Da Best of...

2012 is that annual predictions do not come true. While waiting for engagements to stir my fancy this year, a strange and delicious phenomenon happened to me...I read the entire Harry Bosch series by Michael Connolly. In a stupor. I couldn't get enough of the LA cop, Dupar's, Philippe's, Gorky's, Figueroa, etc. etc. Bosch was crack. I was living la vida film noir. My skin turned pasty. Who cared  what happened on CNN. After Bosch was there life, and other pulpy spines to crack. Yes! In no particular order the short list of good reads: 'Bring up the Bodies'. If you haven't read Mantel, start with 'Wolf Hall.' 'The Sisters Brothers,' by Patrick DeWitt. A Western nugget. 'Gone Girl,' by Gillian Flynn. JesusH! 'The Wild' by Cheryl Strayed. 'The Beauty of the Real,' by Mick LaSalle. And one stray from the past, 'Life,' by Keith Richards. A diamond in the rough. If you finished it, you can brag. I did. And I am. A hella of a bio which will make you marvel. And because we all like to watch, movies which were worthy of a big screen: 'The Dark Knight Rises.' ' Argo.' 'Bernie.' 'Moonlight Kingdom.' 'The Master.' 'Skyfall.' 'Farewell My Queen.' And, 'Django Unchained.' Ohhh, how that one plucked my spaghetti western heartstrings! To see them is to love them. Year of the Snake almost here, my friends.

'The Conversation of Prayer...' D. Thomas

Charlotte Bacon. Daniel Barden. Rachel Davino. Olivia Engel. Josephine Gay. Ana M. Marquez-Greene. Dylan Hockley. Dawn Hochsprung. Madeline F. Hsu. Catherine V. Hubbard. Chase Kowalski. Jesse Lewis. James Mattioli. Grace McDonnell. Anne Marie Murphy. Emilie Parker. Jack Pinto. Noah Pozner. Caroline Previdi. Jessica Rekos. Avielle Richman. Lauren Rousseau. Mary Sherlach. Victoria Soto. Benjamin Wheeler. Allison N. Wyatt.

Our Children. Our Teachers.

...'Can you picture what will be...'

Feel compelled today, what with NPR giving the 'end of the world' robust coverage. Just saying I'm not quite there yet. And anyway, since you learn everything from the telly and big screen films, I don't see an asteroid parked on our doorstep a la 'Melancholia' by Lars von Trier, nor have I heard of a speeding meteor heading for splash down on planet earth. So, send up the bat signal, and pass the donuts, please

1. This has been a hella year for women on the telly. Leading the field is a Danish production called Borgen which means government or the castle. Starring Sidse Babett Knudsen as Brigitte Nyborg who becomes the first PM of Denmark, this is unequivocally, the gold standard, the mother lode of all which ever came before or will ever follow. There is already talk of an American adaptation. Why? Because Americans are too lazy to read subtitles. With 2 seasons in the can, do yourself a favor, and watch
one of the finest Euro productions to stream this way.

2. The Hour. I wrote about it last year, and this season it broke from the gate running and is even better. How is that possible? Romola Garai as Bel Rowley is brilliant. And her Bel to Ben Whishaw's, Freddie, is scintillating, heady, and awash with all the stuff you yearn for in dialogue. Vivid. And memorable. Gdamn the Brits are good! 

3. Homeland. The shark jumping series which loves to remind you that it's 24 creators love trolling the briny blue etc. Clare Danes in a role which left her treading chum infested waters for every implausible fracking episode, yeah, big fist bump to you. Wobbly chin, and googly eyes, Danes was the best we had on this side of the ocean in a ridiculous, sphincter tightening, moronic (yes) production which some of us could not stop watching.

4. Lena Dunham. Talent. Talent. Talent. Glimpse, you tube: Your first time.

5. Real life imitates art. Props to Park Geun-hye, the first woman, elected President of South Korea.

And so it goes....

As If....

1. I went back and forth...should I or shouldn't I toss gasoline on the flames, and dog pile my boos onto the cascading chorus. Cause, baby, anyway you try and spin it, the new UC logo is fucking awful. Alums are pissed; students embarrassed; and staff are circulating a petition to have it removed. Never have so many been so united over a cause. And that's damn hard to do in Berkeley. Seriously, was the logo designed on the farm in  Palo Alto? Because, really, it's a joke. Two vivid descriptions keep cycling to the surface: 1. a flushing toilet bowl. 2. a half assed C frozen in dial up modem hell. Come on, now. The University of California is one of the greatest public institutions in the land. Fix this! Someone put your big boy pants on, and take it back. Because the logo is the biggest WTF to ever hit the campus since 1968...

2. Two weeks ago, gully washer barreling down my street. Today, warm Indian summer weather. Down at the docks watching the ships stream by. Water glistening like jewels. I understand the allure of the ocean, the pull it might have on seafaring laddies. When I was in the islands last month, I saw the 'green flash' unexpectedly. Over the years, there were days I looked for it; eyes concentrating, the last rays of the sun sinking comfortably into the under belly. But on that day, I stepped out to the lanai,my mind filled with thoughts like: "I'm not eating enough greens, here. Or, am I in television hell? When is my fucking broken toe going to heal?"when the sun started to sink, and wham, in a precious nano second, the green flash zapped the horizon. All Lourdes like, priceless.

3. Manny Pacquiao. Manny. Manny. Manny. Mitt Romney and Ann visited his dressing room before the fight on Saturday night in Vegas. Knocked out cold in the 6th round for 2 minutes, maybe Manny should consider shaking up his pre-fight rituals. Just saying...

"Hana Hou"

1. The banner headline on the front page of the Honolulu Star Advertiser in Caps..the day after the Presidential election. Loosely translated for all haoles, it means 'One More Time!' The Punahou grad surely enjoyed the local colloquialism of that phrase. It's true, I've been MIA; back in the islands taking care of family business; one sad little fact...not once did I venture to my secret Hawaiian beach for a dip. Or to Leonard's for a malasada.

2. The Nene. Official state bird of Hawaii is a relative of the Canadian Goose. Apparently on the big island of Hawaii there have been a rash of lead footed drivers pasting Nene into fresh road kill. How do you not see a gray goose crossing the road?

3. Brad Pitt and Chanel No. 5. So so wrong. Lose the hair, and study Charlize Theron for Dior, or Catherine Deneuve your predecessor.

4. I grew up with the scent of Chanel No. 5 trailing through the house. That was the only perfume my mother wore, and she wore it everyday. Every single day. To work. To church. To the grocery store. She never ventured out without dabbing her wrists or neck. I remember buying one of my aunts a bottle of Faberge for Christmas. It was cheap and I was young. Later, after I graduated from college, I bought my mother a small bottle of Chanel No. 5. After she died, I could still detect the No. 5 embedded and drifting up like a ghost from the leather seats of her car...the perfume will always be associated with Alyce; the good, the gracious, and at times, the bad. There were many moments in my past when the mere hint of Chanel No. 5 raised the hair on my misbehaving head. So, get it  right, Brad.

