American Dunderfunk

Lake Show

2009-06-14T21:49:00.000-07:00

Who thought it wouldn't end this way? Of course, a healthy KG...LeBron with a supporting cast...a more experienced Magic team...With minimal offseason moves, this team can win it again next year.

Chris Gotti Bashes the Demorats

2008-11-10T22:26:00.001-08:00

I can no longer stand silent. Benedict Arnold, Robert Hanssen, Lando Calrissian and now Joe “LIE”berman. All of them famous sell outs, but at least Calrissian made amends. My beef is with Lieberman, I understand his friendship with McCain made him endorse him for President, but the deal was Lieberman was to NEVER bash Obama on record, but that’s just what he did, he ripped Obama every chance he got. Now, I call for his removal, he has gone RED, and is tilted to the right as far as I’m concerned. Although considered an Independent he would normally side with the Dems in caucus. “LIE”berman is now nothing but a RAT! If this was an episode of The Sopranos he would have been popped and dropped off of StuGots II. They need to make him stand in the corner for a week. Joe “LIE”berman, a true American ScumBag! He is the forefather of his own party…….The DemoRats!

It's Over

2008-11-03T17:18:00.000-08:00

Mark it now. McCain will not reach 200 electoral votes. You heard it hear first. The wave of new voters will flood the country like a Fijian tsunami. Live history. Embrace it. But, once the election is over, don't hang it up. Get involved. Election day and night are just the beginning. Open your window and say you are sick and tired of it and get out and vote.

Repeat: McCain will not reach 200 electoral votes.

My name is Bernie Bibbins and I approve this message.

G's Words of Wisdom

2008-10-11T11:18:00.001-07:00

Here's a little piece of fire from my homeboy G from back in the day.

"While Sarah Palin is trying to assault Obamas character by slamming him with irrelevant rhetoric of past links to terrorism her unmarried teenage daughter is getting slammed by a boy named Levi. She should stay home and manage her own family more carefully before her youngest daughter ends up giving up the goods too."

G fixed a couple of typos. Nevertheless, the truth emerges.

This is Getting Old

2008-10-08T21:56:00.000-07:00

Okay, two debates down and McCain keeps getting crankier by the second. Why does he keep saying, "I know how to fix it," "I know how to deal with the enemy," "I've reached across the aisle and worked with so and so," "These are the problems and I know how to do it." Well, what the hell has he been doing for the past thirty years? What was he waiting for?

Second, he keeps on the Maverick claim. Look, you can take the republican out of the party, but you can't take the party out of the republican. If he is such a "maverick" and so different from his party, why is he not at least running as in independent?

Where is he so different? Take his advice and "look at the record."

All I can say is America, Ohio, and Florida, wake the hell up and get on the Obama train or stand idle as it passes you by. Some people choose to chop wood with a chainsaw and some still use a stone axe.

INovella: Myopic Triumvirate

2008-02-06T22:57:00.000-08:00

The following is an INovella produced by myself in collaboration with a part-time contributor to this blog, Scott McCain. Scott is the Federal Custodian of the Normal Chronvoxilator, and a former colleague of mine from Fullerton Union High School. Many of his short fictions have been published in the Happy Bacon magazine, Journal for Patina Precision, and his latest piece, “Scotch and Licorice” was short-listed for the prestigious Stone Ax Prize. Please visit his blog Mordand Ballyhoo listed in the links on this page.

Myopic Triumvirate

Chapter I

When the custodian left the storage closet, his dulled olfactory did not detect the strong, fetid stench emanating from the ground. Some of the others passing by pluged their noses and actually bent towards the smell. Sage produced a lighter--one of those classic Zippo affairs, only his had a skull and crossbones emblazoned on one side--and lit it. When he held the flame near one of the cracks, his suspicions were confirmed as a low blue flame inginted just above the crack and danced steadily as if a stove top burner.

Two of the others looked on and shifted their weight, wating for Sage to say something. Then, one of them spoke. "What's the deal with that?"

"The deal? What are we, in Vegas?" Sage said.

"No, it's just that, well, what is it?" asked the taller of the other two.

"What do you think it is?"

"Sage, stop with the twenty-fucking-questions," the shorter one said.

Sage stood, fixed his shirt, and returned the lighter to his pocket. He then leaned on his heels, a controlled reel, looking at each of the other two, they returning the gaze intently.

"Do you remember hearing of a teacher here a few years back that supposedly took kids into the basement and tunnels here?"

"That's bullshit," the tall one said.

"Okay, Lucien, if you want to doubt it, then find your own goddamn explanation."

"All right, I've heard of him."

The short one took from his pocket a bag of sunflower seeds and popped a handful into his mouth. "I've heard of him," he said.

"Thank you, Hippo, I'll continue," Sage said. "I think his lab is still active down there."

"Come on, you serious?" asked Lucien.

"Follow me."

He turned and shuffled towards what he thought to be an entrance to a stairwell. Lucien and Hippo stood, watching him, Hippo cracking seeds and spitting the shells, Lucien, looked at his watch.

"Come on, let's go," Lucien said.

"Where?"

"To get Cheese Nips. What do you think?"

"Shit, man. I can't cut homeroom. Kransky will have my ass."

Lucien proceeded, disregarding Hippo's remarks as if they were a fart in the wind. He had already decided, irrevocably and immediately upon seeing the blue lick of the flame initiated by his lucky Zippo, that this was a place he had to explore. He was impelled by the draw of the unknown, the small shiver that quickened in his loins. He was Hillary, and Hippo his sherpa.

