comes and goes

it starts as a flash from down in the dark.
an arrow, a bolt, an inspiring spark.

an idea that calls in the darkest of night.
an idea that shines with ephemeral light.

an idea that calls me while i am asleep.
an idea that deems itself worthy to keep.

i smile and think of this new story hatched:
new plotlines, new characters, new treasures snatched.

but when morning comes i sit up in my bed.
i groan and i stretch and i scratch my poor head.

i know that a thought has moved out of my sight,
i wish i'd remember but nothing seems right.

. . . a brooklyn sort of sunset . . .

draft #1

This past weekend I flew out to Chicago to see some friends from college. Well, that's not entirely true. Seeing friends was the secondary motive behind my trip. I really went out there for a fantasy baseball draft.

Call me dumb. Go ahead. Plenty of other people have. They said it was silly to fly out there for a draft. You know what I say? I say those people are robots with no feelings and no concept of what it means to be a real human being.

Because real people live for fantasy sports. And some, the lucky ones, die for fantasy sports.

This is my first year in the Chicago league. I was recruited to join forces with Phillip Wise, manager of the Great White Hype, because of my intelligence, sperm count, and undeniable fantasy acumen. With my help, this franchise will make its first trip to the playoffs ever.

Ever.

Now, with all that being said, I understand there's nothing more orgasmic than listening to a person drone on and on about their squads. So as not to to let you all down, I'll share my team:

C - Joe Mauer
1B - Lance Berkman
2B - Brandon Phillips
3B - Miguel Cabrera
SS - Edgar Renteria
OF - Vladimir Guerrero
OF - Matt Holliday
OF - Torii Hunter
Util - Corey Patterson
BN - Pat Burrell
BN - Freddy Sanchez

SP - Brett Myers
SP - Barry Zito
SP - Chien-Ming Wang
SP - Daniel Cabrera
SP - John Patterson
SP - Javier Vasquez
RP - BJ Ryan
RP - Francisco Rodriguez
RP - Brian Fuentes
RP - Akinori Otsuka

As you can see, the lineup is filled with mashers that are sure to deliver runs, home runs, average, and RBIs. Then, between Renteria, Patterson, Phillips, and Hunter, we should compete in stolen bases every week. The bullpen is unshakeable and the rotation, our admitted weak spot, has the chance to dominate if everything comes together as planned (the plan being Zito having a smooth transition to the NL, Cabrera learning to control his 100-mph heat, and Patterson staying healthy and reverting to his 2005 form).

You would fear this squad if you had to go up against it. Hell, I bet you fear it regardless. I know I would.

I have another draft on Tuesday night. Stay tuned to hear all of those sexy details.

she sucks

I met Susan Sarandon once and I wanted nothing more than to repeatedly punch her pregnant stomach. If, you know, she had been pregnant.

I was working at Blades, a Skateboard/Snowboard shop down by NYU, when she walked in. I greeted her at the door, as I did to all people who walked in, and smiled a bit on the inside. It's cool to spot a celebrity, and here was one no more than 3 feet from me. She asked for my help, then proceeded to pick up her cell phone and make a call.

Ok, I thought, she's going to make a quick call then start asking some questions. Maybe she's even calling Tim Robbins. Hey, with Susan Sarandon, anything is possible!

But I was wrong. Perhaps not about Tim Robbins, but about her hanging up and assuming her role in the interactive shopping experience I was there to provide. Instead, she just pointed out items of clothes and said a size. She didn't even make eye contact with me. In fact, I'm pretty convinced she did that on purpose.

It was bad enough she had to talk to me. She wasn't about to bring herself down even farther by making eye contact. Whatever. I could deal with it. What I couldn't deal with, however, was what she did when I got bored of being her personal shopper and let my attention drift to a group of girls who just walked in.

When I didn't respond immediately to her command for a shirt in a Medium, she snapped her fingers at me. "Hey!" she said, her phone call momentarily interrupted and every wrinkle on her face alight with anger, "Medium."

That's when the urge to start punching her pregnant belly set in. If, you know, she had been pregnant.

in search of a new drink

My first drink of choice was rum and coke. Captain and coke if you want to be technical about it. And, if yours is a brain that forces you to be precise, we can say my cocktail career began with Captain Morgan Spiced Rum and Coca Cola.

I don't recall who introduced me to that particular drink. My brother, perhaps? Certainly not my dad who only lets the Bloody Mary pass his lips. I'd say it was my mom, but we all know that's a lie. The most I've ever seen her drink was a cup and a half of wine at Passover.