5. Hostess, toast yesterday, like the roach might live to bake another day. Settle up with your crew, you turkeys, and keep churning the twinks. 

6. Enjoy Thursday. The 3 NFL games. The pie.

Smashing Pumpkins

1. One of the greatest band names ever. Admit it. As a kid, didn't you once want to go out there on Halloween night and pulverize the punk into stringy melon chunks?

2. Stripped of his 7 Tour de France titles, and banned for life by the International Cycling Union, Lance Armstrong has been asked, today, to return the 4 million dollars earned in those events. In a sport where doping is rampant; where every competitive country has come under scrutiny; where there have been allegations and expulsions for years, none has been as shocking as Lance Armstrong's fall from grace. Uncovering the most sophisticated deliberate doping scheme to ever deceive the public (tens of millions of American taxpayers dollars in funding to the USPS Armstrong's cycling team) and ironically 'rope-a-doping' cynical media too, all fell like a house of cards, because 2 women: Betsy Andreu, and Emma O'Reilly sick of the cover-up and lies, were the first to come forth with stories of the PED: steroids, testosterone, growth hormones, and EPO. Bullied. Called crazy and jealous. Hit with lawsuits by team Armstrong, the 2 women ultimately said what no one really had the conviction to say: the emperor had no clothes on.

3. Lena Dunham. We love you, babe! Her ad for Obama is sensational in the Dunham 'way'; clever, contemporary, cozy and ballsy (ya know what I mean) in sista hood parlance...get out the vote. Our bodies. Our selves.

4. Half Moon Bay. Home of the Great Punk.

'The Bear will not die'

1. 1982. My job app to the great UCB a dopy hazy gleam in my eye; living in Oakland close enough to hear the canon boom from tight wad hill over-looking Memorial stadium. I don't quite remember where exactly I was that day, but I know 'the play' in the theater of gridiron heroics stands as the greatest, engaging, most dramatic of collegiate endings. Score 20-19. John Elway, the All American, standing on the Stanford sidelines thinking Heisman, and his day is done. 4 seconds left. Not so fast big boy. Joe Kapp, the fiery Cal coach, gathers his players around him, and calls for 'gra-bass,' an old training exercise: a designated group of players tries to keep the ball away from the linemen. 'Furd' kicks off. The undisciplined, infamous, red and white band sheathed in hard hats to protect against frozen projectiles (oranges and grapefruits) storms the field of play, a violation (!!), while the ball is in the air. Five gra-bass laterals, when luck inter-twined with destiny, on that field of play that day, when everybody wearing blue in Memorial would rather be lucky than good, the Bear did not go quit. Nor did they die. Kevin Moen, elevated, ascending like Jesus over the insane band... Cal 25-Stanford 20.

2. Old Blues vs the Cardinal red. In an election year. Just saying...

3 On the 30th Anniversary, of 'the play' a tip of the cap, and tequila shots to Joe Kapp. Go Bears!

Ringside

1. Orlando Cruz, a featherweight boxer of Puerto Rican descendant, with a record of 18-2-1 called a 'presser' last week and declared his homosexuality. Cruz, 31, said he wanted to be true to himself, and

to be a good role model for youth who were interested in pursuing a boxing career. In a sport which thrives on machismo and mano a mano chest thumping, Cruz is the first 'active' pugilist to come out; he has said, 'I always will be a proud Puerto Rican, and I have always been and will always be a proud gay man.' In some circles, those are considered fighting words. But Orlando Cruz's courageous statement left no doubt...bring it on.

2. After Mitt laid the whoop ass on el Presidente last week, and left the donks nervously scratching their heads at the passive (um, did he really just mail it in?) embarrassing exhibition, ol' Uncle Joe climbed into the ring last night, slapped on the gloves, and put some emphatic smak down. Energetic, animated, obnoxiously smirking at the bull that was dropping from Ryan's lips, Joe Biden went old school on Ryan mixing body blows and an assortment of right crosses . On taxes, medicare, and foreign policy, down went Ryan. On abortion, straight to Ralph Kramden's moon. Biden, avoiding verbal gaffes, was a feisty man on a mission.  Combative debate, that's what I'm talking about! And the moderator, Martha Raddatz of ABC news was a breath of fresh air. A woman amongst the boyz. Bring her back.

'She started a heatwave...'

1. One of Marilyn Monroe's tour de force renditions from 'No business like show business.' It's hella hot here in my region of Cali. But, truthfully, we're wimps compared to the rest of the country. We are children of the 'fog' in more ways than one, and whenever the temp creeps past the mid-80's some of us start whimpering like the spoiled candy asses we are. It's a lot of iced mint teas and swamp coolers or personal fans which, come on now, are really Jedi mind tricks. I personally never met an AC cooled venue that I didn't love with. What is missing in this region, as any savvy (gloating) kamaaina knows, are the island trade winds...

2. The youthful Oakland Athletics, picked by many scribes to lose 100 games, owned by a fat cat who has been trying since 2006 to move the team out of Oakland first, to San Jose and now Fremont, had to slap a grin on his face when the A's clinched a play off spot last night. The team is young, fearless, and fun to watch.

3. The A's and the Giants are both in the playoffs. It's not the world series yet. But it's warm, earthquake weather, and October. 1989 Loma Prieta deja vu all over again?

4. The Donks and the E'phants strap on the gloves and step into the ring. Is this enough drama to derail me from Sons of Anarchy? I think not. If your mind isn't made up yet, it's too late. The train has pulled out of the station.

"Look up in the sky, it's a bird, it's a plane, no it's...'

1. Oh, the things you do for love. I never cease to amaze myself. Laid up with a self diagnosed broken toe which I down graded to sprained after the swelling subsided, the very toe  I broke in college by kicking a foot stool after I was denied a pass to some squirrely event, the only bone that I've ever broken in my bod, why, why, why now...jeezuz H. How it happened is a detail I care not to divulge. After icing and elevating for 7 days, I rose up for Friday and tradition. Toe taped and hobbling, I drove to my clandestine donut shop and plated the granulated nugget on my Graceland hardware. While enjoying the fruits of my cardiac no-no,  I evidently missed the space shuttle, Endeavour, flying overhead. And so it goes.

2. Psy. Gangnam style. Is there anyone hotter in the known universe now? If you haven't seen the Korean phenom, you gotta you tube. All the talking heads are gushing, Ellen has swivel hipped it several times, the Today show aped the moves, ESPN dudes are agog, and last night, one of the NY Giants after scoring a TD went 'Gangnam' in the end zone. As soon as I'm off my the couch, it'll be 'Gangnam' time.

