SAM

I worry about Sam. Kid I met over the summer at the ballpark, a kid I used to give a lot of shit to, a kid I used to say stuff to like 'Do as I say, not as I do'--the Arnold movie line that came over the PA during every game that I'd mimic as I passed him--a kid who told me he was in high school when I asked him how old he was and the kid who told me he was going into the Marine Corp. This was June. I gave him my email and told him to give me a note, send a joke, let me know how things are going once he got settled somewhere. I shook his hand on his last day, wished him well.

I haven't heard from Sam. He's probably doing fine, down in Pendleton, some boot camp hell, learning how to defend our country. He's probably doing fine. I don't know why I just thought about Sam. Maybe somehow, he'll know someone is thinking about him. Nice kid, buzz cut hair, I used to rub my knuckles in his scalp, maybe once a week, male bonding stuff.

I worry about Sam. Sam, are you out there somewhere? Midnight watch on some outpost?

Where are you, man?

DESERT HIDEOUTS

CHACO

THE DOORS

OVERRATED

Here they are, somewhat the province of the solitary observer, items I’ve been meaning to put in their place; acts, objects, things, traits heretofore elevated somehow in current popular status, that I declare to be overrated.. (and in no apparent order)

--Hair, in general; shave it off, let it grow, color it? Whatever. It comes and goes, so let it go..
--Perez Hilton; why is this hack exalted? Who gives him the soapbox? Dunno..
--Backing into parking spaces; why, I ask? Solely reserved for drivers of pickup trucks that can’t seem to be able to maneuver these behemoths, so they cheat, back into spaces, rather than back out? Perplexing, especially when this habit is extended to four cylinder autos..
--The Final Four; hey, I’m a fan, but let’s face it, March Madness isn’t so much about hoops as a general post-winter madness, cabin fever, and the promise that baseball is around the corner…college b-ball in front of any more than 10,000 fans in a stale, musty gym is way beyond what Naismith had in mind…
--College Football playoffs; okay, not actually in existence. . .YET. . .but the whole discussion reeks of new money, those who can’t just enjoy college guys playing ball, and the ‘I have to be Number One’ syndrome. Go to the Rose Bowl, Pac 10-Big Ten, and tell me how you feel..
--Hummers—the vehicle; If you have to ask why, you don’t deserve the answer..
--Dancing With The Stars; have to admit, I’ve never actually seen it. But anything having to do with ex-athletes, washed up politicians and ‘B’ list players getting prime time with hot chicks, is, well, not exactly what I’d call a productive use of time. Their’s, not yours. Okay, your’s either. Gone are the days when jocks drove delivery trucks in the off season so they could get to know their fans, then sold insurance until they died.
--Running—it’s just wrong. Bad on the joints, the whole lower body--just bad. Swim, hike, bike, walk, but run? Nah. Rather spin the treadmill, play air-guitar, chase moths. NO RUNNING. Should be a sign up everywhere.
--Dodger Stadium—just another nice place to play baseball, nothing special, nothing classic or timeless. Face it LA, most of you grew up loving the Dodgers, so I can’t blame you. Check out ATT Park, Wrigley, Camden Yards, Petco, Coors, and find out what you’re missing. Can’t even find a sign for the off-ramp. Why? O’Malley chose to finance the stadium himself and couldn’t get the city to pop for even a freeway sign. Nice parking lot with a stadium.
--Pete Carroll—not in the won lost sense, but in the sense that when his players get arrested, get involved in, shall we say campus shenanigans (and leave it at that), Uncle Pete is the first to deflect the questions, defer to the ‘we’ll wait and see what develops’ kind of response, and NEVER EVER comes out and says ‘we don’t tolerate this behavior on this team, at this school, or on this campus’, thereby making the kind of statement every other coach is quick to do. If you like the W-L record, Pete is your man. Check the rap sheets of the players, to find out the coaching philosophy of Carroll.

I believe we’ll stop it right here, for now..

BIG HAIR AND MINE

She had Big Hair, perched on the salon chair wrapped in black, and Bobby looked her over, holding scissors and a hair dryer like he couldn't decide.
Little shorter over the ears, I told Julie-Ann, my girl. In the mirror Bobby shifted his glance back and forth, the Big Hair broad going on about her 59 year old husband's three hour gym workouts; 'abs, mostly, yeah he's pretty serious about those abs' she was saying, Bobby finally clicking on the hair dryer like he was racking the chamber of his 12-Gauge. High powered, big recoil, I could feel the blast on the back of my head; hot, wet, Bobby wielding big fire-power in one hand and razor-sharp clip-clips in the other, fully loaded, and Julie-Ann buzzing my fading scalp like she'd done for the past fifteen years.
Bobby admitted he'd given up on Facebook, he was telling Big Hair, and then she shifted gears, revved up and took off.
She announced the title of her speech; 'Social Media', and she launched in.
'I Facebook, Twitter, I'm on Linked-In' she crowed, and I asked Julie-Ann for another buzz around my neck because it felt so good and might drown out revelations on Tweet info I really didn't need, and when the buzzing from my neck down my spine shriveled up she was still at it; 'Facebook Security? I don't know, everthing's just out there', she said, big-hair piled up loose, like Bobby would let it all down in a moment when he revealed why he'd given up social media. Big Hair called it that, its correct name, 'Social Media', like there was a new section in the newspaper with that title, replacing the old 'Social Scene' pics of deb balls and champagne receptions benefiting Zimbabwean pre-school or cloning colonies, protesting men and women landing on the moon, like drinking champagne and moon shots had more in common than maybe the phrase 'shots' and that's not all that much of a stretch when you get down to it.
I waited. Big Hair, Bobby with fire power and steel, more social media wisdom, while her old man crunched abs of steel for what? This big-haired broad?
Bobby says he's divorced, maybe the reason he'd lost so much weight, he revealed. 30 pounds in a year. He still looked kind of used up to me. Better maybe than Big Hair. Julie-Ann was using her scissors to clip my scalp, the thin stuff up top, surgically-honed snips thining my top-side like a hedge that was hiding old tennis balls and beer cans. She's a pro. No gossip, small talk when we need it, nothing too damning, nothing too gooey, she never misses a spot, always leaves me trimmed and happy. Everyone else coos and crows, dispensing gush and schmooze with rinse and highlights, perms and trims, last minute dos for late night cruise. No problem, I think. Big Hair needs a day off from crunchy abs and three hour workouts leading to sixty, and I know that need. I know that feeling.