Hooked on Phonics Got Me Drunk

Dana and I went to Vegas last week, which is why I missed blogging after I said I try and get something up every week. Oops…

But, as it always does, Vegas provided some fun and some stories.

We were supposed to meet two of my college friends there, but they had to back out at the last minute. We considered bailing out as well, since we didn’t really NEED to go to Vegas, but hey, we did need a vacation, and so off we went.

I’ll leave out most of the stuff we did, since it was pretty tame, though if you get a chance to try Talisker Distiller’s Edition, I highly recommend it, and “O” at the Bellagio was a pretty damn cool thing to see.

But none of these are the things we’re still talking about, a week after the trip. No, the thing we are still talking about is the bar at the sports book in the Monte Carlo. Not the bar so much, which is just a standard casino bar with its row of old nasty stools bolted to the floor so drunks can’t fall out of them and its cloudy-screened video poker machines with the 70’s ashtrays on the side and the buttons with all the text worn off from years of drunken finger-sliding. No, it’s not the bar.

I think it was Thursday night, which is really the best time to be in Vegas. The frat boys and Jersey Shore castoffs haven’t descended en masse yet to pollute the city with crappy Target fedoras and fist bump you into an incredulous stupor. You can still see business travelers in the bars trying to work out how to expense the call girls. The clubs aren’t thumping obnoxious hip hop at all hours. The Vs aren’t as deep. Generally the douche-to-normal ratio is much lower. I mean sure, this is still the town where the Wynn can get you to buy a $12 can of PBR by putting tasting notes on the menu and a Subway $5 footlong costs $11.25, but there’s only so much you can do.

So anyway, it was a late-ish night, maybe 1 or 2 AM and we’re sitting at the sports book bar because it’s the only non-club open in the Monte Carlo and we want to be near the room in case either of us starts to pass out, which is a definite possibility.

We’ve fed a few bucks into the video poker machines, mostly on principle, since we’re only playing a hand or so before cashing out and eventually sticking our vouchers in new machines until we get bored with them too. We go for the booze and the people, not the games. What can I say?

So we’re aimlessly pushing buttons and nursing double Jameson and Sprites and chatting with the bartender when a drunken Englishman, or possibly a drunken something pretending to be an Englishman stumbles up to the stool next to us and starts ordering drinks. The bartender obligingly pours the gentleman’s obviously superfluous drinks and rattles off the total. At this point, He of the Drunken Accent inquires:

“What casino chips do you take?”

He begins tossing them on the bar.

“I got Ceasar’s, Bellagio, MGM…”

“I don’t take casino chips,” replies the bartender.

“Luxor, Planet Hollywood,” replies He of the Drunken Accent. At this point the bartender’s shoulders sag and he looks at us with an expression that falls somewhere between “see what I have to deal with” and “is this guy for real?” We laugh and sip our whiskeys. There is movement off to my right.

A small woman waves a $100 bill in the air and says “Excuse me” loud enough to know that she doesn’t give a damn whether she’s excused or not. The bartender turns away from the drunk man, who has been joined by a woman who has started throwing money on the counter to cover the casino chips, and says, “I’m just finishing up an order. I’ll be right there.”

The woman falls silent, leaning on the bar as though she doesn’t really want to touch it and clutching her hundred dollars in a way meant to show you that yes, I have a hundred dollar bill and no, you can’t have it. The bartender scoops up the money and leaves He of the Drunken Accent to his beverages and scattered chips. He crosses to the new woman who opens with “Do you have Appleton Rum?”

“No,” replies the bartender.

“Then what’s your BEST spiced rum?”

The bartender turns to study his liquor shelf. “Captain Morgan.”

The woman sighs, clearly disappointed, but she takes her moment, probably tries to figure out what Jesus would do, and confidently pipes up, “Give me one of those and Coke.”

Now, I’m a whiskey guy myself, so I don’t know that much about rum. I do know however that as soon as you add the phrase “and Coke” to any beverage title, it doesn’t matter what the hell is in the rest of the glass. It doesn’t even have to be in the same family of alcohol. In a casino pour, you can’t taste it. But I digress. Back to the story.

The bartender nods and pours the drink. “Anything else?”

The woman considers for a moment. She straightens up, takes a breath. Clearly, she does not want to fuck this up. “Do you have any Vivo Cleko?” (No, that’s not how it’s spelled, but I want you to have read this phonetically.)

The bartender arches an eyebrow, clearly a bit confused. Undaunted, she tries again.

“Vivo Cleko. Champagne.”

“No.”

“Do you have champagne?”

“Yes.”

“But not Vivo Cleko?”

