Cody Diablo's Convergence

So I’ll just stuff a couple more twenties into the G-string and keep the snarky comments to myself. No more raised eyebrows and muffled sneers at the Tropical Lei when Felony or Destiny tells me her real goal is to write a screenplay or study veterinary medicine. Nope. I’m a believer now, for them, and for me. There’s real light at the end of this here tunnel. In the year when Miss South Carolina or wherever that was couldn’t even complete a sentence and got a ticket to the talk show circuit to tell us all about how the intelligence implants weren't working, now we have a real life tattooed stripper/phone sex operator on the red carpet, now she’s walking on stage, holding by God the golden statuette and shit, she won the Oscar for best screenplay and wore a leopard print dress with a tattoo on her arm.

Keep on grinding, baby, right here, a little bit to the left, that’s it. Here, keep these bills, some contributions to the literary legacy of leggy babes everywhere who blog and keep hope alive out here in scribe-land.

And hope rings out for the Wilma Flintstone-Jane of the Jungle dress designers who’re probably having their own celebration this morning in coffee houses all over the garment district. Look for animal rights activists to check the bloodlines on that skimpy piece of fabric.

All seriousness aside (as Steve Allen used to say and let’s not plagiarize anymore then necessary, given the political and creative climate convergence going on) even though the Academy Awards show was a big blah with a blah host and a blah songwriting category with a bunch of boring Disney tunes virtually handing the award to a fairly deserving couple of unlikely musicians, Diablo Cody was a knockout. I missed most of the red-carpet segment so I can’t say whether she was on an even playing field with the glamour babes strutting on the pile; Renee Zellweger was hot and is she really available? Man, is she working out ‘cause she looks shaped and is Jessica Alba married? I must have missed that and she’s about ready to pop and still looks great. . . Shout out to Pomona. . .So while the Cohen brothers and producer Ivan Reitman laude Cormac McCarthy and his novel ‘No Country For Old Men’ -and the story goes that Reitman grabbed screen rights to the novel early on before the book even appeared on book shelves- from the other end of literary consciousness comes a winner perhaps born out of strip clubs and phone sex dialogue honed in the vernacular of one-way conversations with greasy lonely men too isolated for sustained social discourse and banished to 1-900 romantic fantasy. Don’t knock it. Diablo says it was good training. Peel back layers of phony posturing and fake elegance, they say, to get at the heart of the human condition. Sounds like she’s got it going and maybe the shakeup of the writers strike combined with her come-hither leopard look ignites a storm of gritty neo-realism to splatter onto the screen. Let’s hope.

If Elmore Leonard has really been lurking around in Venice Beach as reported in the local rag there and Quentin Tarentino has an open couple of months to review screen plays I could see the three of them connecting in some wild new tale of 21^st century pulp. I hear that Charles Bukowski is still selling well and what better inspiration do we need? Diablo, you go, girl... Don’t forget to tip those dancers out there working real hard tonight…that’s right…take care of those beautiful ladies…Coming up it's a three-for-one lap dance special for all you aspiring screen writers and novelists out there…grab your favorite lady and get that three-for-one deal here at the Tropical Lei…eight dollars for a Sprite? Thanks hon, keep the change. And talk dirty to me.

Party Lines

EXCERPT FROM ESPN.COM FRIDAY FEB 22 2008:

The 1998 party at Jose Canseco's house in Miami may have started out as a gathering of friends and family. It has turned into an event worthy of congressional testimony and a source of "evidence."

There is a photo of Roger Clemens at Canseco's house during the June 1998 party, according to the New York Daily News -- a photo that would contradict Clemens' sworn testimony that he never attended the party.

Richard Emery, one of the lawyers for Clemens' former trainer, Brian McNamee, said he was aware of the existence of the photo. "We have reason to believe it's reliable evidence," Emery told the Daily News. "We believe there's photographic evidence that shows Clemens was at a party he says he wasn't at."

The event is a key point in the steroids investigation involving Clemens. It is mentioned in the Mitchell report, and was a focal point during the Feb. 13 hearing before the House Committee on Oversight and Government Reform.

Barack in '72

Rainy days always used to make us stay inside and work real hard at some project or another in third grade. I dedicate today’s entry to this life-skill learned when I was about ten years old.

Today’s lesson; Blogs. I write a couple. Maybe you do too.

What to look for in excellence, what to avoid.

Sub-heading; Sports and spin-offs and a few links I found that were just too good to pass up and pass on to you so here goes. Some of the blogs and tag lines from the sports blogosphere and associated misgivings…

http://juicedsportsblog.com

Writing enhanced by flaxseed oil

“Blogging is about passion first and foremost. But how many of us wouldn't like to tell our boss to f*** off cause we can make more money blogging? That is the goal of this forum.”