"Aw fuckit," intoned Hippo meekly. Lucien tried the handle of the door. The stripes of Lucien's Newcastle United football jersey shone iridescently in the neon lights of the public school hallway. "Kransky's a tool, anyway."

Lionel Spieziak, the school's lifelong custodial engineer, watched through a small, secret peephole as the two misfits opened the heavy door. He picked up the receiver to a rotary dial phone, and turned the disc furtively, dialing a number he knew by rote.

Chapter II

The receiving side of the doorway was surprisingly well lit for what had initially appeared to be an eerie and dank passageway. Lining the walls were several outdated lamps, like the ones that appeared on the tables of a Chicago steak house, beaded and ornate, and giving a fresh umber glow. The scent of gas grew immediately stronger, and Lucien fought the urge to light one of his Benson and Hedges menthol cigarettes, a habit he had gleaned from his uncle Smarge.

"What do you think this place is?" asked Hippo. Lucien didn't answer, but carried forth into the womb of Humbert Humber High School. They were below the surface now, as they scaled the stairs that led downward from the hall behind. Hanging betwixt each art deco lamp were photos of forgotten people of forgotten times. Their candid expressions hung knowingly and benign at the two figures as they descended the cement steps.

Above the surface, at the threshold of the passageway, Happy Porcine adjusted his night-view lens and checked the battery of his camera. He had spied the two miscreants as they examined the door, and had seen them plummet the depths of the doorsill. He now had a choice.

* * *

Somewhere in the city, a phone rang and Lionel Spieziak shifted his weight from his right foot to his left. His left hand held the phone to his ear, the pre-digital ring of the phone droned.

“Yeah?”

“There’s at least two of ‘em going in now,” Lionel said.

“How old?”

“Dunno, teenagers, anyway,” he said.

“Hold back. Give it a few, then the usually.”

“Call back?” Lionel asked.

“Only if you need to.”

“Got it,” he said and returned the phone to its cradle.

Further down the dank hallway, Hippo said, “Hey, fool?” His voice echoed. Lucien ambled close to the dim, yellowish light, taking a drag from the cigarette.

“Sage?” He called out.

Nobody replied. Hippo stopped abruptly and Lucien bumped into him. “What are you doing?” He asked.

For a moment, Hippo stood stock still, eyes locked on something. Lucien said, “What the hell, what is it?”

Hippo said nothing, but held up a hand to silence Lucien. “You’re tripping,” he said.

“Shut up, fool,” Hippo said in a whisper.

Lucian tossed his cigarette, looked closely at Hippo’s face, and then looked in the same direction. It was then that he saw what Hippo saw, and his voice was gone.

Where is that motherfucker, Sage? Lucien thought. He had disappeared as soon as the door opened up into the bowels of the public school. Could this be his revenge for me fingering his girlfriend at the school dance? Lucien was cool, though, and stared the effigy down as if it were a testament to his manhood.

"What the fuck IS that thing?" Hippo howled. Lucien continued to stare. It looked like Sage, but its eyes had been gouged out to the point where the face was semi-unrecognizable.

"It's your homie, Sage," whispered Lucien, and he flicked the tip of his personal defense mechanism out in an unhurried, workman-like efficiency. He used the Bowie knife to prick the two pennies out from his former rival's eyes with a sudden necessity, much like the manner in which his father used to scrape rodentia from a rusty garden hoe. "He's dead. He's a dead motherfucker."

Lucien had never seen a dead body, at least in person, but he was untroubled by this current discovery. It was as if he had half-expected it. Foreseen it in some warped dream. Hippo became unraveled.

"Holy shit, man. Holy fucking shit!" Hippo was now beside himself. Lucien was cool.

"Shut up, Hippo. Be quiet. Be still and quiet." Lucien knew what was before him, and had chosen this route long ago. Sage was just a pawn in his game, and now he had been sacrificed, reduced like a simple fraction in a mid-level math class. He ripped the skull and crossbones Zippo from Sage's dead hands. The lamps from the sidewall dripped gloomily onto the two figures, as another shadow from above began to descend upon the duo. The shadow filtered along the cement partition between the schoolhouse and the basement with alacrity, and before he knew it, the crucial moment was upon him.

Above, Happy Porcine sat perched filming the entire episode from the third stair. His night-vision camera was astute, and captured every waking moment of the scene below. Suddenly, he too was felled by a severe blow to his cranium. He died instantly, but the camera marched on to capture the feat below, although at a somewhat unfavorable angle. The loud screams were muffled by the thick, concrete walls, and several sprays of deep, sanguine blood clouded the lens.

Chapter III

Footsteps echoed with a diphthongous quality—part step, part shuffle, the two combining in a sonorous unison. Lionel Spieziak came to a halt and held what looked like an ordinary stethoscope. He placed a listening end into each of his ears and held the metal medallion end to the brick wall. The bricks—not a normal object for the purpose of auscultation—were the sole point of his concentration. It was apparent that this was not an ordinary stethoscope because a thick wire attached the metal listening device to a box attached to a strap slung over Lionel’s shoulder. The muffled bleep, zip, and pfzzt, intensified each time he listened to a new area on the wall. He was standing in the area that Lucien and Hippos had stood moments before.

The night vision camera took on a new angle as someone resumed filming with a steady hand, and the zoom and focus were not accidental. Still, the hand wipe of the blood off the lens created a muted almost hazed gel effect, and nobody could say for sure what he saw.

Happy Porcine lay prone, his head turned to one side. The thick non-prescription glasses were tangled across his face. Both eyes were open and his tongue jutted from the side of his mouth. He never knew what hit him.