3. Sea Wolf. Alex Brown Church. A long long time ago, he was the first kid I ever hung with; he took the mystery out of face time for me.  Indie recording artist, son of Susan and Robin, moving right along, my props to you.

'Get your kicks on...'

We had youth on our side. We also had an orange van named 'Van Gogh,' books printed by the Women's Press Collective, to distribute across the country, money, a laughable amount today, a sturdy bed built into the back of the van, one guitar, cigarettes, drugs (this was the 70's), no bottled water, and a paper map of the USA. There were 3 of us. My driving shift, poor night vision, was daylight. We hauled ass out of Oakland. First memorable stop, Santa Ana. Almost got into a barroom fight at a local dyke bar. Fuzz, who we were crashing with, whipped her glasses off and slapped them down on the bar. That close to brawling! And we hadn't even left Cali. Subie and Jules were my 2 traveling mates. Jules had family in Tennessee, and Michigan. Subie, Bangor Maine. We took the mother road as far as we could. We got lost in the Ozarks, and were covered by leeches, looking for a fabled town populated by women. We ate at truck stops where the food undulated with carbs. And the coffee was crappy. Crossing into the painted desert, we were stoned out of our collective minds, and had and never will see anything as beautiful again. We pulled off the road ways and slept in the van and woke up with dawn breaking over dewy fields stretching for miles. We saw Earl Scruggs in Tennessee under the stars. Got stared at in Memphis. And slept in pristine sheets in Benton Harbor. In DC we hooked up with the 'Furies,' and drank in a bar with Rita Mae. Van Gogh was ripped off in NYC. Of course! And the guitar stolen. Downer. We fled and hauled it up the eastern seaboard to Bangor, Maine. I took my first canoe ride across Lake Lucerne, and failed miserably with my paddle. In Nebraska stricken from heat we took our shirts off in a gas station, soaked them with water, and drove on. Stopped in Wyoming and mailed off the essential handful of  postcards. The salt flats were stark and the sierras, high country, beckoned us across.

Last week, I received word that Subie had died after a long battle with cancer. Over the years, we drifted apart, lost touch as so many of us do. I could riff on and on with the many moments we shared, but that road trip was defining. It created a vast well of memories. For all of us....Susan 'Subie' Baker, Oct 24, 1948-August 10, 2012.

'You saw me standing alone...'

1. First hint of fall. Yesterday, shorts, flip flops and a chai boba tea. Today, hoodie and a cuppa of java. Blue Moon tonight..the second full moon in a month. The first one was on August 1st. Lots of cloud cover today. If you can peek, do it. The next one won't be until 2015. One of the greatest songs ever written, 'Blue Moon,' has been covered by Ella Fitz, The King and Cowboy Junkies, to name a few.

2. Cosmic irony that today is the funeral of Neil Armstrong...once in a blue moon, my man.

3. Stepping out tomorrow to scope out the renovated/retro-fitted Memorial Stadium. Over the years, fans jokingly played Russian roulette with the Hayward fault which runs right down the center, like a streaking half back, of the playing field. Would it or wouldn't it? Like the lyrics, 'should I stay or should I go..' No one really knew when the Hayward would go off. And so my friends, as I check out the new restroom facilities which were neither 'golden' nor fit for 'bears' in the glory years, rest assured that though hacked campus budgets and forced retirements may come and go, there will always be a 'resting place' (not in my parking lot, thank you rollingstones) for the deeper pockets, the athletic departments, of this world. Um, 'roll on you bears.'

F the Gulag

1. Ripping a page from their NY sisters, the masked Guerrilla Girls, who dis, rail and  expose sexism and corruption in the art world and beyond, a Russian Feminist punk collective, Pussy Riot, styling their fashion in brilliant colors, and signature masked balaclavas apparently went too far for the ruling Russkies with their anti Kremlin punk prayer and performance inside a cathedral in Moscow. Hauled off to jail in March, three members of Pussy Riot, Nadezhda Tolokonnikova 22, Maria Alyokhina 24, and Yekaterina Samutsevich 29 were charged with hooliganism. Whaaat? As the feeble bogus charge went viral, enraged groups started marshaling; flash mobs hit the streets and 'Free Pussy Riot'signs sprang up like weeds. Who knew balaclavas would suddenly be the rage of dissonance? Sentenced to two years in a penal colony, the three women are a reminder that artistic expression and gender can expose a glaring fundamental truth: sexism, political corruption, and gulags are alive and well. Fuck this. We will not forget. Power to the sisters!

2. Whatshisface...the congressman, a genuine piece of work, who called 'rape legitimate'....only a matter of time as recall petitions hit the 'net.

3. Gillian Anderson. The truth is out there. Props to you.

'Going to Fly Now...'

The Olys. In a nod to the Rocky's, here are some of the smaller stories
which flew under the radar in London, under the Missy's, Phelps, Kerri's, and lightening Bolts.

1. Claressa Shields. Already featured in a New Yorker piece profiling women's boxing, the 17 year old showed no fear stepping into the world's boxing ring, and ringing up Russian Nadrezda Torlopova to win the gold medal in the middleweight division. Impervious to the rocking sold out arena who had come to see Katy Taylor, the all world pugilist from Ireland, Claressa Shields took care of business and flashed glimmers of pride and hope back to her home town of Flint, Michigan. Hard scrabble life, father in and out of prison, living with an Aunt who stresses education, Shields has been boxing since she was 13 saying she knew it was real: how good she was. How light on her feet, and how the energy flowed from her fists. On the platform, draped with the gold,  her infectious smile for a nano second arced over and lit up the hood in Flint. Yeah, now they all know it was real, baby.

2. Kim Rhode. Bet you a hundie you don't who she is. Give up? Kim is the 1st American athlete to medal in 5 consecutive Oly's. Move over EII, Kim Rhode is the Queen of skeet. Under windy, gray, and drizzly weather, Rhode set an Oly record and tied the world record by nailing 99/100 targets tossed into the unpredictable sky. The road to London has been sketchy. Rhode survived a breast cancer scare, and during the Beijing games her prized custom made gun was ripped from her car. Scrambling to replace the hardware, Kim Rhode shot her way into the record books shooting with another rifle. For relaxation Rhode has been known to build a muscle car or 2. There is longevity in skeet. Rhode might like Rio.

3. David Rudisha, a Kenyan, set a world record in the 800m in a tremendous overpowering display of front running leaving elite middle distance runners in his wake. Three national records, four personal bests, and one season best were etched in the record books. On a night before the mercurial Jamaican, Usain Bolt, would set foot on the track, Rudisha, a Maasai warrior, who began his training on dirt tracks he pick-axed himself electrified London and the world.