Now this one, juicedsportsblog.com is essential, positing the questions we all need answers for. The big one; will ‘roids help writers? ‘The Waxman Report; An investigation into the use of steroids and the National Book Awards’

http://www.prophetfighting.com/?p=806

“the word around the campfire tonight–that Floyd Mayweather and Rey Mysterio will form a tag team against Big Show and Shane McMahon.”

You knew this was coming. Pretty Boy looks bored, needs constant attention. What better outlet than Extreme Fighting? Say what, Pretty Boy and Oscar De La Hoya in a lingerie-shootout? Rad!

http://www.legendofcecilioguante.com

“A sports blog for those who remember the days when it was OK to throw inside, hit the quarterback and trash talk a bit.”

I have no idea who Cecilio Guante is, was, but he might have played baseball on the Cuban National team and defected to become a busboy in Miami. Check out the image of, maybe Cecilio, on the left hand side of the cover page.

http://www.snorgtees.com/ipissexcellence-p-286.html

Description: I'm just the best there is - I wake up in the morning and piss excellence. No one can hang with my stuff. Attributes: -100% Super Soft Cotton
-American Apparel Jersey T

Now this was a link, I think on CecilioGuante, a site for T-shirt aficionados and this was my favorite shirt. Before you wake up one morning and realize you really do need FLOMAX, you might just need a little Piss Excellence.

http://www.superdeluxe.com/

‘Get with Barack in ’72; The Scholastic Negro’ - a must-view for all you ‘Bama heads’...

Viral Video Explained; Bird Poops In Mouth: The Whole Story Find out what the online hit is really about

You’re really taking your chances here but before you cast a vote for anyone this fall you gotta check this out.

http://www.weritegoode.blogspot.com …I totally don’t get this one but maybe you will. Help me out.

There you have it. The sun’s coming out so I think we’re going to get recess…

The SEC 's At It Again

No wonder the Southeast Conference is considered by many experts as the toughest college football conference. They’re playing almost year round. Spring practice starts down there on February 29, almost the same time as baseball spring training. The LSU Tigers BCS Championship game was January 7. Less than two months later and they’re back at it.

Combing the sports section you’d notice that LSU’s quarterback Ryan Perriloux was suspended indefinitely for violating team rules. Perrilloux is the favorite to start at quarterback, the position vacated by Matt Flynn. Right below that was a blurb about Tennessee punter Britton Colquitt’s suspension for five games and losing his scholarship after being charged and arrested for drunk driving and leaving the scene of an accident. What’s going on down there boys?

Over in South Carolina, Steve Spurrier country, Gamecock freshman receiver Dion Lecorn spent a night in lockup after an arrest for marijuana possession. Lecorn and another freshman receiver Matt Clements, who was with Lecorn, were both suspended from the team by Coach Spurrier.

The police blotter’s getting a little thick down there. But bring on spring practice, now just a week and a half away. Double sessions, full pads, knock those cobwebs out and punish those players for their mis-deeds.

Metrolink

I took a seat on the Metrolink train going down to Los Angeles, one of the two seats that faces another row of two seats.

I sat alone until a man came and picked up the paper cup with a straw planted in the top setting on the floor.

This is where I was sitting, he said.

I asked if he minded if I sat there too. He said no, it was okay.

Newspapers were on the seat next to me and a plastic bag stuffed with something I would later figure were some of the man’s clothes.

He wore a white t-shirt, tan baggy pants and a bright blue ball cap that said I’m Hooked, and a fish or two stenciled on the front

I asked him, Do you like to fish?

He smiled and said, yes, he liked to fish.

Where do you fish?

Down by Dana Point, the man said. Surface fishing.

Is that fishing from the pier?

Yes. I go out on boats, too.

His eyes looked weary but friendly. He glanced at me, looking me in the eye, taking me in, scanning. I tried to keep the conversation going. I liked talking to him.

What kind of fish do you catch, I asked.

Eldorado, yellowtail. It’s hard to catch fish near shore now, he said, because it’s almost all fished out. You have to go way out.

How far out?

Maybe a hundred miles.

Then you go out overnight?
Yeah, you sail all night then fish all day, then come back in late at night.

Do they feed you too?

Sometimes someone will donate a fish they’ve caught, and the cook will cut it up and cook it. They feed you, though, yeah.

And they supply the beer?

They supply the beer. Sometimes the guys will clean the fish and filet them for you, too. You don’t want to be having to clean all your fish, so they do it for you sometimes, right on the boat.

