verbungle

So it's time for the first of maybe 2 or 3 West Coast-based posts for the xmas 2008 holiday season.

Out in California. Beautiful as hell.

That's actually the ugliest picture of the sunset that I could take. The others are so beautiful that they'd make you weep uncontrollably about the fact that you're not here with me, weeping. Controllably.

The kid loves it out here, the wife loves it out here.

You don't get to dance in fountains in NYC on December 27th. At least not that I can remember, and certainly not in upscale shopping malls featuring both a Cheesecake Factory AND a California Pizza Kitchen. No sir.

I played some ball in Laguna Beach today. It was exhausting, occasionally humiliating, and somehow completely satisfying. My wife stood on the beach taking photos from like 100 feet away. Would your wife do that? Keep an eye out for suspicious-looking drifters giving her the staredown.

Here's me getting taken to the hoop by this kid who turned out to be quite good.

Here's me switching out on big man and getting a rare steal.

Here's me looking intense but actually just fucking spent.

Here's me afterwards, quenching my thirst the only way I know how and reflecting on our 21-16 loss.

I could have done more. We all could have. But in the end, our biggest mistake was giving the ball to the Bearded Mountain Man too often. I believe sharing the ball increases the love and makes the world a better place, but at some point a man's got to be accountable for mishandling every pass and generally screwing the game away. Oh Mountain Man, I forgive you.

Time has not hindered my ability to enjoy Gatorade one bit.

My wife's parents are retired, but they keep very busy. Lots of social plans, tons of errands to run, gardening to do, hikes to embark on, etc. I am very impressed by how much they're getting out of retired life. In my head I always thought about retirement as a chance to finally be a bum and not feel guilty about it. I even have an image of retirement in my head: it's me, grinning broadly with both hands behind my head, leaning back in my chaise lounge as empty cans of PBR mysteriously stack up alongside me.

Sitting around, boolcheating with pals, maybe playing some catch. Going to the movies. Thinking about stuff that amuses me. Blogging about the way things used to be. Basically what I am doing right now. I am in pre-retirement.

When you are retired like me, you have lots of time to think about useless stuff. Here's some of what's been going through my head as I breeze through my California days.

1) Charles Oakley.

I just saw something on MSG where Knicks fans voted him one of the starting forwards on their all-time Knicks team. I think the average fan loved Oakley for: his toughness, his hustle, his defense, his rebounding, the way he maximized his limited physical ability, his hilarious quotes, and his genuine willingness to mix it up if somebody started something. All valid points. I get it. However, I was never really a fan. I couldn't get past: his outlet passes into the blue seats, his complete lack of an offensive post game, his constant whining on and off the court, his occasional dirtiness, his carelessness with the ball (whether it was minute 1 or minute 48 made no difference to Oak), and the way his poor athleticism cost him when it came to finishing around the hoop. (Remember how many times you'd see him leap horizontally toward the basket, desperate to draw contact rather than going up strong?)

At the same time, when Oak would put up one of those 20 rebound, sweat-soaked, I own this backboard tour de force performances in a huge game, I'd be right there singing his praises. Now I realize I judged him unfairly. You can't have it both ways, Bungle. Nobody's perfect, but Oakley's hard work and generally efficient play deserved more respect than I gave it. It's ten years too late, but I now embrace the Oak-man and support his inclusion on the all-time Knicks team. Sure, Bernard shined brighter, but only for like three years. What this really makes me aware of is just what a pitiful franchise the Knicks have been. Charles Oakley is one of their two all-time best forwards. They haven't won a championship in 35 years, despite playing in the center of the basketball universe. Come save us, LeBron.

2) Peeing.

I always savor my midday pee at work, mostly because it is a chance to get away from the stress and have a solid minute to clear my head. But I realized something else: that midday pee is usually your first opportunity to see your penis since you tucked it away that morning. Hey penis, whats up? Everything cool down there? Good. Take your time, man. No rush. You all done? You sure? OK. Can I get you anything? No? You're all set? OK man, see you later. Let me know if you need a hand with anything. That bonding time is important.

3) The Yankees' offseason.

Just absolutely shameful. It's not just a giant illustration of how unfair baseball is (although this is a great take that kind of proves the opposite), it's a reminder of how completely unfair the universe is. You have all the cards? Great for you, enjoy yourself. Life is shitty? It's gonna get shittier!

I know I say it all the time, I know it angers some people, but I may have to take on a new team. Although the spending might be justifiable if it ends up creating misery in Boston...

4) Personal satisfaction.

As much as it is important to ceaselessly whine about every little thing that fails to go your way when things are tough, it is also important to revel in your own happiness and triumph when life smiles on you. That is how I feel right now, lucky to be alive and warm and active and bathed in sunshine.

Labels: California, retirement

I'm back in NYC after two weeks in Southern California. Thought I would post some pictures. First some I took here in NYC before I left...

Ah, Stomp. What the fuck is the deal with Stomp? How is it still playing? Do they have one of those $60 a month loophole leases or something? I fucking HATE Stomp. It's been there for like 20 years. Who's going?

I would rather watch Riptide reruns with my eyelids taped open than sit through Stomp. Look at this part of the poster outside the theater. The dude has plungers stuck to his belly! Ha ha!

If your pal came out of the bathroom like that, you'd probably give it a genuine three to five second laugh. But it ain't professional-quality entertainment. Ah, who knows? Maybe Stomp is awesome.