4. Jamaican sprinters. Sponsored by the Puma. Instead of the Swoosh. Blitzed and smacked down in London. Just saying...

Gold Rush

The summer Olys are back. With all the usual suspects. Danny Boyle who
directed films,Slumdog Millionaire, and Trainspotting among others is orchestrating the opening ceremony from London. Find it hard to believe that anything will ever dazzle and push the envelope the way Chinese did when they hosted. If you missed that spectacle, you missed the wedding, my friends. Adam Gopnik wrote a piece in the New Yorker about nationalism and the Olys. Uh, yeah, but some of us watch for other reasons than the red white and blue medal count. We watch for those moments of great drama and human courage that push mental and physical stress over the edge and into some other unimaginable stratosphere. There are extraordinary stories of performance victories, but greater gut wrenching downloads in defeat. Names erupt from other countries, and you never forget them: the great and ageless Kip Keino. Michael Gross 'the Albatross' a German swimmer with a 7'4" wing span. Vasily Alekseyev the strong man from the former USSR. The great Tamara Press who medaled back to back in the shot put. And the diminutive Olga Korbut and Nadia Comaneci, of the perfect 10, both of whom set the gymnastic world on fire. Four years is a long time between drinks. Dust off the recorder, and set em up. One of the greatest shows on earth is about to roll across your screen.

Pulling the Pin

Uh, if you don't know the meaning of the title, google that baby. Woke up today and finally cracked. I've been craving potato chips for a couple of weeks now, and just bought a bag. Mmm. Never eat these, but you only live once. Lapsed Catholics always fall hard, but judiciously. Eat half the bag, spare the whole.

1. The Boy Scouts. My bro was a cubbie. One of my best childhood friends was the highest ranking eagle scout in the USA. Now, filled with conservative Mormies, and Cat'olics, the Scouts have be-
come a prehistoric org that is living in denial. Scared that homos
might disrupt tying knots, or striking flints in the wilderness, the scouts 'ixnayed' gays. That's right. Ixnay. Pig latin for a bunch of pigs.

2. Frank Ocean. In the world of xtreme machismo rappers,
Frank Ocean came out on Independence Day and declared his love (1st love) for another man on his blog. The revelation blistered the media and scorched hip-hop city. While not everyone, some chose silence (Ocean did receive death threats) was showing him the love, droves of his contemporaries including 50 Cent, and Jay-Z shouted out their support.  Frank Ocean, dog, from the other 'city' by the bay, props to you my man.

3. Katie Holmes. Pulled the pin. And chose the RSCJ's, Religious of the Sacred Heart, to educate her daughter. A smile crossed my lips when I read the blurb. My collegiate years were spent frolicking on the west coast campus of the afore mentioned 'madames (the order hated the nick-name). The RSCJ's were/are the Jesuits of the nunnery. Once a convent girl, always a convent girl. DNA runs deep. Ask Gaga, or one of the Kennedy girls. Or me. You can take the girl out of the school, but you can't take the school out of... Nice choice, Katie.

...'Just to ride the Ponies'...

1. Some traditions never change. You just don't mess with collective conditioning. As certain as bluebirds fly above the rainbow...every December somewhere in this country, 'A Wonderful Life' glows off thousands of telly's; just as on every 4th of July, 'Yankee Doodle Dandy'
beams the story of Georgie Cohen into hundreds of living rooms across wheat filled plains and congested city scapes. I'm 12, in my pj's, watching the old black and white Admiral when scampering across the 14' tube comes a guy singing and dancing Yankee Doodle in verses I'd never
heard before. And then he does the impossible. He dances up the vertical sides of the stage. I looked for wires. I looked for magic. I looked at me. How did he do that? CGI was 70 years off. The mystery was in the man, James Cagney. And he hoofed it, in black and white my friends, because he could.

2. Fireworks are in the DNA. Asians wave punks before they can sharpen
pencils. I dissected my first firecrackers, leaving a trail of gunpowder to a tin can, long before I dissected a frog in biology. It's all about luck, baby. You fire up those strings of crackers to boot the 'bad' away from residences; no one wants misfortune to hover over their abode. But we never had those lofty thoughts as we blew things off hinges, or sky high into the night. It was the pyrotechnics: the dazzling spangled light, the constant din of ka-booms, near and far, and the night air filling with a glowing claustrophobic haze that you never forgot and will always remember.

3. Amelia Earhart. They're looking for you again. I like the original image
that you left us with. Flying off into the deep blue...the stuff of legends.

Around the Horn

1. The 'glug, glug,' sound that was heard soon after the Supremes rendered
their verdict for Obama care was the not-so-good Repub presidential ship, all candidates ahoy (!), sinking like a stone, on November's political waters; not even the Hollywood mouse can save that baby as it plummets toward Davy Jones' locker.

2. Rupert Murdoch bought it from Castle &Cooke. Larry Ellison bought it from Murdoch. The island of Lanai, the former pineapple realm, with it's 3,200 residents was sold lock and barrel last week to a guy who needs an island like he needs another nickel. There is only one economy on Lanai: tourism. Murdoch alledgedly lost 20-30 million a year.  Can Ellison improve the infrastructure and bring stability to the anxious working class residents? Only if he thinks outside the box.

3. Nora Ephron. The only movies I ever saw that she directed or wrote were 'Julie and Julia,' and  'Silkwood.' The rest fell under 'chick flicks' and I passed them by. I read Ephron's 'Heartburn,' but never indulged in her blog. Who out there believed her when she publicaly named FBI agent,
Mark Felt as 'deepthroat?' Not me. But she was right. NPR as they often do, broadcast several interviews with Ephron. They were witty and charming and filled me with regret; how could I not have recognized skill and finesse? Nora Ephron. She said in 2009, that she was not looking ahead 10 years, but only thinking of today. And today meant carbs. The best bread in the history of civilization was being baked right now. Today was the moment. Tomorrow, Norah, I'm eating a donut in your memory.

Double dog Dares...

1. As a kid in parochial school, whenever the circus came to town, the nuns appropriating a stack of freebies escorted all the classes to an afternoon under the big top, which was frequently housed in a civic auditorium and not in some dusty field (which is always somehow) nostalgically depicted by H'wood film. Security wasn't very good because in those days you could wander from floor to floor (if you were a sharp kid) and one year my brother and I found ourselves in a remote hallway lined with the big cat cages; tigers, and lions paced lazily behind their bars as we ran gleefully past. I loved the trapeze acts, and was mesmerized as the chalk flew off the upside down catcher's hands. But the greatest act that ever held a spotlight under the Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey circus top, was the Flying Wallendas. All eyes were riveted on the family members as they delivered the 7 chair pyramid, the crown jewel of their act, on the high wire, with no safety net beneath them! I could barely breathe as they crossed overhead. That memory still ranks as the pinnacle, the mother, of all high wire acts. Nik Wallenda's walk across Niagara Falls, last week, was as daring as one of his grandfather's, Karl, visions; he may indeed have one upped the pater familia. But, I couldn't help thinking as I watched Nik cross through the falls mist, that if Karl were still alive he would have thrown down the double dog dare.