“No.”

“Then what do you have?”

“Our house brand. Monte Carlo.”

“But the guy over there,” she points vaguely behind herself, “said you could get Vivo Cleko.”

“That’s the high limit bar, ma’am. I don’t have everything they have.”

“He said you could get it. He specifically told me you could.”

“I can call him and see if I can get it from him. But I don’t have it.”

“That would be great. He told me you had it. Specifically.”

The bartender crosses to the phone and has a brief conversation.

“He’s already locked the cage. I can’t get it.”

“But he specifically said you could.”

“I can’t. That bar is closed. It’s probably why he told you to come here.”

“But he specifically said you could get Vivo Cleko.”

“I can’t…”

It went on like this for quite some time, with the bartender obviously being too polite to tell the uppity bitch that the reason the other bartender sent her to him was the had clearly committed some unforgivable sin against the other bartender and had to be punished. Oh, and by the way, it’s “Veuve Cliquot.”

I honestly don’t remember whether she got her champagne, but I do know that for the last week, I keep thinking that the only thing this place needs is a little Vivo Cleko.

Why I haven't been writing.

Okay, so it's been almost 2 months since my last post and I meant to do better than that. Obviously, intent and reality haven't exactly collided there. But the thing is, I keep opening the new post page and closing it, dialing the first 6 numbers and hanging up before the seventh. Why would I do this?

I have a hard time imagining what I'm going to say that anyone will take the time to read. I'm not training for any races and I don't want to just post lists of what I had for dinner each day and so on, so what do I say?

When I first started writing posts about the world outside of triathlon, I got a lot of comments about how I was being depressing. People were worried about me. It was a little disconcerting and I stopped writing for a long time because I didn't want to scare people. I wanted to write, but I didn't know how.

Here's where it gets interesting, at least to me.

I started reading the new William Gibson book, Distrust that Particular Flavor, recently. It's a collection of articles and essays he's written over the years. A fiction writer's non-fiction output. Normally, I avoid these sorts of books because, like short story collections, they always let me down a bit. In this case though, as usually happens with Gibson, I got sucked in. What can I say, something about the way he writes always gets my wheels turning, and there was a passage in the very first essay that just triggered me. He's talking, oddly enough, about stereo equipment, and how he got talked into letting his friend install a big, high-end system for him. He says:

"It sounds fine.

But I'm not sure I really enjoy the music any more than I did before, on certifiably low-fi junk. The music, when it's really there, is just there. You can hear it coming out of the dented speaker grille of a Datsun B210 with holes in the floor. Sometimes that's the best way to hear it."

This is an odd leap, but it's the way my mind works. I got to thinking about writing, about the way I've written in the past and why I've been so reluctant to write again.

I write from a dark place. I always have. Angst and pain, at least in the written word, are about as natural to me as breathing. When I try to write upbeat stuff, chatty stuff, I feel a bit like a fraud. Not because I'm unhappy, but because with every word I type I can feel myself trying. Trying to govern my tone, to string together sentences in ways that aren't right. Like playing a harmonica with my nose. It can get it to make noise, but it's messy, and it sure as hell don't sound so good.

So where does that leave me? Gagged until I find my keyboard's Prozac? Nah.

I'd love to think that I can just write happy, but that's going to take a lot of work. It ain't gonna happen quickly. Not to mention, the dark place has done well by me with the written word. If I get back to fiction, I can almost guarantee I'll be using it extensively.

I'll try and post something here at least once a week. Dark, light, atonal or completely together, something. Read along if you want to. I'll be happy to have the company.

Rebooting....

Okay, so I ran across the link to my own blog, this lovely page, the other day and I was saddened to see that I'd allowed a year to go by without posting. After the immense cluster that was 2010, I had fully intended to make 2011 better, and I did.

If you've followed Dana's blog at all, you've seen that we got engaged and are now in the throes of planning a wedding. Talk about something I never thought I would have to do. Maybe I'll write more about the proposal process, maybe I won't. I haven't decided whether that's self indulgent or not. In any event, let it be known that the moment she said "yes" made my year.

So what does 2012 hold? Who the hell knows?

I'm planning to be more active on this blog, so maybe if you keep reading you'll get to keep tabs on me. I think there will be two major topics of conversation: fitness and wedding planning. I assume that my take on the adventure will be, well, uniquely my own. It's a strange enterprise, full of insanity and silliness, and we've just begun.

As for the fitness, I think this is the more important topic in the near term. As Dana mentioned on her post, we've each got about 50 pounds to drop. In my case that will get me back to the weight I was holding when I was at the top of my tri career. Though that career may well be over, for a variety of reasons, I still need to get back to the weight. That only makes sense. Lighter is healthier, right?