Hippo and Lucien inched slowly past what that thought as the corpse of their acquaintance Sage. Lucien knew they were nearing the deepest points of the tunnels as the graffiti grew scarce and the few spray painted markings that existed were a graffito of a 1970s slogan and a crude drawing of a marijuana leaf.

“Damn, it’s getting hot,” Hippo said.

“Shut up, you’re just fat,” Lucien whispered.

“No, I’m serious,” Hippo said.

Lucien noticed the beads of sweat that dripped from Hippos brow and realized that it grew not warmer, but hotter with every step they took. That is when he noticed the five-inch pipe that ran along the wall.

“It’s an old school heating system or something,” he said.

“How the hell do you know?” Hippo asked.

“Just keep walking.”

Lucien took the lead and in an epiphany made the connection between his current experience and the whole cetological conundrum of Ahab, Starbuck, et al. What he didn’t know was that what he thought to be the dead body of Sage was an ersatz version of said nemesis and his false belief allowed him to lower his guard.

Chapter IV

I am a Jew. I have suffered, as all Jews have suffered, under the banner of oppression, hatred and most of all, circumcision. I am half a man because of my Jewishness.

My father was born in Switzerland in 1921, in Basel, a minor canton of the Swiss confederation of arrondissements. When I was five years old, my grandmother killed herself with an ironing board and two old dinner plates, each with cherry rose designs on the edges, all of which bore her blood as if they were the holy shroud and Ikea combined, and inversely, as if they were nothing at all. My grandfather took his life soon after, although without domestic implements. His was a normal suicide.

This made my parents pretty rotten creatures. They somehow blamed me for their misgivings, and forced me to toil, day and night, on their manuscripts, all of which were in Yiddish, and needed translating into Swiss-German, a language which I alone spoke among my direct parentage. The days were hard, spent mostly at the local school for boys. The nights were worse, diddled over foreign texts, translating what were to be meaningless dross into common language. I was only seven. I eventually finished high school and entered college. There, I became what is know as the "Meuchelmörder", or hit man. I translated for years before I was able to enter graduate school, where I took classes in morphology and orthography. I was an assassin of words. Nothing escaped my erudite scrutiny, save for a few damsels and fraulines. I also learned to take lives, sometimes brutally, sometimes fastidiously.

I received my doctorate degree in 1970, and continued my studies in Switzerland and eventually what was to be known as the Czech Republic until 1989. Then the Wall fell. I was free, and came to America. America was the home I had always dreamed of: large hedges, fountains and supermarkets with aisles and aisles of bread, and already sliced! I married a girl from New York in 1992, and settled in a small apartment, and began a job at NYU as curator of Nazi relics. Since most of the treasures were of Jewish decent, it was easy categorizing the memorabilia into small ranks, each with their own sense of determination and worth. I was happy, until discovering I had been followed, watched and documented by the Stasi, some years earlier.

Nutshell—this is the version of the interim I offer, nothing more nothing less—truncated sans detail.

The Stasi had details about my dealings in the underground art market. But, I had my details as well. The difference between them tossing me into the mud and me staining their white table cloth with ink is that we both get dirty. And, although what they had on me was far more damaging that what I had on them, my wrench was far too big a headache to rid with a simple aspirin.

Our agreement was to move on. They demanded I cut all my ties with my previous work. They would assist with the transition, calling it a case of nervous breakdown—a need for a change of scenery. California was the perfect counterpoint to the hustle and bustle of four-season New York.

A cousin of a cousin, or something like that, got me into the gig. Once I was no longer under the aegis of the Stasi, the old ways, my knowledge and skills were useless—I could not afford to put myself back on the radar. Any move in the art or historical artifacts world would surely land me to, as they say, wallow in the mire.

It was in the basement of the school I clean that I developed the thing that would get them all—the thing that would allow me to push them into the mud. I call it the chronovoxilator—a device that can hear conversations of the past stored in the bricks and motor of buildings.

Chapter V

Numerous and violent staccato clicks shook the small metallic box. One might think the thing had a life of its own. It did not. It had the monopolistic power of Feynoord Electric Company, and Lionel Spieziak. Lionel eyed the machine cautiously, turning a knob here, a dial there. His fingers glossed over the membrane of the memory machine like silk gloves on a debutante's wrist. He pranced around the small table making callibrations. His gazelle-like movements were memories of their own. He turned the machine to the off position, scribbled some notes in an unintelligible Swiss-German script, put his notebook in a battered breast pocket, and alighted from his stool. The hour was nearing six, and he had loads of work to do.

Lucien and Hippo approached a cul de sac at the end of a narrow tunnel. Both had been silent for some time, neither wanting to speak about what they had seen, or thought they had seen. Hippo was first.

"What do we do now?"

Lucien gripped the incandescing device tightly in his paw.

"We go back."

"I'm all for that. I never thought I'd say this, but I wish I was in class right now."

"Classes are over, dummy. We're going back to the stairs. I thought I saw a small door back there somewhere. C'mon, sissy."

The pair made a synchronized pirouette, only to be confronted by a large, human shadow.

"That's far enough boys. Give me the lighter." Lucien tensed—the kind of tightening of spine and bowels a warrior makes just before mortal combat. Hippo shrunk to half his size.

In the distance, just out of eyesight of the two boys and assailant, a video camera candidly recorded the transpirings of the man-boy encounter.

Lionel Spieziak was awake now. He had been dormant, in a near catatonic state for what seemed like decades. Life pulsed in his veins now, and he was young and alive. The tiny pitter-pat of his loafers echoed in a dark passageway in the distance. The last message from the phone call:

Nimm den lebendigen Mann. Take the man alive.