We rode on. The man thought for a moment that he’d missed his station. He determined that had a couple of more stops to go.

I’m going to Baldwin Park, the man said. He held out his hand. My name’s Art, he said. We shook hands. I told him my name.

Have you ever fished in Alaska, I asked.

No. There are great fishing places up there, though. Off of Kodiak Island, on the Kenai Peninsula. There was a guy up there who studied bears, and on a documentary on TV I saw where he’d been eaten by a hungry bear who couldn’t find enough food. The float plane pilot came in one day to bring him food, and he was gone.

I saw that show, too, I said. It was spooky. You could see where the bear had broken off branches and grass, then there were the remains of the body.

They even played the tape of the sounds of the killing, the man said.

I couldn’t listen to that, I said. Too weird.

He smiled and nodded.

I was in Seward and I saw the fishing boats coming into the harbor, I said. Big rolling carts full of halibut. I showed him with my hands stretched apart how large they were.

He asked how long ago I was in Alaska and I told him it was three years ago.

I lived there for three years back in the nineteen seventies, he told me. Worked for someone studying vision improvement.

On my trip, I said, we drove seventy five miles on a gravel road on the Denali Highway, then traveled the next day up to Wrangell St Elias, one of the largest National Parks. Then it was on a ferry for an all day ride down to Valdez then on to Hope for two nights.

That’s near Porcupine Flats, he told me. Lots of squashed porcupines on the highway. That’s why it got its name.

The first day I got to Anchorage, we could see Denali. It was the first day of the year that they could see the mountain, the owner of the bread and breakfast place had told me.

Right. Usually the clouds cover the mountain top and you can’t see it.

We followed the mountain all the next day and we could see it all the way.

The Los Angeles Times? he asked, pointing to the paper in my hand.

I’m finished with this section, I said and I held up the automotive section. This is a hundred and ninety thousand dollar car, I said, pointing to the lead story. You can buy a small condo for that much money. He laughed.

I got out of prison today, he said.

Today? I asked.

Yeah, this morning.

Where?

Chino. Penn State. Instead of State Penn, Penn State. He smiled with those tired eyes.

How long were you in there?

Five months.

And nobody could come and pick you up?

I told my daughter to stay home. Told her not to come down and get all caught up in it.

Well good luck, I offered.

Thanks.

I think things are going to go well.

Thank you. I’ll hang out with my buddies for a couple of days.

Maybe have a couple of beers?

Already had a couple, he laughed.

Good. You’ve got fishing, a daughter. Some place to go. I think things are going to be all right.

Well, here’s my stop. Enjoyed talking with you.

Me too. We shook hands.

Here, don’t’ forget the paper, and I handed him the automotive section.

Sports page?

The automotive section. The hundred and ninety thousand dollar car. He stuffed it into the plastic bag and went down the aisle to the platform.

Locked Up

I punched the flush button on the stainless steel prison-grade john, touched the door handle with two fingers, carefully, and it was stuck, wouldn’t move. The lock just jammed. All zipped up and nowhere to go. I'd just locked myself in a bathroom stall down at the beach.

Bach was on my Ipod, but the cell phone wasn’t getting a signal.

Who was I going to call? Restroom Emergency Rescue?

What stall are you in? they would ask.

I don’t know, I’d say. I didn’t notice.

Are you in one of the plastic port-o-potties?

No. One of the permanent structures, maybe a half mile south of the pier.

Do you know which building?
Now how could I know which building? Who takes notice of a bathroom building?’

I could hear a boom box somewhere outside. People would be moving up and down the strand, striding, skating, walking, biking, connected to cell phone friends and wireless universes, ordering pizzas. I have darkness and a stainless steel toilet.

If I banged on the door, who would answer? Who would answer someone in a bathroom stall banging on the door? Useless, I thought.

I could die in here. They’d find me. Put together a report. Find that there’d been enough toilet paper. I wouldn’t leave a mess or anything.

Maybe there’d be a play written about me, something for the stage.

‘Paralysis Urinalysis’.

‘Defecated and Dead’.

But how would they stage a guy hidden from the world in a toilet stall? No magic there. You wouldn’t even see the actor. No dialog. No action. Just a guy trying to decide if he wanted to sit or stand, pee or poop, and nowhere to wash his hands.

They’d pass a new City Resolution. “No Locking Restroom Stalls.” Too dangerous, they’d say. It would define a whole new meaning for ‘public restrooms’.

I could hear someone going into the next stall. What would I say to get their attention? It could be one of those acting lessons on improvisation; how to convincingly get someone’s attention from inside the next restroom stall. From the most basic form of human posture, an impossibility of personal communication. Couldn’t happen.