So, now that we've chosen a wedding date, I've got a little over a year to lose that 50 pounds. I also have a big split to take in the middle. I turn 35 this year. In just about exactly 6 months.

So here's my goal: Lose 30 of the 50 pounds by June 9, 2012.

5 pounds per month. You think I can do it? If I do, then maybe I'll be in even better shape by the time the wedding rolls around. Wouldn't that be crazy?

More on the methods and the progress as they develop. Hope you stay tuned and, if you see me out in the real world, call me out if I look like I'm slacking off.

Don't worry, babe, you'll be stuck with me for a good long time.

2010: You Forgot Your Phony Dog Poo

Okay, yes, it's been what, 10 months since I last posted on here? It's been a busy year. A busy year and not really one I'll care to remember, though definitely one that will never fade completely from my memory.

Anyway, I was looking at Dana's blog earlier and I realized how long it had been since I wrote anything for the masses, both of you. I decided that it was probably time to either delete this thing or start using it again.

So why have I been away? Frankly, I've been at a loss for words this year.
This has been a year marred by the removal of two people from my life. The first was my grandmother, who we called Me-maw. Me-maw departed in January and, although it was undoubtedly her time to go, it opened 2010 onto a rough road.

The second has kept me silent and hunkered down for the last few months. Right before Halloween, we lost my dad. It was sudden, totally unexpected, and all the other small descriptions you can apply. That day I saw and felt things I hope no one I know ever has to. I’m going to leave out the details, because they aren’t necessary, and because they are mine.

When I find the words, I will probably write something about him, because he was far more than just my father. He was, in point of fact, one of my best friends, my compass for most things professional and personal. In the time since he passed, I keep finding myself in situations where he’s the only person I can conceive of having an answer for me, or even some kind of guidance, which is perhaps the greatest irony of it all. How do you make sense of the world when the person who usually explained it is gone?

I’ve spent the last few months not so much handling as coping, looking for the center so I can keep standing on my two feet.

There are a few components to that center. The first being my family and friends. Even the ones I didn’t know or expect.

But in all honesty, the one who’s kept me standing is the woman in my life. I am lucky beyond words to have her. She has shown me time and again that she can keep me up and running when for all intents and purposes I should have collapsed in a bloody, broken heap on the side of the road. Thanks to her I’ve started sleeping nights. I've learned to drink wine. There's paint on my walls. We had our first anniversary and our fist shared Christmas.

So no, 2010 can’t come to an end fast enough. Although I know that 2011 will have its share of challenges, I am looking forward to meeting and surmounting them. I am looking forward to all the things, small and large, that will dim the memory of 2010. Powder days, good beer, good workouts and good friends. I hope to see more of you out there in the world than I have this past year. It’s time to make new memories and see what the world can offer after you’ve shaken off the punches and got up off the canvas.

Vegas, from the Boot Heel

If you've ever been to a party at my house, or been told about one, you've probably heard someone say "Das boot!"


No, we are not talking about an old WWII submarine movie starring Jurgen Prochnow. Though I hear that's awesome in its own right.

No, what you're hearing about is a much more "useful" iteration of Das Boot. It's a boot-shaped shot glass that once prompted a victim to exclaim "It goes all the way to the toe!"

For the record, it doesn't. But if it makes you feel better....

Anyway, the reason I'm telling you all this is that "Das Boot," as seen below, has been trumped.


Its big German cousin has come to stay for a while.



So why am I telling you this? Good question. I had to tell you that to tell you this:

It's strange to fly with only a 2L glass boot, a copy of Wicked (the book) and the contents of your pockets as carry-ons.

Wicked, you may rightly ask... Yes. Ask Dana. She's been after me to read it. It wasn't nearly as gay as I thought it would be either. No singing at all. Mercifully.

Anyway, after the usual fun in the security line, I put my plastic tray of stuff (wallet, keys, phone, ipod, etc.), flip flops and shopping bag on the x-ray belt. Now the boot is packed in a brown box and this is inside a clear plastic Hofbrauhaus shopping bag, along with the book. The stuff goes into the machine and I step through the metal detector.

My bin comes out. My flip flops follow. All is well. The bag starts to emerge from the baleen curtain, and wait! It goes back in. The girl watching the monitor leans in for a better view. She's about my age and she's squinting at the monitor like she's got glaucoma, or is very drunk.

She ponders the view for a minute and calls over her supervisor. A middle-aged civil service type with a government issue mustache and glasses. She asks, "Is that really an empty box?"