Lucien held the lighter in his hand, the Zippo, a talisman of veneration, and flicked the flint wheel with his thumb. All he could see was the black silhouette of a man, oscillating in the corona of flame.

Spieziak held out a leathery hand, palm up. Lucien closed the Zippo. Somewhere a switch flipped and lights the shapes of half-basketballs gave off a dull illumination in the corridor.

“Hey, wait a minute,” a voice said.

All three turned to look at the source. A sinewy young man, dried blood alongside his neck, thick glasses, and a mop of head like steel wool, stood holding what appeared to be an 8mm camera.

Hippo broke into a dead sprint. Not towards an exit, but further into the recess of the cave. He was not in control of his bladder. Lucien turned towards Hippo, but turned back towards Lionel as the old man held the chronvoxilator, slung over a shoulder, headphones on, and the stethoscope devices sliding on the walls. Lights flashed and blinked. The machine blipped and beeped.

The camera boy held steady. It was silent.

“This is it,” said Spieziak. “Listen.”

He depressed a button on the machine. The entire of Hippo and Lucien’s conversation played. Lucien looked befuddled and the camera lens zoomed on his face.

“How did you…?” he asked.

“It’s called the chronvoxilator. Latin for ‘time voice machine’,” he said. “You see, whenever humans speak, the sounds don’t disappear. They actually embed themselves into walls and trees and other solids in the vicinity of conversation.”

“How?” Lucien asked.

“Not ‘how’, my boy, but ‘why’,” Lionel said.

Chapter VI

By a miracle of metaphysics, Lucien was hearing his and Hippo's voice on a strange machine. The man holding the machine was no stranger. He was the disinterested janitor from the school. Now, he seemed to be in control of the entire situation. Sage was not far off, with a small, video recording device in hand.

"My father was your father. We're brothers," ejaculated Sage, while looking directly into Lucien's eyes, his nemesis. For years the two had done social and at times, physical battle. No wonder they had been attracted to one another.

"Listen to this," said Lionel. He flipped a switch on the small box affixed above his shoulder:

"Hello boys, it's me, your father."

"Who is that?" asked Lucien.

"He sounds familiar," said Sage.

"It's me," said the box, "I am your father. I am probably speaking from the grave, but don't despair, I am home now. Lionel is here to lead you the rest of the way." Speziak clicked off the machine with a torreador's gusto and faced his newly reunited audience.

"That's right, you little fuckers. And my uppance has come." He removed a small revolver from his janitorial bib and aimed it towards the two siblings. Hippo still cowered in the darkness, the wetness climbing his trousers like a snake on Sunday. Could anybody see him? All eyes were on the boys and Lionel. "Now don't make a fucking move." His accent suddenly more German, more desperate. "You will both take me to it. Take off your shirts."

The two newly-found brothers looked askance, and made the same desperate lunge. A small blast of gunfire rang out in the solemn cavern. One man screamed in agony.

Chapter VII

The man in the black leather chair stared at the rotary dial phone, askance as to whether or not it would ring. Had he done the right thing? The thought repeated itself in his mind, an endless Xerox copy, staring hard at him in courier bold—the viscera of the serif fonts. And just what, he mused, would the boys make of the chronvoxilator? Several secret histories unfolded with the push of a button, walls, brick and mortar, conversations captured and distilled a la the 23-year-old single malt scotch. He reached for the door to his office liquor cabinet and retrieved the bottle of Glenlivet. Two fingers-worth and two rocks from the freezer tray. He sipped and let the cool burn take its effect and his mind on to things at hand. If it went wrong he would never forgive that jack-ass-hole Speziak. Never.

It was his uncle’s cuete. They never gave Hippo his due; the eternal hanger-on to Sage and Lucien’s A-group status. And, now, in their most desperate moment he was the hardest of them all. He pulled the trigger. There would never be the same spreading in the groin, the need to micturate out of fear, gone in the new found heroism. That he would weep that night in front of the police and almost sound sissy-like, would not diminish the newfound status. After all, said uncle was in la pinta doing hard time for some accumulation of illegal tomfoolery. Now, the three sat in the waiting area. The detectives finished the interviews and called home, pondering the spin for the papers and morning news. And, Sage, thinking of the chronvoxilator sitting on his lap. His mind took flight to various locations and Lucien looked at him with a wicked gleam. And, in their secret silence they thought of the girls bathroom, the principal’s office, and then the connection reached its apex as the words “grassy knoll” escaped Sage’s mouth. Then, suddenly, the three looked at each other, a myopic triumvirate, knowing this one could not be shared, could not be boasted or bragged about. With subtle nods it was agreed upon, this death of their own mordant ballyhoo.

THE END.

Frost's Fork in the Road Ain't Nothing: The Trifurcated Trail

2007-11-25T18:25:00.000-08:00

Big Bear, CA--Zener and I met up for a couple of runs this past Thanksgiving holiday up in Big Bear Lake. Day one featured a nice 3.7 ditty in below 40 degree weather, with wind, and a disappearing sun. Oh, yeah, and we were at 7,000 feet above sea level.

Day two saw us completing sprint intervals with push ups and sit ups at Eagle's point. Day three--Zener discovers a trail.