The door to my stall flung open and a woman stood there. Mousy blonde hair. Nice legs.

Bach was running low on the Ipod. Strings fading out on a low-level alkaline charge.

‘I am so sorry’, she said. ‘I didn’t know anyone was in there.’

‘No problem. I was just leaving.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Oh, yeah. I’m pretty sure.’

Her terrier looked at me, took a couple of sniffs, and backed away from the stall.

I never liked dogs that much anyway.

Danica Patrick's Super Bowl

If it was Jeopardy, the answer would be Danica Patrick's beaver. The new Audi A-8. Planters Cashews. I don't drink that much beer anymore and my American four-by-four Jeep only rides on Goodyears, so no Bridgestones, thank you. But nice ads.

Super Bowl Commercials for Two Point Five Million Dollars, please.

What do you get for two and a half mil? Oh, Victoria Secrets if I was in the market for some nice lacy lingerie. I'm not. Career Builder.com? Yeah yeah, yeah, okay, I know.

But Danica unzipping her sleek black fire suit? The Unibrow chick getting ga ga looks from all the guys and the riveting homage to 'The Godfather' with the Hollywood producer guy waking up with his car? Great stuff. So how many Audis, how many cans of Planters and oh, baby, I wasn't looking for a secure domain site for my blah blah blog but Danica's creating a need. Go Daddy.

Were the ads better than Eli Manning's fourth quarter drives, both of them clutch, elusive, scrambling and desperate against an aging and tired Pats defense that clinched one of the biggest Super-upsets in NFL history? No.

But that's football, and the category here is Super Ads for 2.5M.

The challenge continues to be getting anyone under the age of thirty to pay attention for more than, oh, say, five seconds. You've got thirty seconds total, gotta do it in five, just about as much time as it takes to say 'sack Tom Brady.' And fork over two and a half million dollars. That's a lot of cashews.

So in America's mega-event, the uniquely American spectacle that can teach the political parties a thing or two about inclusiveness, the stage reached out to Alicia Keyes for some pre-game lip sync, Jordin Sparks for a stirring National Anthem and a hell of a first half that only put up ten points.

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers were nice, serving up hits that looked like they were really playing them.

Tom Brady and his Heartbreakers followed and he took plenty of his own hits. And they didn't look like they were really playing.

For accuracy, Danica didn't totally unzip, referring us to the Go Daddy website for the un-cut version. And of course there I go Monday morning after coffee and reading the Times sports section wrap-up. There's Danica looking good, getting silly with the guys and that's exactly what we want. Nothing fancy. Just indulge us for a little while. A world class driver just good looking enough, enticing us in that jump-suit-uniform thing that every guy wants to unzip. Unzipping is good. Anything, anytime, anywhere, znzipping usually means something good is about to happen.

Now I said take the Giants and the points and I was right. But I thought the Pats would win it, hands down. I was wrong. But I wasn't the only guy who was wrong.

But if you want a sure thing, as sure as two and half million dollars can buy, take two unlikely young ladies, like Danica and the Unibrow chick, and make them sexy as hell and rub it in our noses. Literally. It doesn't take a lot of special effects and over-the-top silliness to sell. Don't make people look stupid like almost all the ads that use an office setting. Someone's always the loser and out of touch in those cubicles. Be a little bit sexy, little bit funny, totally cool and maybe most of all, make sure everyone gets it. None of this message stuff that's over everyone's head except some obscure demo of eighteen to thirty-four year old gamers who live in a basement. Real girls, real guys, real products that we can use, and by the way, one of the best Super Bowls in memory, and there you go. Heat and serve.

Like Tom Petty's song 'American Girl', the Super Bowl is America's sporting event. For us, for the troops overseas, for anyone who will watch. One game, more fun, more hype, more television eye-candy than you can dream up on a bad hair day. The other icons of sport just don't measure up. Kentucky Derby? Flat. The World Series is great but it doesn't have two weeks of build up and nonsense and it takes ten days to play. Indy Five Hundred? Danica, just win that one, please, and make it special again?

The Super Bowl is an economic stimulus package in one day. Just give us more Super Bowls, more commercials, more great games, and more Danica Patricks. There's cash burning a hole in my pocket. Just tell me how to spend it. And bring on Danica Patrick in a fire suit. Hot Hot Hot. Next year I'm hoping to see Maria Sharapova taking it to the next level for Tag Heuer. It's about time, isn't it?

The Tattoo

The man with the well-worn plaid green flannel shirt and grey stubble poking up on his head was friendly, turning to me and wishing me a Happy New Year.