The supervisor looks at the screen for half a second and says "I know what it is. It's a big glass boot."

This confuses the girl on the stool, so he says, "Run it out. It'll be in a Hofbrauhaus bag."

She looks at him, perplexed. He says, "It's a drinking thing." This does not help. She is still confused. He thinks for a moment and asks "Haven't you seen Beerfest?" and turns to me for confirmation, to which I can only say "Great movie."

She's still drawing a blank and the line is getting longer. She runs out the belt and the supervisor shows her the Hofbrauhaus bag. She nods as though she has learned something. He hands me the bag and I go on my way.

That's it. No moral or anything, only a question. If you work airport security in Vegas, how many odd drinking vessels do you see in carry on luggage in a given day? How many plastic Eiffel Towers and yard long margarita glasses? Have you never really seen an invisible glass boot on an x-ray?

Yes, I am alive....

In case you were wondering. If, like me you use the blog roll tool to keep track of things, you probably haven't seen me above the fold for quite some time. Well I'm here. I'm alive. I still have fingers to type with. I also have lots of stories I can tell.

But I'm not going to.

Those of you in my regular orbit have lived them with me or heard them already, and most of you are the people who read this thing.

So I'm also seeing a rash of "Year in Review" posts. So here's mine.

2009: Oof. I'm glad it's over. I'm even more glad it happened.

Time to move on into 2010 and figure out what the hell is coming up next. I've got a series of goals and objectives, which I won't write about until they become necessary to the story I'm telling.

What I will say is that I am looking forward to the adventure. I learned a lot in 2009 and I plan to apply the lessons well. I've got a solid circle of friends who continue to surprise me (no mean feat, that!), a family that stands behind me, and an incredible girl by my side. This is gonna be one hell of a ride.

See you on the roads, kids.

Another Music Post

It's been a while. I know. Don't get your hopes up. I'm not going to say anything definite or provide any kind of factual update to anything that's been going on. Someone asked me recently how things were going and my response was "Things continue and the dude abides." The reference got missed but the sentiment was dead on.

That said, these two songs have been on the playlist a lot lately, along with the rest if these guys' catalog. The band is called Thrice and I think they're my favorite band of the moment. The songs seem a bit contradictory in terms of lyrical content, but they go together for me. They're both from the album "The Artist in the Ambulance."

The Melting Point of Wax
I've waited for this moment
All my life and more
And now I see so clearly
What I could not see before.
The time is now or never
This chance won't come again
Throw caution and myself into the wind.

There's no promise of safety with these secondhand wings
But I'm willing to find out what impossible means.
A leap of faith.

Parody of an angel
Miles above the sea
I hear the voice of reason
Screaming after me
"You've flown far too high boy now you're too close to the sun,
Soon your makeshift wings will come undone"

But how will I know limits from lies if I never try?

There's no promise of safety with these secondhand wings
But I'm willing to find out what impossible means.
I'll climb through the heavens on feathers and dreams
'Cause the melting point of wax means nothing to me.
Nothing to me
Nothing to me

I will touch the sun or I will die trying.
Die Trying.

Fly on these secondhand wings
Willing to find out what impossible means
I'll climb through the heavens on feathers and dreams
'Cause the melting point of wax means nothing to me
Nothing to me
Means nothing to me
Miles above the sea.

The Artist in the Ambulance
Late night, brakes lock, hear the tires squeal
Red light, can't stop so I spin the wheel
My world goes black before I feel an angel lift me up
And I open bloodshot eyes into fluorescent white
They flip the siren, hit the lights, close the doors and I am gone

Now I lay here owing my life to a stranger
And I realize that empty words are not enough
I'm left here with the question of just
What have I to show except the promises I never kept?
I lie here shaking on this bed, under the weight of my regrets

[Chorus:]
I hope that I will never let you down
I know that this can be more than just flashing lights and sound

Look around and you'll see that at times it feels like no one really cares
It gets me down but I'm still gonna try to do what's right, I know that there's
A difference between sleight of hand, and giving everything you have
There's a line drawn in the sand, I'm working up the will to cross it and

[Chorus]

Rhetoric can't raise the dead
I'm sick of always talking when there's no change
Rhetoric can't raise the dead
I'm sick of empty words, let's lead and not follow

Late night, brakes lock, hear the tires squeal
Red light, can't stop so I spin the wheel
My world goes black before I feel an angel steal me from the
Greedy jaws of death and chance, and pull me in with steady hands
They've given me a second chance, the artist in the ambulance

[Chorus]

Can we pick you off the ground, more than flashing lights and sound