So, we're on this awesome trail that is deep into the woods. You have no idea that you are in Big Bear. The trail is challenging, uphill, downhill, jumping rocks and crevices. We're a good 25-plus minutes into the run and come across three choices for trail continuance. We select one and we're off. Five to ten minutes into this, we see an incredible view of Big Bear Lake and forge on. We then come around a bend and see the silhouette of a man, wearing a backpack, sweatshirt hood over his head, and a wild red beard. He calls out to us, "My dog may run up on you, but he won't bite." Zener knows I have a childhood fear of dogs, so he takes the lead by about ten feet. We approach the mountain main, and I note that he is barely over five feet tall. Then, in the distance I see it. A gray pitbull, running full speed towards us, tongue hanging out, and it is wearing a bandana around its neck like a cowboy. I say to the man, "You're dog's coming." He doesn't look up. "Yeah, keep running, he likes it when you do that." Zener stops and the dog is on him, skids to a stop, gives a low bark, and is ready for play. I swallow the boulder of fear in my throat and give a feeble, "Hey, boy" and pat its head. We then turn to the man and Zener says, "Hey, do you know where this trail ends?" He chortles. Not a laugh, not a giggle, but a low, guttural chortle. "You keep going and you'll end up in Sugarloaf. Two skinny guys like you in Sugarloaf'll stand out." And he laughs this time. Z and I look at each other. I say, "What about getting back to Bear Mountain or Moonridge?" He leans back and says, "I'm going to get into Sugarloaf in about 45 minutes. You keep running you'll get there in twenty-five. You go back the way you came, shoot, it'll take you an hour and twenty minutes to get back." Z and I thank him and turn to head back. He seems disappointed that we aren't going in the same direction. We have no desire to be in Sugarloaf. We get 30 yards away and he yells for us. "Hey, come back and I'll show you a short cut." Zener says quietly, "Deliverance. Deliverance." I think of a hatchet coming out from his jacket or a knife. I"Come on, I'm just a hillbilly." I turn to Z and say, "Come on, let's check it out," and jog towards him. He leans in and says, "See that mound of dirt right there?" It looks about seven or eight feet in length and is about two feet high--the perfect dimensions of a covered body. "Take that direction and you'll hit a trail back to Moonridge. " It is then that I notice what I thought were brown leather gloves, worn from the rugged elements, are actually his hands. The nails were black and gnawed. His gnarled knuckles bore the scars of foraging for roots or, at least, digging in the dirt. We thank him and turn towards the trail. I look back at him and ask, "What's your dog's name?" He pauses a moment, looks at the ground, and then up at me and says, "His name is God." With that, we near the mound of dirt, cross it and disappear down the declivity and race towards civilization. When we silently ponder what we're headed towards, we're both quietly jealous of Hillbilly Bob.

I'm a Troy Football Fan

2007-11-18T19:50:00.001-08:00

La Habra, CA--I work at La Habra High School. I am a huge Highlanders fan. But, I am also a Troy High School Football fan.

Just before kickoff of the LH vs. Ocean View HS first round CIF game started, six high school boys entered the field via concrete steps and stood on the sideline. As the person in charge of the game, and a.k.a. the "Sideline Nazi" I instinctively moved toward the boys ready to remove them.

As I came within a few feet, I first noticed that three of the six were wearing Troy High School jackets. I thought, "what are they doing here?" Then, upon scrutinizing their faces, I noticed that four of the six had blue "LH" logos on their cheeks. One of them wore blue eye out.

It hit me--these were the star players from the Troy HS team that was recently disqualified from CIF. I recognized Derek Coleman and at least one of the Sweeney cousins. These guys were at LHHS's game instead of doing a number of things: sitting at home, protesting Fullerton's game, or something else.

Instead, these six guys stood on the sidelines and cheered La Habra. Soon, the story spread down the sideline and Jane and Fred from the La Habra Journal were taking pictures and interviewing the six players.

Dr. Kaufman, LH principal, greeted the players, welcomed them to the stadium, and praised their gesture of sportsmanship. Later, Coach Mazzotta's father, the head coach of Cerritos College, sauntered over and had a conversation with the boys. Mr. Fowler, father of Kyle Fowler (LH middle linebacker) leaned over the railing and chatted with one of the Troy players, asking how they were doing.

After LH was up 35-0, Coleman and Ronnie Hillman, Jr. stood side by side, having a private conversation, shared a chuckle, and then gave a respectful handshake and knuckle tap. Shortly thereafter, the entire starting LH defense walked in a single file line and shook hands with all six Troy players.

Towards the middle of the fourth quarter, Petey Puga and Chris Alvarez had an encouraging talk with the taller of the two Sweeney cousins and discussed possible outcomes, players they admired in the league, and what each was planning to do after graduation.

It was the classiest gesture I have ever witnessed in high school sports. That the Troy players, who really lost everything, came to support a rival is a tribute to the top class program at Troy High School. This kind of action is bred out of solid parenting and coaching that preaches sportsmanship first.

The CIF mantra is "Academics, Integrity, Athletics". Troy is truly and academic institution. They show integrity both on and off the field as exemplified by the "Troy Six". They are a school that had produced great high school athletes. The tragedy is that their football team isn't competing in the CIF playoffs. The victory is that six of their players--torch bearers for the entire program--took the first step towards overcoming the setback.

Kudos to the Troy Warriors, their coaches, teachers, and parents.

Joe Henry Shares Stage, but Upstages Humbly

2007-11-18T19:38:00.000-08:00

Los Angeles, CA--Friday, November, 9th, 2007. Boy Scout outing. Dinner. On the road in the new BMW with navigation--no chance of getting lost, and detour option to maximize time.

So, the ticket says, "LOUDON WAINWRIGHT III and Joe Henry." Loudon's name is one or two point font sizes larger and appears first. Okay, no problem. Prior to the show, I'd never heard of Mr. Wainwright. Nevertheless, I settled into my seat in a mostly 40s and 50sish crowd.