Bowling is awesome, although the Bowlmor has really gone from a legendary NYC institution of sketchiness and fun to a representation of all that is wrong with our town: expensive, showy, and completely lacking in substance and functionality. And I sucked my first time out post-209.

Representing all that is right in our city is San Loco. Cheap, tasty, no-frills, and pretty much unchanged as far as my drunken old taste buds can tell.

I ordered way too much food. Sometimes that's what you do, rather than choose.

Did you know there is an amazing public track right off the FDR downtown? You can just go run there whenever you want. If I were the type of man who ran, I might do it there.

The Belgian place in our neighborhood is far from perfect, but it's a nice place to chill on a HIATUS afternoon.

Threatening skies to the West. And man is Houston street a mess.

Beach day, Stuyvesant Town-style:

Then there's a genuine California beach day. Sigh.

My freshman year roommate was a fascinating guy. A sensitive soul trapped in the body of a mountain man. Or maybe he was just a mountain man. He had no fears. He used to tell me that if he was in an airplane that crashed, he'd be fine. "I would do whatever it took to get out alive. I would just be determined to survive and I'd make it." I almost believed him, because he was the toughest bastard I ever met. Beating him in a fight would mean killing him and would probably take three men.

Let's call him Oly.

He was always getting into trouble, sometimes his fault, sometimes just terrible luck. He had a girlfriend in Minneapolis for awhile and he used to hitchhike there from Madison to go see her. One time, just a few miles into the journey, he found a ride with a middle-aged dude who said he was going all the way to Minneapolis. Great luck! It was cold as hell and the less rides it took to get there, the better.

Not a word was said between them for the first 30 or 40 miles. Finally, the middle aged guy cleared his throat and spoke.

"Do me a favor, reach underneath your seat," he said.

Oly reached down and found an unmarked, nearly full bottle of who knows what.

"Have some," said the driver.

"No, that's OK," Oly said. "I'm good."

"Ah, a teetotaler," said the driver. "Well pass it over here then."

Oly passed him the bottle, and the guy took a healthy tug.

"You don't look like a teetotaler," said the driver. "Come on, have a sip."

Not knowing what else to do, and seeing as how the driver had already taken a sip and was still alive, Oly grabbed the bottle and took a nice deep gulp. It burned, but in a familiar way.

"Good, isn't it?" the driver said, taking the bottle back and helping himself to another huge snort. "I knew you wasn't a teetotaler."

This went on for another hour or so, the two of them passing the bottle back and forth, and finally there was some conversation. Just small talk, where you from, are you a Packers fan, etc. Just bullshitting. Oly noticed that the guy was beginning to gently swerve out of his lane every few minutes, and the car had dipped down to about 50 mph on the left lane of the interstate. Oly was getting drunk, but his survival instinct had kicked in and he began to watch the driver carefully to make sure he didn't lose control of the car. Several times it almost happened. Oly considered grabbing the wheel, or asking him to pull over, but each time he was about to, the guy would straighten up in his seat, shake out the cobwebs and right the ship. There didn't seem to be any immediate danger.

As the bottle became nearly empty, the small talk trailed off to silence again. After a few awkward miles, the driver suddenly asked, "Have you ever sucked a man's dick?"

"Uh...no," Oly said.

"Well, I'll tell you what," said the driver. "There's an exit about two miles up the road. I'm gonna take that exit, then I'm gonna pull over, and then you're gonna find out what it's like to suck a man's dick."

Without hesitation, Oly pulled a knife out of his sock and held it up to the guy's face.

"No...you're gonna pull over right here and let me out," Oly said. "Right now."

"Easy, easy! I was just talking," said the driver, pulling over immediately. Oly held the knife up to the guy's face the entire time, then grabbed his backpack and climbed out of the car. The guy sped off.

It was getting dark. Oly was still about ten miles Southwest of Eau Claire. He put his knife back in his sock and began to walk down I-94. He was still too freaked out to put his thumb back up, so he just kept walking in the cold. He walked for nearly four miles before he heard a siren behind him. It was a state trooper, a woman, and she told him not to move. She had her gun drawn already.

"Do you have any concealed weapons?" she asked.

"Yes," he said. "I have a knife."

He pulled it out and offered it to her, handle first.

"You know that's against the law," she said, taking the knife and then kicking it aside. "And you shouldn't be out here."

He told her the story. She told him to go pick up the knife and put it back in his sock. He scrambled over to get it.

"Get in," she said. He climbed into the passenger seat of her cruiser. She drove him all the way to Minneapolis, neither of them saying a word.

This is a palm tree:

Palm trees are pretty awesome.

While we were in Cali, we went to this interesting offshoot of the SD Zoo.

I have mixed feelings about zoos, although this one was pretty cool because it was spread out and there seemed to be more attention paid to recreating the natural habitats of the animals, etc. It was vast.

Given the choice between living in a mock habitat sans predators or going home to the real deal, I gotta think these guys would stay in San Diego. I know I would.

I'm sure they've all lost their natural hunting instinct and gone soft but they're probably cool with that. This guy looks like he'd still fuck me up in an instant.

We went by the beach. People were surfing.

I'll never be as cool as the uncoolest surfer.

Even the Lego surfers are cooler than me.

There is a scene in Knocked Up where the Paul Rudd character grits his teeth and says with a forced smile, "We're going to Legoland." When you go to Legoland, you are officially renouncing your selfish youth and acknowledging that you now exist mostly to make your kids happy. It's a strange feeling, but it's also sort of comforting. And I gotta say, the Lego people are really good at making shit out of Legos.