2. The Pope. Vatican fantasy in hand, crushed the Leadership Conference of Women Religious, which represent most American nuns, stating that the US nuns defy not only conservative doctrines, but by their actions, the powerful Bishops too. Benedict wants the nuns to stop all political activity. And fall in. Uh, the time for the veil and the habits are gone, baby, gone. These are not your 'fathers' nuns.

3. Big day coming for El Presidente. The Supreme Court rendering verdict on the constitutionality of the Affordable Care Act. Stay tuned.

I'll have another and another...

When I was a lowly minion toiling away, sanding shelves, raising them onto metal brackets, hands encased in a sturdy pair of leather gloves, rubber hammer at my side, music blaring like cool waves through the cavernous warehouse which would become in future years a storage facility housing low circulation books from the great collections of the UC Northern campuses, I learned an invaluable life alerting lesson. The crew was a strange, eclectic, group. Some white collars who were tired of the
suits. A handful of high school grads who were on their first real gig. Some laid off dudes who had nicknames like 'Snake eyes,' and 'Red' who thought nothing of driving to LA for a 48 hour binge, wheeling back in time for the Monday shift stinking of alcohol and ready to bed down at the first opp
in the dark cold empty stacks. The place was filled with misfits. 'Snake eyes' was a pleasant enough fellow, and it was ol 'Snake eyes' who gave me my nickname, 'Lil Bit.'

It was during this strangely exhilarating grunt time (we were all free of admin responsibilities) that a guy named Donnie taught me how to read the Daily Racing Form. Golden Gate Fields was a heart beat away, and everyday coming and going to work I passed the racetrack. It was a glowing mystifying beacon. I had been to the races once, and  I wanted to know more. So Donnie, my work partner, taught me how to make sense of the figs. How to read between the lines.  How to choose a horse. Picking winners came later.

This Saturday, at the 144th running of the Belmont stakes in New York, a chestnut colt, 'I'll have Another' will attempt to win the triple crown of racing. It's been 34 years since the last horse, Affirmed swept the crown (Kentucky Derby, the Preakness, and the Belmont). No horse from Cali
has ever won. If young Mario Gutierrez wins aboard IAH he will become the first Mexican jockey to do so. How hard is it? It is so hard that only 11 horses have won the crown. There is a saying: it takes luck to win the Derby; speed to win the Preakness, and a race horse to win the Belmont. The racing gods are a prickly lot. I hope they let us all have a glimpse of thoroughbred greatness.

'Someday I'm going to make her mine, oh yeah...'

The Brits are going to be partying like well, 1994, this weekend, and letting it all hang out. There will be fireworks, parades through the streets of London, a grand flotilla down the Thames the likes of which hasn't been seen since Sir Frances Drake eviscerated the Armada, the royal Corgis, the Epsom Derby which opens up the festival of events, Sir Elton, Sir Paul, Annie, and every royal that can walk.  This and much more for HRM Elizabeth Alexandra Mary, Head of the United Kingdom and the Commonwealth etc. etc. who will be celebrating her diamond jubilee.

Just 25, Elizabeth displaying brilliance and savvy, lifted the aura of royal pomp and privacy and allowed her coronation to be televised throughout the British Isles. If the love affair didn't start then, it likely began when Elizabeth turned 21 and declared in a broadcast that 'her life, long or short, shall be devoted to your service...'

In her 60 years, HRM has survived 12 Prime Ministers beginning with Winston. She opens Parliament every year, and meets on a regular basis with the PM. She has navigated her way through a world of men, and involved and devoted herself to over 600 charities.

It is difficult for us to wrap our renegade minds around the concept of Queen and country, but, to capture a thumbnail, I always circle back to the blitz, when the Luftwaffe bombed the shit out of London for 57 straight days, and the photos of George the VI and the Queen Mother (they refused to leave Buckingham which was also bombed) walking through the devastation, the rubble, the dazed population everyday. And I kinda get a glimpse of that love affair.

The Kings of England killed for sons. The Queens of England, Elizabeth
and Victoria had Ages named after them.

QEII has never given an interview. But, my friends, during her 60 year reign that doesn't mean she  didn't have a lot to say. Bring on the flotilla.

'If I could sing ya, a love song so divine'...

SNL for the last several years has more often than not gone off the rails, fallen flat on it's collective face, but on Saturday night, the train chugged back to the station. The opening skit with a mustached Jon Hamm singing and dancing set the tone for some rollicking fun. But wait the best was yet to come. Mick Jagger as comfortable as a fly on a pile of steaming horse s...t, strutted out in a dazzling gold jacket and hosted the final show of the season. The Mick parodied Steve Tyler. Cast members parodied Jagger. Jagger parodied himself. Skits flew across the stage; the Californians, a ridiculous outrageous spoof of the LA freeway system spewed out a blond wigged Steve Martin. Could it get any better? It did.

In 2009, during the 25th anniv. of the Rock n Roll Hall of Fame,
I witnessed the greatest rendition of a Stones song eva: Gimme Shelter featuring U2, Jagger and Fergie setting the stage on fire. Nothing, I thought could ever touch that until SNL. Mick opened with Arcade Fire (love those Canadians), and gyrated his skinny 60 something ass through 'This could be the Last Time. Then as if to say, hey, yeah, you got it mofo's I am almost 70, Jagger teamed up with the Foo Fighters and ripped off '19th Nervous Breakdown, and 'It's only Rock 'n Roll.' What an exhibition! In an emotional salute and farewell to Kristen Wiig who is bound for greener Judd Apatow and H'wood pastures, Mick and Arcade Fire played a finale of She's a Rainbow and Ruby Tuesday. I was exhausted. Whatever Mick is transfusing...I want some. He was a fracking ball of fire; a sight to behold. If you missed it, get some on YouTube.

Sunken Treasure

So there's this walk I take while I'm making the daily rounds, Mountain View Cemetery, designed by Frederick Law Olmsted, who was also responsible for planning Central Park, and part of UC Berkeley. The older portions dating back to the early 19th century are at ground level. The landscaping significantly improves at the higher elevations. There is even a millionaire's row with monuments that swallow up the family plot, and loom spatially, like the mansions they were conceived in, gaudy memorials to mortality. When I was smoking, I often drove there and fired up a few while staring at the distant Oakland horizon. I've even bagged my lunch and picnicked, guzzling my soda, and eating my sammies sitting and using the finest carrera marble as my table. But I digress. A month ago, I passed a section which is not on my usual route. Most of the inhabitants were from county Kerry or county Kildare. Sparsely populated. The biggest tombstone was 'Campbell.' Irish? I chuckled. Surely, laddies, a misprint. But wait. It gets better. The next stone over belonged to Ina Donna Coolbrith, 1st poet laureate of California!