The cup and a half, by the way, was enough to get her drunk.

So my start of rum and coke remains a mystery, but its end is as clear as a freshly washed window.

Australia.

Australia brought rum and coke to a grinding halt.

The same as America does not import Kilkenny (a shame, to be honest), Australia does not bring in the Captain. Maybe it's because he's a pirate and they're forever trying to distance themselves from their convict past. Maybe it's because he wears boots but not Uggs. I don't know. I just know he doesn't live down under.

I gave the local spirits a chance. "Bundaberg and coke," I heard myself say one night in a bar on George St.

"I'll never drink Bundaberg again," I heard myself saying five minutes later.

It was grotesque. It had none of the smoothness of the Captain and was overly bitter. Not a problem, I thought, I could survive the rest of my stay drinking nothing but beer.

How wrong I was.

While beer is quite fantastic, there are certain occasions where a cocktail is called for. Like when it's 9AM and you're getting ready for the beach. Or at noon after a walk to Victoria Park.

So I wracked my brain to find a drink and, after much deliberation, decided to go the route of my friends back home. Jack and Coke. When you think about it, it's not that far from Captain and Coke. Both liquors are brown, and both use Coke. The perfect replacement!

I liked it so much, in fact, that it replaced Captain when I returned to the States. Now, 7 years later, it's practically all I drink. Sure, I'll throw in a gin and tonic now and again. Even the occasional Grey Goose Gimlet will pass my lips. But when it's crunchtime or breakfast time, it's Jack time.

So why do I look to change? Why, after so many happy nights and hangover free mornings do I cast my eyes out into the sea of spirits? Because change is good, and a little variety never hurt anyone.

I'm not saying I'll abandon Jack completely. Heavens no. We've come too far and seen too much to call it an end. But I am open to suggestions for new drinks to try.

Anybody?

the waitress' wisdom

The wind stole through my jacket and raped my skin. I pulled hard on the cigarette, part of me hoping the cherry's glow would warm my face while the other part wanted to step through the smoke and onto a beach. I laughed at the thought. I've hated beaches since I saw that jellyfish special on the Discovery Channel.

A faint light down the road called to me. I couldn't read the words from the distance but I could see neon. Food and drink. People. Warmth. I didn't believe I deserved these amenities, but sometimes a little moral transgression is acceptable. Especially when one can't feel his fingers and his ears sting with cold.

The sound of gravel crunching beneath my bootheel was amplified by my excitement at getting a chance to sit. For too long I'd heard nothing but the wind and the sound of my steps.

My car sat abandoned on the road almost ten miles back, the gas tank empty and the keys in the ignition. Hell, if someone wanted it they were more than welcome to have it. The driver-side window was shattered, the tires were bald, the transmission started slipping when you hit forty, and the inside's smell was a combination of ram's piss and mule vomit. I couldn't even pay a hooker for a handjob in that piece of shit.

Bells clanged as I opened the door. The smell of grease enveloped me as I sat down at a booth. The waitress, a teenage girl who looked tired past her age, dropped off a menu and a glass of water. I smiled my thanks but she didn't see me. Her eyes looked past me, past the road, to her son who sat at home with his television babysitter.

"Can I get you some coffee, mister?" she asked.

"No milk, two sugars. And a new start on life if you've got that in the back."

Her eyes met mine for the first time and a small smile touched her lips. It was nice to see. It had been a long time since anyone had smiled at me, and hers was soft and warmed me like a deep drink of whiskey.

"Sorry, mister, we don't carry that sort of thing here. But we do have a great rubarb pie."

"No thanks. With my luck I'd turn out to be allergic and die."

"From a piece of pie?"

"You'd be surprised."

Her smile disappeared and an accusatory eyebrow shot up. "You're one of those, huh?"

"One of what?" I tried to speak lightly, but the words came out overly defensive.

She smiled again. "One of the ones who hasn't learned that the world will piss in your face 1000 times, but it will only drown you once."

I sighed and ran a hand through my hair. It was greasy and needed a wash, but that sat pretty near the bottom of my priority list. "Well, I tell you what, I wish it would get to that drowning soon because I'm tired of being peed on."

Her head moved slowly from side to side. "You don't mean that, mister. You don't mean that at all."