Loudon takes the stage, sans Joe, and begins the set. He plays three or four songs before Joe joins him to loud applause. Joe backs him for the next few songs, before Loudon exits stage right.

Joe then jumps into "Civil War" and I thought for a moment he was lip-syncing to the CD--not because he was out of sync but, rather, because it sounded just like the recording. Joe played this tune a bit slower than the CD but mesmerized the crowd nonetheless. He followed with "Time is a Lion" and "Parker's Mood" both haunting performances.

He then said, "here is a tune that changed everything about my song writing." The band and Joe played "This Afternoon" which brought down the house. This song is so trademark Joe--he is one of the few songwriters who can take one word and stretch it out over several bars of music, using each syllable as its own phrase.

The difficult horn parts were performed by the guitarist on an acoustic slide guitar to utter perfection.

Loudon later joined Joe to finish the set and for an encore. Although Wainwright was the headliner and Joe billed as guest, it was clearly Joe Henry for whom the crowd came to see. When all was said and done, I'd completed the triumvirate of the year--Wilco, Sexton, and Henry.

Cardinal Sin...Redeemed

2007-10-15T20:34:00.000-07:00

Salana Beach, CA--So, here's the cardinal sin--I completely forgot about the Martin Sexton show on Saturday, October 14. Yes, I had, and still have tickets for this show. How did I forget? I have a hypothesis on the matter: bought tickets too early and wrote reminders in too many spots.

One of the ways to get one's attention is to use novelty or incongruity. That is to say, add something new to one's routine or put something out of place. Well, when I first bought the tickets, I wrote the date on my kitchen calendar and Palm. Of course, this was over two months ago. So, day in and day out, the date on the kitchen calendar just became part of the background as did the reminder on my Palm.

I know, it should still have been fresh in my mind. It is Martin Sexton, after all, and...enough said. Anyway, it is Saturday night, about 10:30 p.m. Kids in bed. My wife and I are in bed watching TV. Just about to crash when she asks, "When are we going to the Martin Sexton concert?"

Flying out of bed, I ran to the kitchen only to confirm what I already knew--I had forgotten about the show. I had committed the cardinal sin. This wasn't a case of baby sitter falling through, death in the family, or some other tragedy, this was...well, lame.

Now, I have had and am having the busiest October of my life, but no excuses. So, as my wife suggests that I drive to see him, you know, catch the last two seconds of the set, I accept the situation.

The next day, I go on Sexton's website and discover that he is playing the Belly Up Tavern in Solana Beach, CA, 25 miles north of San Diego. I buy a ticket online. I drive the 88 miles one way. I walk into the Belly Up and realize, it was a blessing in disguise. No knock against the Anaheim House of Blues, but the Belly Up is legendary.

All I can say is that Martin Sexton blew the doors off the place. It was jammed packed. Sexton can sing. And, play guitar. I can't figure out why he isn't bigger.

More show review later, but now, I can rest in piece knowing I have redeemed myself and have been forgiven.

All Blacks Will Never Win It Until...

2007-10-06T17:35:00.001-07:00

Yeah, so most Americans don't have a clue what rugby is except to say "it's like football and soccer," which is wrong--it is more like football and basketball. Nonetheless, in a weekend following one that saw six of the top 10 ranked college teams lose, so did the world of rugby.

Saturday and Sunday mark four matches that make up the quarter-final rounds. Two favorites, Australia and New Zealand both lost their matches by 2 points. The Aussies lost to an injury plaugued English side who are the reigning world champs.

New Zealand lost to France who have been their nemesis twice now in World Cup play. Two world cups past, New Zealand was up 13-0 at half-time only to lose to a more passionate and inspired French side.

Again, this Saturday, New Zealand was up at the half, only to see France creep back in and ultimately win.

To understand what this means to a Kiwi, think of your all time favorite sports team losing the big game, but not just the yearly rivalry, the one that only comes once every four years.

This tough is particulary hard in that it was a quarter final and New Zealand was expected to win.

The bottom line is that the reason the All Blacks have failed to win the World Cup since its inauguration in 1987 is that they play one match in a lackluster fashion (the only exception would be the overtime loss to South Africa in the 1995 World Cup final).

Last World Cup is was a passionless loss to Australia, the World Cup before, to France, and the 1991 Cup to Australia.

There isn't any magic or panacea to fix this problem--they are still undoubtedly the best side in the world--the best team with the most talent. What is lacking is the killer instinct in the matches they assume they will win.

France lost this year's opener to Argentina, but have regained that deep down passion. The killer instinct that says never die. I think the All Blacks were looking to the next round.

The only thing they'll be looking at is other teams on the field.

There’s Nothing Wrong with the Ending

2007-10-03T20:50:00.000-07:00

Now that the crying has ended and the pouters have uncurled their lips, it’s time to examine the sheer brilliance of the final episode of The Sopranos. At the core of interpreting why the ending didn’t work for some and worked for others is the conditioned series finale syndrome or CSFS; the triumvirate levels of what Shakespeare referred to as “noting”; and what I’ve dubbed the “plausibility equals suspension of disbelief to experience ratio”. And, of course, there is the sorting of miscellaneous debris within the final scene.

The things that are probably most troubling to viewers are the conditioned expectation of a “neatly wrapped” series finale as seen in M.A.S.H., Cheers, Seinfeld, Friends, and most recently, Six Feet Under. Now, these shows vary in their quality, but each concluded in a somewhat satisfying way. The predictability factor is determined by how a viewer’s expectation is shaped by show convention. So, when a show follows tried and true convention, its conclusion becomes more and more predictable because the audience expects certain things to happen.