Ina. She was as cool as her name. Even cooler. Ina hung with the literati boys of her time, Bret Harte, Mark Twain, Alfred Lord Tennyson, John Muir and the critic Ambrose Bierce. Ina like Gertrude had salons and introduced and established a young Joaquin Miller to the publishing world. In 1874 Ina worked as a Librarian in Oakland grinding out 6 days a week, 12 hours a day for $80.00 a month, a sum far less than a man would receive in the same position. Employment infringed on her writing. However, it is said that Ina never had a poetry submission rejected by a publisher. Ina mentored the flamboyant Isadorah Duncan, and later helped a 10 year old Jack London to read. In 1906 Ina was named the 1st poet laureate of California. Later in life, almost destitute, Ina was rescued by Edwin Markham and the actress, Lotta Crabtree. One of the last formal portraits of Ina was taken by Ansel Adams in Berkeley. Ina Donna Coolbrith died in 1928 and lay in an unmarked grave until 1986 (JeeezuzH) until a headstone was placed there. Plot 11. Jack London never forgot Ina, and wrote no woman affected him as Ina did.

Old School

1. So a bunch of us went out to celebrate April birthdays, and ended up at one of the classic 'old school' restaurants in SF. It is fitting that, Original Joe's, once an iconic landmark in the 'Tenderloin' district of the city, gutted by a fire which shut it down for four years, has risen from the ashes to reside in it's new locale, the old Fior d'Italia, at the corner of Union and Stockton. That's right, baby, come home to mama...North Beach. With it's signature red leather booths, tuxedo clad waiters, a menu laden with steaks, filets, veal Milanese, linguine Alfredo, a bar that was jammed, and an overflow crowd spilling onto the sidewalk, it was happening on that Friday night. The noise level was off the charts. I could not hear the conversation across the table. But who cared. It gets better, though. A long long time ago in grammar school, my best friend, was a gangly shy tomboyish girl like me. We were an odd couple. She was tall. And I was short. We made our first communion together, and played a parochial version of baseball with tennis balls which we hit with our fist out on the asphalt playground. When I was 11 I transferred to another school. We never wrote. We never made play dates. It was over. Until Friday night. She's the owner of Original Joe's. The evening was surreal. Nostalgic. And just as we were marshaling to leave, Francis F. Coppola walked in and sat 3 booths over from us. That, my friends, was a beautiful wrap.

2. The foie gras state ban in Cali is looming. Make it illegal, and a black market will rise.

3. The greatest 2 minutes in sports is this Saturday. The Kentucky Derby. Creative Cause, Daddy Nose Best, or Gemologist. And, Happy Birthday Alex! You da man.

April showers

1. Gloomy day as I embarked across the high seas into the port of San Francisco. Rain peppering the salt streaked double paned viewing windows, the ferry crawled, through the channel past a trio of container ships. Colossal structures, metallic, Lego trojan horses, hovered over the dock removing and loading containers, blue, forest green, yellow, with names like Hajin, or China stamped on the side, precision choreographed movement I could have watched all day. Legend is that when container shipping was just a gleam in some Daddy Warbuck's eye, the concept was offered to the port of SF, who flipped off the idea. But that's an Oakland tale. The real skinny: depth and navigation regulations doomed the port of SF. Oakland was the first port to build for container shipping, and is now the 5th busiest port in the nation.

2. The Lurline. The Matsonia. The Mahimahi. Once part of the great Matson fleet, cruise liners which crossed from California to Hawaii carrying tourists to the island ports, in the 40's and 50's, and unrefined sugar in the hold on return voyages...in it's heyday, greeted by boats of savvy wahines laden with fragrant leis, and enterprising beach boys diving for coins tossed by passengers from the pristine white ships as they glided into Honolulu harbor, the quintessential transportation of the day, done in by aviation. The Pan Am clippers. Faster. Better. Uh-huh. If you happen to cross the Bay, you might get a glimpse of the once fabled Matson liners. They hover there in the water, stacked with containers, battleship gray, unrecognizable shells of the past. Yesterday etched in fading blue, the name, Lurline on the last freighter before we broke for open water.

3. The Hunger Games raking in the dough. Is it or is it not a 'Battle Royale' knock off?

4. Best damn tapioca sold by 'Donna's Tamales.' Off the truck. Vegan. Made with coconut milk.

Transitions

Adrienne Rich died yesterday in Santa Cruz. She succumbed to rheumatoid arthritis, a condition I had no idea was lethal. My initial contact with Adrienne was by postcard. Typed. Circa 1981. She said she had been reading my works for many years. I had submitted some poems to 'Sinister Wisdom' and she was the editor. I kept the postcard because I was an unabashed admirer of her; her prose, but more so of her poetry. Years later when she moved to Cali, I had the good fortune of 4-5 encounters, all of them warm and each of them memorable. Adrienne was brilliantly prolific; and wrote about the human condition rooted in responsibility, and empowerment; of children and parents, sexuality and loves, simplicity and the complex...of herself, and beyond her self. Many will say her greatest poems were the '21 Love Poems' written between 1974-1976. My favorite poem is one entitled: ' Phantasia for Elvira Shatayev.' Shatayev was the leader of a women's climbing team all of whom died on Lenin Peak, 1974. I have read this poem many times over the years. It is like visiting an old friend. It never ever fails to move me. And it always makes me think of what is possible. Here are the last 2 verses of 'Phantasia for Elvira Shatayev'... 1974.

'In the diary as the wind began to tear
at the tents over us I wrote:
We know now we have always been in danger
down in our separateness
and now up here together but till now
we had not touched our strength

In the diary torn from my fingers I had written:
What does love mean
what does it mean 'to survive'
A cable of blue fire ropes our bodies
together burning in the snow We will not live
to settle for less We have dreamed of this
all of our lives.

Adrienne Rich 1929-2012

March Madness dunks, and musings..