As she turned to get my coffee I found myself nodding in agreement. She was right. I'd keep putting up with whatever was thrown my way just as long as I could keep my head above the water.

a hot day in utah

the vents were open all day, my friend,
from the first run until the end.
the cooling breeze was a god-send,
that's why i opened the vents, my friend.

who needs a chair lift?

For the first time since I started snowboarding in 98, I eschewed the lifts in favor of my feet.

With the Wolfe as my guide, I strapped my board to my bag and started hiking. It was tiring work. Walking uphill in the snow is not the easiest thing to do, and it only gets harder as the steps mount and the heart starts to beat faster. Throw in the occasional footfall that leaves you hip-deep in powder and you've got the makings of a frustrating jaunt through nature.

Still, it was pretty amazing. We found a nice little kicker set up and, after some handiwork by the Wolfe to fix the launch, we started throwing ourselves off the jump.

Unlike jumps in a park, the landing here was soft. It didn't matter if your back hit the ground before your board because it was like falling into a bed of pillows. Cold and wet pillows, but pillows nonetheless.

After a series of jumps, we resumed the hike up. The trail beneath our feet was packed down so the steps came a bit easier than before. That would change, though, once we found our stash of powder.

The Wolfe pointed to our right and said, "This is us."

I turned, looked up, smiled, and cinched my bag tighter. There was an incline to conquer.

The good steps, the ones I wanted more of, left me up to my ankles in snow. The rest buried me to my knees. Needless to say, it wasn't the smoothest of climbs. But I was rewarded upon reaching the summit. Alta was laid out to the North and to the South lay our descent–a steep decline through deep untouched powder. The ground glistened as if sprinkled with diamond powder and the cool breeze whispered encouragements in my ear.

"This," it said, "is the reason you started snowboarding."

The ride down was fast and silent. It felt more like gliding than riding. But, when you're used to the sound and feeling of your edges scraping against the frozen ground, any level of cushion is like a gift from the gods (particularly Odin, Zeus, and Joey McIntyre).

It was my first taste of back country riding, but it won't be my last.

Unless I get hit by a bus or lose my legs or something tragic like that happens. Then it will have been my last.

That would be one hell of a shame.

gone for a week

Snowbird has received 116" of snow since February 10th. 71 of those inches have come in the last 7 days.

What kind of man would I be if I didn't drop everything and go take full advantage of that? Ok, I'll be honest, it's not like I'm dropping it all to go ride. This trip was planned well in advance. It just so happens that the snow done fell at the perfect time.

I'll be back in a week. Try to keep things under control until then.

the midnight traveller

Timmy loves to sleep at night
for when he sleeps he dreams,
of maidens stuck in far-off lands,
of princesses and queens.

He dreams of life beyond his life,
adventures never known—
rivers that he's never crossed
and blue skies never flown.

He reaches goals beyond his grasp,
he grabs the golden ring.
He moves mountains with his hands—
an angel when he sings.

He has some dreams night after night
while others never twice,
at times he spits out fire
while at others he drips ice.

Sometimes he's an animal,
a cheetah lightning fast,
he's visited the future and
he's traveled through the past.

He's dreamed himself atop the world,
among the moon and stars,
screaming through the cosmos
in his rocket powered car.

Timmy loves to dream at night
for when he dreams he's free,
to choose what's real and what is not,
to paint reality.

Death of an icon

Ladies and gentlemen, friends, countrymen, Lebowski lovers and haters alike, please join me in a moment of silence as we mourn the passing of Momofuku Ando.

"Wait," you might be thinking, "who the hell is that?"

I sincerely hope that's not the case, though, as Mr. Ando is perhaps the most important man of the twentieth centuty. More important than Jonas Salk, founder of the polio vaccine, and having a deeper impact on society than Paris Hilton, talentless whorebag who has become wildly famous despite having no discernible talent, Ando founded the Nissin company shortly after World War II.

No. Not Nissan. That evolved from Datson in the mid-eighties. But Nissin.

Still not sure? Christ. Why are we even friends?

Nissin. Cup of noodles.

That's right. Momofuku Ando created the instant noodle in 1958. In 1971 he invented vacuum pack that keeps the pre-cooked cups so fresh and delicious. 1999 saw him opening the world's greatest (and only?) instant noodle museum in Osaka, Japan.

And now he's dead. But even in death Momofuku showed the world just how rad he is. Instead of being buried like some ordinary schmuck, he was symbolically blasted off into space after a ceremony led by a group of 34 monks and attended by 6500 stoned college kids hoping for a free sample (of soup, not Momofuku).