In the case of The Sopranos, audience expectation was primarily based on what their determination of convention was prior to the series. For most, it is the conventions of the mobster genre as defined by The Godfather trilogy, Good Fellas, and the like. In these stories, the main male character fits a stereotype of hardened and street savvy thug who doesn’t have a heart, conscious, or care (exteriorly speaking) of what others think of him. The main characters of these stories would never in a million years think of seeing a psychiatrist for therapy, let alone become self-aware of emotional and psychological problems.

This became the general premise for David Chase’s work. He set out to shatter expectation by changing convention—ultimately changing predictability. He masterfully—along with his writing team—pulled this off, episode after episode. Viewers disappointed with the final episode did one of two things—they either felt their viewing senses were tantamount to Chase’s predictability factor and fooled themselves into thinking there were in step or one step ahead; or they, in a moment of insecurity or, perhaps nostalgia, experienced a viewers relapse into the old convention, expectation, predictability mode. In short, this latter group needed or wanted the tightly packaged finale that would allow them to continue life knowing the fully resolved story.

Of course, Chase pulled no punches in that he established from the get go that this show was not about predictability, and his writing team certainly changed convention, partly by the graces of H.B.O. and partly because of their panache in pushing the limits. Unfortunately, disappointed viewers just may have had too many years of conventional television to undo the Pavlovian effect.

Now, what exactly allowed Chase to change expectation? Viewers know that the H.B.O. format in and of itself challenges conventional television in that it is sans commercials, breaks the cliffhanger format for commercial breaks, and can portray sex, violence, and profanity among other things. But, these are easy things to do by themselves. What chase did was take the assumptions of mob life and give viewers the fly-on-the-wall purview to see what really might happen in a mobsters life. With The Sopranos we went from being fascinated with la cosa nostra as depicted in two-hour films, to getting past that and really getting to know the characters.

Television is a voyeuristic endeavor. No questions asked. However, the way the eavesdropping or “noting” as Shakespeare called it, occurred on The Sopranos was quite different from normal prime time fodder. In most shows, the viewer sees the show through a single layer. However, just as Shakespeare demonstrated in Much Ado about Nothing (Alvarez’s favorite), Chase uses a triple-layer of observing.

Recall that in Much Ado about Nothing, there are characters that hide behind bushed and eavesdrop on genuine conversations between other characters. There are also characters that stage a conversation because they know that they are being observed and give false information or merely perform for the eavesdroppers. Finally, the audience or reader of the play become the third layer of voyeurism in that the audience views all levels of the “noting” and become eavesdroppers themselves.

How does this work for The Sopranos? There is the perfunctory audience level. This is standard television for sitcoms, dramas, or sporting events. As for the staged level—the viewer got to see Tony say things to people that he both meant and didn’t mean, depending on the situation. Sometimes for a set up a la Adriana. Sometimes for the agent who gave him inside information. But, as we continued to view The Sopranos by way of unconventional settings (kitchen of Tony’s house), characters (just about all of them), or situation (Tony in therapy, suicidal son, lawyer daughter), we gained a view of mob life that had never before been portrayed. This became the hook that would ultimately lead to the need for a tightly closed ending. Being along for the ride so long gave viewers a sense that they were part of the family through the three levels of observation. This point of view was significantly apparent in the final seconds of the show as the screen went to black. But, more on that later.

One of the most fundamental challenges of any work of fiction is the idea of suspension of disbelief. That is, to what extent must a viewer suspend his or her belief of reality as they know it in order to follow a story? The difference between a viewer’s real life experience and level of suspension of disbelief are what gives a work of fiction its plausibility.

Tony seeing a therapist was one of the first challenges of disbelief. How many viewers would believe that a mobster would see a shrink? At first thought, probably very few. However, as Chase uses the three-levels of observation, challenges convention, he changes our expectation and thus increases the amount of disbelief we are willing to suspend. It gets to the point that by season two, nobody gives the thought of “a mobster in therapy” a second thought.

Coupled with this is the very real and down to earth of Tony struggling as a father. He, like any other dysfunctional family, cannot control his own children and adds fuel to the fire in terms of his marriage. His tireless pursuit of the American dream is in vain. As he gains power and money, he loses his son, daughter, and maintains a constant friction with his wife. Ultimately, he is only able to acknowledge his childhood difficulties, but never quite resolves them. So, that brings us to the final episode, namely the last scene.

The cat may be Adrianna, may be a reference to the Egyptians belief in cats as good luck, and may be an ode to The Godfather when Don Vito Corleone pets the cat as he sees visitors. Maybe Chase just wanted to give a part to an animal that doesn’t die. Who knows?

Final scene. Tony is alone in the diner from his youth. A critic recently referred to it as a Normal Rockwell scene. Families and patrons enjoy “soda fountain” fare, jukebox music, and a flare for nostalgia. Enter Carmella. Husband and wife are joined. Tony orders and old favorite—onion rings, best in the state. A.J. enters. The prodigal/emotionally disturbed son returns.

Outside, Meadow struggles to park the car. She continues to do this as conversation unfolds inside. At each attempt, she is trying to park while going backwards. Yes, she is trying to squeeze between two parked cars, but her inability to go backwards prevents her from joining the family.

Inside, we see a man in a Members Only jacket looking like a possible hit man. There is the mesh cap clad truck driver looking guy. Tony and A.J. talk over “Don’t Stop Believing” with Carmella listening. Tony glances to the door each time someone enters. Meadow continues to struggle—she desperately wants a “do over” on several levels. How can she navigate the difficulties of medical school, let alone law school if she can’t parallel park a car?