1. Candice Parker, the 6'4" all American center for Tennessee was the first 'girl' to throw one down; that's right, dunk-in-your face, and call your mama cause I'm climbing the net and letting one rip in an NCAA tournament. The great USC all American center, 6'5" Lisa Leslie, was the first player to crank one up over the hoop in a WNBA game. There was a smirk on my face when the 50 year anniversary of Wilt Chamberlin's 100 point NBA game was recognized by the media. As great as it was, these shiny nuggets of dish should light up your day: the aforementioned Lisa Leslie (who was a pain in the ass to some pretty good Cal teams) scored 101 points in one half during a game, and would have continued the barrage, but the other team refused to leave the locker room and take the court for the 2nd half. The final score was 102-24. Another gleaming sliver of memorabilia: USC All American, Cheryl Miller, sister of Reggie, and gold medal winner in the summer Olympics and the Pan American games went 'unconscious' deep into the zone, and once banked 105 points. A couple of nights ago, 6'8" Brittney Griner took one to the house, phi slamma jamma, baby, and dunked one down on Florida.

2. The question is, can VanDerveer and the Ogwumike all World sisters
lead Stanford past Kim Mulkey, Baylor, and Brittney Griner's size 18 sneaks? Can the Cardinal not choke on past NCAA tournament karma, and run the table? There's already been plenty of crying over in the boys brackets as upsets reigned this past weekend. I'm rooting for you Tara to cut down the nets, even though I almost choked on those words. Show em how we ball out here on the West coast.

3. Um, in some sort of senior moment, I've decided to try and memorize a couple of lines of poetry a week. This week, I've chosen the first 4 lines of Lord Byron's,
'She walks in Beauty.' Just saying...my friends, it's not all March Madness here.

Rainy day Tags

1. Northern Cali is currently swamped by a series of storms. Nothing like hunkering down under sweeping bands of wind and rain. In March. Motha Nature sashaying through the global warming beltway, laying down the splash and flurries just in the nick of the time. Atta girl! In Ben Lomand, down the coast, 9.6 inches of falling water was recorded. I swear I saw a paper boat float down the street today bumping up across the curb before it docked against a tire.

2. So everyday there are these geese that take flight. Same time. Same air space. Once in the morning at 7:30. Return trip in the late afternoon. I have tried to count wings and beaks as they stream their way through the corridor over my building. Elusive in their honking. And it is, my friends, loud. As they wing it, so goes the honking until they're off the horizon. But then in some sort of cosmic convergence, I caught a glimpse of this harmonic act last weekend. 2. Only 2 geese in a straight line. In sync. Perfect. The gaggle was on me.

3. The Walking Dead. One of the most creative telly series to hit my living room. Based on a comic book series, it is hard to describe without
sounding like an,um, zombie lover, but this is really about survivors and the journey. The show has set the record for cable audiences over anything else that has been aired previously.

4. The Walking Dead: currently, the Repubs who are in total retrograde. Neanderthal shenaningans. Stone age politics. Women. Back to the kitchen. Barefoot. And pregnant. Oh pleassse...

5. Arizona. The same state that produced SB1070, the controversial
anti-immigration legislation, has proposed a new bill that would allow employers the right to deny health insurance coverage for birth control pills based on religious beliefs. A woman would be required to provide proof that her prescription is being used for non-sexual activity. WTF.

Spanning the Globe

1. Ok, I confess. As a kid I split the cookie apart. Ever so gently so that the middle didn't crack. I placed the halves face up on the table (who needs a plate) exposing the oval coating of
white icing, the plump magical sugary goodness, and scraped that mother off with my pearly teeth. The dunk was for donuts. We didn't need no stinking milk. Manufactured in Chelsea, New York city, in 1912, the oreo turned 100 today, surviving 'lard' gate, and 'hydrogenated oil' gate. Many an afternoon when the work world was buzzing with BS, I'd hustle myself down to the defunct ASUC junk food store and grab a pack of oreos. Yes, my friends if they were good enough for Santa as he made his rounds, hey, they were most def good enough for me.

2. 'Plan 9 from Outer Space' a sci fi movie made in 1959 by the lovable Ed Wood was the Mt. Everest of 'bad, really bad' cult films until yesterday. Wood's script had it all. Flying saucers, grave yards, aliens, and humans constructing a doomsday weapon to destroy the universe. Plan 9 was the resurrection of the earth's dead-zombies, (or walkers, ha!) -to create havoc by the aliens to get the earth's attention. That all changed. Seamlessly. Last night, I watched Robert Rodriguez's, 'From Dusk till Dawn' scripted by QT and released in 1996. Geezuz, Mary and Joseph. Rampaging shark jumping . George Clooney (who would probably like to incinerate this film) and QT are the Gecko bros who rob banks, murder and pillage their way to Mexico kidnapping Harvey Keitel, a preacher, and his two kids, one of them a very nubile Juliette Lewis. The Gecko boys are so bad that you just know shit is waiting for them around the corner. And my friends, it is, in a strip bar, the 'Titty Twister,' which is possessed by vampires sunk in the middle of a barren landscape populated by bikers and bad mofos with names like 'sex machine.' The dialogue, and the plot is so off the chart, so lavishly bad, so incredible that streams of laughter punctuated the footage. In the end, the shark went belly up from exhaustion. And the movie ascended to Everest. Two nice cameos by the great Michael Parks and the under-appreciated John Hawkes. Good last frame before the creds roll.

Glitter

We all like to watch. Because for several hours, Hollywood loses the scripts, and the wardrobe changes and the F stops to celebrate and honor their collective peers. It's the mother of all 3 rings. No safety nets. Only the little red eye with the 10 second delay, network xanax, for ape s**t moments.

1. In 1932, Walt Disney won the first Oscar in a new category, best cartoon short, for 'Flowers and Trees' a cartoon which utilized the innovation of color.

2. First movie to win Best Picture, in color, was Gone with the Wind, in 1939.

3 Oscar weighs 8 1//2 pounds, and measures approximately 14 inches.

4. In 1972, George C. Scott was awarded the Oscar for best actor as 'Patton.' He declined calling the awards ceremony, 'a meat market.' Two years later, Marlon Brando refused his best actor Oscar for 'The Godfather.' Sacheen Littlefeather, in full tribal regalia, was sent by Brando to read his statement which chastised Hollywood and the USA for their discrimination of Native Americans. Later it was discovered that Littlefeather was really actress Maria Cruz. Whaaat?

5. Only X rated movie to ever win Best Picture was 'Midnight Cowboy.' 1969.

6. The only actor to ever be nominated twice after his death, the enigmatic, and great James Dean. First in 1955 for 'East of Eden,' and then the following year for 'Giant.'Both nominations were in the best actor category.

7. Movies nominated for 2012 Best Picture of the year:

'The Artist. Front runner. Do the Euros really win back to back?
'The Descendants.' Hollywood's love affair with Clooney.
'Extremely loud and Incredibly Close.' You're kidding.
'The Help.' A social commentary.
'Hugo'. Hollywood awash in Scorsese guilt.
'Midnight in Paris.' No late night phone call to NYC.
'Moneyball.' Vastly underrated.
'The Tree of Life.' Geezuz. Need Malick 101 for translation.
'War Horse.' Why?

