring it is.

And next year ‘tho, I will not fall asleep on Opening Day. No matter how boring it is.