Happy New Year, I answered. Just amazing how fast the years start to go by, I went on.

We waited in line at Kinko’s.

Yeah, he said, too fast. I think I’ll spend more time trying to serve people and less time chasing the buck, he added.

I tried to ignore the blue script tattoo sprawling across his furrowed forehead. I’m a little uncomfortable with people who use tattoos to invite attention. I’d caught a glimpse when he got into line ahead of me.

That’s a good goal, I said, sticking to the vision for 2007.

Try and spend more time with family, he said.

It was small half-inch script, a few words, one line, a little forehead left over for margin. I kept eye contact, avoiding an upward glance to the forehead that would provoke some kind of discussion I couldn’t see getting into at Kinko’s.

He stepped forward when the young clerk motioned to him and immediately addressed the young black woman standing next to him at the counter.

I listened in.

It says Jesus Loves You, only it’s written backwards, he explained to the young woman. That’s so I can see it in the mirror every day. To remind me. I forget sometimes, he admitted.

He seemed pleased, like he was used to answering questions about his tattoo, his conversation starter, a label he would live with for the rest of his life.

The woman nodded, smiling. Yeah, that’s cool, she said.

He went on to provide detail on the challenge of tattooing backwards, in script, and the comfort it brought him knowing his personal message was also a message for the world, an invitation to start up a conversation.

If I had it written regular, he continued, I wouldn’t see it right side up in the mirror, and people would read it on my forehead, and probably wouldn’t ask me what it meant.

I pictured him in front of a small mirror, maybe in prison, punching his lifelong message into his forehead.

I paid a dollar for my fax and went out into the night and the man and the black woman were still talking at the counter.

Say It Ain't So

Joe Torre, the new Dodger manager, former Yankee skipper during the recent run of New York World Series champs, was looking tired, before the baseball season has even started.

"It's just sad," he was saying about Roger Clemens on Capitol Hill trying to stare down Congress like he's done to opposing hitters for his entire career.

"I know what kind of competitor he was when he played for me. . . I'd just like to see baseball move on."

Say it ain't so, Joe. Torre managed Clemens for several years when Rocket pitched for the Yankees in his desperate attempt to get the tri-fecta; Cy Youngs, sure Hall of Fame entrance on the first ballot, and a World Series ring.

Joe knows. He won't say anything to anyone. He's too classy for that. But he knows.

The truth is somewhere in the murky shadows of a forgotten sandlot where kids throw pitches to batters in ripped up batting cages when the sun's going down after a hot summer day. 'Just one more pitch,' someone will yell out and a ball streaks into the zone and a kid swings a wooden bat at an old scuffed up ball. Maybe someone's dog is roving out in right field shagging balls, somebody's little brother banging on an old glove.

So there was Roger demanding the final word like he was looking for a final out to end the game, Rep. Henry Waxman calling balls and strikes. They should'a pulled the pitcher. We all wish Joe Torre could have made that famous stride to the mound to pat Roger on his butt and take the ball and watch the Rocket cross the foul lines, tip his cap and walk into the dugout.

That's not Roger. One more pitch, he demanded to Congress, one final chance to clear his name even though in his opening statement he said he knew his name could never be restored. It must be hell to believe that a group of forty or so members of Congress have to convene in order for you to save your name.

We expect a lot of our heroes. Perform for us on the field, win, against the odds and in brilliant fashion while we watch on our big screens and in our luxury boxes and sports bars. Win, beat the spread, build up fantasy points. And when they're down, exposed, in trouble, it's like Joe Torre said, it's sad.

The kid that takes that last swing, throws that last pitch far into the darkening evening is the same guy who refuses to give in to contrary testimony, who battles on against the odds of public opinion. We see it as a fatal flaw, but it's in their genes to play on past dark, keep going until the buzzer goes off and there's no hope of winning.

On the field it looks noble. In a suit and tie it looks sad.

O J Simpson, Mike Tyson, Roger Clemons. Pete Rose. Marion Jones. Some of the greatest athletes of our time had these flaws that work brilliantly to their advantage when playing, and bring them down with thudding humility when their character is questioned.

Waxman has it right, we're all much too invested in sports and heroes and winning to the point of risking way beyond normal healthy expectations. Kids lives are at stake. Gambling and sports bars and authentic licensed team gear and billions of dollars are riding on athletes and teams and sponsorships.

And some kid plays on after dark when dinner's getting cold, looking for that extra zip on the fastball to take him to the next level. Come on in, kid, get some dinner. The sun comes up tomorrow, take some BP, a little infield, live on to play another day. Sports is great but it's not the only game in town.

Right Joe? Say it ain't so.