Drinking game: take a slug every time someone mentions Harvey Weinstein. Enjoy.

On deck #66

Frosted animal crackers. Before devouring, blot out ingredients. Why does something so bad, pastel waxen shapes made in some twink cave, taste so good? On a rampage for 3 weeks, can't get enough of the weirdness. At the end of the world, this year, the only surviving items will be the twinkie, and a bag of frosted animal cookies. This I know. Trust me.

The number 66. Not quite roly poly... a drunk pair of inverted 9's. Wannabe rigid sevens. The greatest road way that led to and from San Bernadino, Cali; Bobby Troup wrote a song in 1946 which was covered by Nat King Cole, the Stones, Chuck Berry, Depeche Mode and a roomful of others. All caravans cut back and forth on this mother lode, route 66. If you ever tripped out this way when you were young, you experienced old school Americana. Small towns, and roadside attractions. Bill boards, and orange shaped huts. Burma shaving cream. Flying winged horses hovering over gasoline stations. Clear as a bell. In waves.

Route 66 morphed into a classic telly show in the 60's.

Interesting 66 factly fact: order 66 in Star Wars was a prepared plan for the clones to kill the Jedi commanding them.

66 not quite as cool as 55, those double nickels. But I'll take the old road map any day.

The Yellow Mamba....etc.

He is the freaking toast of New York...the city that never forgets or forgives. The city where most of the population would bump their own mother off a train for a seat on the transit. For crissake, the Bronx cheer was born here. But, baby, if you make it here, you can make it anywhere. And, Jeremy Lin, 6'3" (as if), the Knicks point guard, by default is torching the city; the Knicks win, and the daily rags are dripping in Lin ink. NewYawkers cannot get enough of the golden Asian boy from Palo Alto. Golden State Warriors cut him. They let him go. I'm not even going to touch that. Madison Square Garden sold out, and drowning in a Lin fest of 'Linsanity' signs, a sloshing 2012 human 'be-in' is on pins and needles awaiting the return of the heavies, Amar'e Stoudemire, and Carmelo Anthony. Ego. Ego. Ego. In the meantime the love affair continues...#17, his crazed fans, and me. I heard Lin even walks on water.

Feb. 14th. Not really backing up a whole lot in years. Here's a compilation of songs, in no particular order that struck a memory chord:
1. Do right woman, Do right man...Aretha
2. This must be the Place...Talking Heads
3. Little Cloud...Incredible String Band
4. You got the Silver...Stones
5. I only have eyes for You...Flamencos
6. Turn it On...Sleater-Kinney
7. Italian leather Sofa...Cake
8. Stay a little Longer...Bob Wills
9. Stornelli Amorisi...Claudio Villa
10. Crown of Love...Arcade Fire
11. A case of You...Joni Mitchell
12. You really got a hold on Me...Smokey and the Miracles.
Uh, just saying...

Eli's coming....

We're talking Super Bowl today. If you don't like sports specifically football, taking a hike outta here might be a good idea. On Sunday, in the dome that Peyton built, it's Obi Wan vs the Dark Star. Imperial storm troopers vs Jedi. Eli vs Brady Boy for all the marbles of the NFL universe. 60 minutes of mayhem, Madonna at the half, and the best damn commercials served up for public consumption. Some facts:

1. Winning players rack up $88,000,and become Lords of the Ring.
The NFL contributes $5,000.per individual ring bling. Last year, the Green Bay Packers rings were platinum and 18k gold encrusted 3.35 carats, not carrots, with the jewels that are a girl's best friend.

2. The losers? $44,000. And no one ever remembering their name.

3. Each TV ad that airs...cherish the moment. It cost 3.5 million for the broadcast slot.

4. Opening face value of tickets were $800.-$1,200. But, uh, nose bleed seats in the upper deck over the end zone being offered today at $2,247.

5. In Vegas. Casinos are fielding $87.5 million in wagers on this Super Bowl. NY money. And action is up 5.8% from 2010.

6. But my friends, Vegas can't hold this jock strap: 10 billion greenbacks
bet illegally in office pools across the nation. We are a lotto swilling luck
crazed country.

7. Food. 28 million pounds of potato chips consumed. 53.5 million pounds of avocados mashed. 1 billion pounds of chicken wings spiced and slathered. And 325.5 million gallons of beer tossed back. On Monday, 7 million people call in sick.

8. A Prop is a gimmick bet. Here's the best one for half time: what song will the Material Girl open with? I say not 'Like a Virgin.' Hmmm, maybe one of Gaga's.

My prediction for the game. You have to walk and talk it, right?
Eli leads the Giants to another ring. New Yorkers fuggedabout the Jets and the Yankees. Ticker tape rains in the canyon of heroes. Giants 30-Pats 23.

Passages

1. Etta James. It was the 80's. And headlining together down in the cellar of Larry Blake's on Telegraph Ave: Tracy Nelson and Etta James. Tracy Nelson, lead vocal of Mother Earth, a R&B artist, (who my sister worshiped and swore if reincarnated wanted to
not only play the piano like Nelson but be able to cover, Nelson's stunning Down So Low whose album, Living with the Animals, wearing thin on the grooves, jarred the
neighbors above us and next door...and Etta. Dream team. There was sawdust on the floor; the cellar was stuffy and packed. And Jesus. Cigarette smoke, the surgeon general's nightmare, circulated and hung over us in hazy clouds. Glasses were clinking, people steeped in whatever were talking,dive club BS...Tracy Nelson finished her set just before mid-night; she was spectacular. 'Down so Low' had drained me. Kicked my ass. I was somewhere on another planet when Etta took the stage. From the moment the lyrics to her first song took flight, to her final notes, she was ethereal. R&B ethereal. I was sitting 10 feet from the platform; beads of sweat poured off her. But she was cool. Sassy. Raunchy. And knocked my socks off. Etta James. Six grammy's. 17 Blues Music awards. 1936-2012.

2. My mother died recently. This time it was different. I was in college when my father, 45, had a fatal heart attack. I don't remember much of those circumstances at all. It's a blur. Uncles and aunts gathered at the house. Pink dim sum boxes piled on tables. Lots of hard liquor being drained. My brother reminded me that it was raining at the cemetery. Sedated mother. Hysterical grandmother. Like so many of my friends before me (especially this past year) the death of the last parent is distinct. Unfamiliar. Separate from the first. The business of death is stacked before you. Siblings close rank. Last requests. Plot of land. Services. Obit. Dismantling of possessions. G'damn education on the fly. Inheritance becomes generational. We become what came before. I gave the eulogy. My mother loved Akaka Falls. Alyce. 1925-2011