The scene cuts quickly between Members Only, truck driver, two African Americans, etc. as A.J. says to Tony, “You said to always think about the good times.” Tony replies, “I did?” A.J., “Yeah.” Tony, “Well, then, yeah.” Meadow, now parked, nears the entrance. Tony looks up and, zap. Black screen.

Were we bamboozled, and Chase laughed his ass off? Not likely. Not after eight years of a well-crafted show. Why not an on screen whacking of Tony? Convention and conditioned expectation. We’ve seen the mob boss killed too many times. Why not sailing off into the sunset? This would be, after all, the conditioned predictability, which, for the most part, gives people comfort. Chase could have followed in the footsteps of St. Elsewhere and had Kevin Finnerty awaken from a dream or coma and the entire thing could have been his alter ego or his take on what he wises he were. There are certainly enough hints that could validate this route. But, this is really where I think Chase was going. And I thank him for it. After all this time of giving us a deep intimate look at Tony and his family and other characters, making us work to understand, making us lessen the need to suspend our disbelief, changing convention, he not going to suddenly reverse and give us the neatly wrapped package.

Chase gave us a series that made us work and think. He gave us an ending that makes us work even harder. Tony is going to live his life until it is his time. But the question is not whether he is going to die at the hands of another mobster or by heart attack; it is, rather, how is he going to deal with his failure to reach the American Dream?

A dead Tony is just another mobster who dies and leaves a widow, fatherless kids, and a fortune he never enjoyed. Letting him live doesn’t make him a hero. He still lives the life of worry, the king who can usually control his court, but not his family. It is just as we are about to see the Norman Rockwell portrait come to life that it is taken away. And for the wife and kids—they’re in the same boat, pursuing a happiness that they just can’t obtain. Carmella will continue her failed pursuit of independence via prospect properties. Meadow will strive to undo her “mobness” by becoming a doctor or lawyer—something that is for a good cause. And A.J., the suicidal son who, cannot live up to his father’s expectations, just like Tony couldn’t.

Chase changed convention, raised our expectations, and created unpredictability. He gave us multiple layers of intimacy. And, just as we got comfortable, he reminded us that things are not so easy. He wasn’t going to take us this far only to undo that which we pursued. And, in kind, he rips our point-of-view away just before we think we know it all. Sure, he made every fan jump for the remote, curse aloud, or ask “what the hell’s going on?” as the screen went blank. But, Chase was doing what he’s been doing all along.

Just when we thought we had the “Chase convention” solved, we falsely settled, and ultimately lowered, our expectations, and fooled ourselves into hoping for a predictable ending. But those are safe. Tony’s life is not predictable. It is not safe. In that blackness we take what we’ve learned from all of the episodes and ask ourselves, “What would happen next?” As the Journey song reminds us “Don’t Stop Believing” because that is what made the show so great. We didn’t stop believing that we could keep disbelieving. Chase certainly allowed us to suspend our disbelief, the least we owe to him is a thank you for changing what we think we should expect. After all, we take Tony’s advice as A.J recounts and “think about the good times.”

2007-10-01T23:37:00.000-07:00

Joe Henry's Civilians

2007-10-01T22:52:00.000-07:00

Civilians

Joe Henry has returned and his newest release Civilians may be his best yet. While Joe’s trademark songwriting features his subtly complex arrangements, the driving force of this album is really the subtext: his take on Americana.

What more but a CD cover flanked inside and outside by photographs of the late 1950s and 60s can capture the “old days” alluded to in songs like “Civilians,” “Our Song,” and “I Will Write My Book.” These are not songs of melancholy, but, rather, songs of nostalgia—but not just for nostalgia’s sake.

No. These are pieces juxtaposed against modern civilization; the voice of the songs looking for the stability of the past amidst the chaos of the present. It’s no wonder Henry mentions God in nine of the 12 tracks.

Although he mentions in the linear notes that in retrospect he noted that God appeared in many of the songs, it is difficult to not see this as a driving theme within the major pieces. Especially those with the yearning cry of his voice, backed by the multi-layered instrumentation.

Nothing his rushed; this is Joe’s left hook out of a dark alley. The piano sounds like a player-piano that most Polly’s Pies used to have in the waiting area—it has a tinny resonance, adding to the feel of way, way, back in the day.

Just as Wilco’s addition of Nils to the line up has done wonders for the overt and covert guitar playing, so is the guitar playing of Bill Frisell. Where a less experienced player, or one solely rooted in one style may have trumped the musical freedom of this collaboration, Frisell knows exactly what to play and when to play it.

David Piltch’s upright and electric bass playing may be the most underrated musician on this CD. That Henry leaves many of the pieces sparse in terms of mixing and the slower tempo pieces create implied gaps in time, Piltch is the one literally holding it all together. Sometimes it’s a single note in a bar, or a longer line that is almost inaudible. But, that is part of the joy of listening to this CD: you have to listen several times, and listen closely.

One last trope, perhaps the most imperceptible, is Henry’s ultimate comment to the entire music industry—he’s doing it his way. Released on Anti-, a three date tour, with one recently added, and absolutely no apologies; Joe Henry brings it well-refined, developed, and impeccably executed.

But, like with any Joe Henry event, he comes out in a flash, and like that, he’s gone. Rolling Stone and all the other detritus of music review use stars—typically one to five to rate an album. I use the pound sign. Joe Henry has just pounded out the best CD of 2007 and I’m not afraid to give it ####. Yeah, those at Rolling Stone fear the five-star review because that means it’s an instant classic. We should be so lucky that taste will survive ten, 15, 20 years from now.