The Obituarium

Commuter Tales

2008-07-18T10:44:00.000-07:00

As a rider of mass transit for over four years now, I can tell you some stories (couple days ago, one of the train cars smelled like an overflowed toilet, primarly, I found out through superior sleuthing, because of an overflowed toilet). Unlike when I first became someone Al Gore would like to kiss on the mouth, I do not get irked at some of the behaviors of my fellow passengers, behaviors that *I* personally would not engage in. I've come to accept that people do not hold themselves to the same lofty standards to which I aspire. Thus, in the interest of community, of Can't We All Just Get Along, I have relaxed my guidelines, which has also caused my stress level to dwindle.

For instance, I used to get quite peeved when tall or large people sat facing me. Because I have long legs and there's a finite amount of space to situate the lower body. I look for seats opposite Asian women or pygmies, or that one lady who's round like a ball and whose feet dangle hilariously a few inches above the floor of the car. That's what a smart person does. Oblivious idiots sit anywhere. "Hey! A seat! Yee-Haw!"

Sure, I'll still flash them a look of annoyance when they suck up all the available space so the rest of the ride resembles a square dance as our knees and feet jockey for position. But I can't expect people to be as aware as I, as forward thinking. It's just not fair to the population at large to hold them to that standard. What I can do is affect my Don't Fuck With Me Face or my Idiot Repellent Body Language. It does work. It's communication and even people who struggle to open an envelope still have a cerebral cortex capable of telling them, unconsciously, not to go near the unspoken danger. Alas, plenty of others fail that test, the kind of people who approach hungry pit bulls wearing a meat condoms.

Yesterday was a new one. The person who sat across from me did not have long legs. His belly protruded a fair amount, but there was plenty of floor space between us. This fact did not stop him from resting his knee against mine. Or putting his other foot right on top of mine.

I didn't look up from my book when he first sat. Saw him in my periphery, leaned my right leg slightly left to allow him safe passage to the aisle and seat. It was only when his knee's caresses began that I took his measure. His totally drunk measure. Fucker was hammered. He had a Peach Nectar juice can in his hand and he smelled like spoiled fruit. Vodka, I guessed. Lots before boarding and quite possibly some in the can he held. When I looked up at him, he gave me a creepy, yellow-toothed grin. He had the red-burnt skin of a man used to working outside and a faded tattoo on his forearm the color of snot, the kind one gets in the military when traveling through southeast Asia. His eyes were bloodshot and his head bobbed with the rhythm of the train.

I carefully re-adjusted my bottom half, gaining space, and went back to my book. I kept watching him, however, peeking above my sunglasses as he twitched. Several times, his legs made contact with mine, a severe etiquette breach in the quiet brotherhood of the train. I sighed, exhaled with purpose. Stared right at him. I'm not sure he'd have noticed if I hit him with a maple bat.

Then he fell asleep and after a chapter or two, so did I. What woke me was his hand gripping my thigh. Not hard, but, as I deduced, for balance. He was very much in danger of toppling right over. The cat had my tongue and all I could do was give him an expression of "Really?," eyebrows arched and arms spread wide. Our friend was clearly not a student of body language, so my only recourse was to grab him around the wrist and prop him up. He stared at me like I'd just wiped a booger on him.

I was awake and standing sentry. Fellow passengers had begun to notice his behavior and I saw wry smiles and nose-in-the-air disgust. Throughout the rest of the ride, his antics included crumbling up his can of Peach Nectar and throwing it under his seat, like he was at a ballgame pawing at me every fucking stop to ask if it was the Fontana Station and best of all, putting both his feet up on the seat when I moved across the aisle as people got off the train.

I think he thought he was in his living room. Or at least his garage.

He was sound asleep when I got off. Fontana was the next stop. I'm pretty sure he took the train all the way to the end of the line.

Beyond the Ivy (and the Pale)

2008-07-17T10:27:00.000-07:00

I am not a morning person. Never have been. All my life, I've been the last one up. My college-era roommates used to give me oodles of shit about it, mostly complaining about how THEY were always the ones who had to go to 7-11 for the morning hangover helpers, whether it be Gatorade or a Super Big Gulp (seriously, I used to start my day with 44 oz. of Pepsi; the very thought of it makes me ill).

It's no different now. I was last up both days in Chicago. On Sunday, I slept so late, everyone else had left already. Just me, DP, his wife and the Irish Kid alone in the house. I had to put on pants. But on Saturday, the casa was still a flurry of activity as I aroused my blurry self from the floor of the Irish Kid's room with hardwood-influenced impingements in both shoulders. I had come awake a few times already, of course. It's impossible not to be dislodged from sleep when the so aptly-named Rooster is about. He was up at the crack of dawn, wandering through the halls, talking to the dog, imaginary friends and the ghosts of women past. But he is not a selfish man. Oh no. Before he set off to Dunkin' Donuts, he took my order.

Bedside service.

Anyways, everyone was feeling a little under the weather and it was too early for that. We had to make Favre-ian comebacks, minus the dickheadedness. Gatorade. Check. DP had stocked the fridge with G2, which tastes like an oil slick, but does the hydrating job. Advil? Check. Not quite as pain-numbing as Favre's drugs of choice, but solid nonetheless. And coffee and donuts courtesy of The Rooster.

Cagey. AND a giver.

The shower parade began, slowly at first, while DP serenaded us on the piano and told us all we were beautiful. And it was off to the rooftops.

*

I don't think my limited vocabulary (and I never really thought it was limited until I got hooked on Scramble on Facebook; for instance, what the fuck are "jatos?") can describe the Level 12 Awesomeness of the rooftops beyond Wrigley. We did the bleacher thing last year, which ruled, but is crowded and there's all the up and down to get beers at the concession stands, which eventually led me, Iggy, Daddy and The Hashman to spend the final few innings on the balcony behind the centerfield scoreboard where we couldn't even see the game (and were surprised when it was over since we never heard/saw anybody score).

No such issues on the rooftops. Our tickets paid for all the beer and food. I forgot about the latter for the most part, grubbing one measly (but long and spicy) Italian sausage and completely whiffing on the ribs and burgers. You could sit in the steep bleachers. You could move around on the lower balcony, in the bar, up top in front of the seats. It was like being at a party, which it is. The view of the field was nearly 100%, losing only a bit of left field. The skyline rose beyond the rooftops. The weather was perfect.

I suppose the only drawback was the fear of heights. Three in our party have this issue, in varying degrees. DP and The Rooster were never without a tight grip of something. By my fourth beer, I'd forgotten about the vertigo I first experienced when I'd gotten up there (I stacked my cups all game long to keep track of my imbibement, ending with 9, not bad for 7 innings).

The Rooster got over his mild aversion and worked the entire crowd, or at least the female portion. At one point, some ladies walked by and he called out to them, "Hey! Hey! Stop!" and one of them turned around and sighed, "What, Joaquin?"

KA-KAW!

I was rocking my new-ish Fernando Torres jersey (Liverpool away, not Spain), which always leads me into conversations with proper football fans, which is a good way to meet fellow fans of the beautiful game, since I hate people. Had several entertaining conversations, including a wide-ranging one with DP's buddy Zach.

The Cubbies (and Marmol, and some sketchy fielding) blew a lead--and our hope for a 7-2 final score--in the 9th, which flattened the atmosphere everywhere but in StB's pants. A couple haters took off before the conclusion (because beer wasn't served on the rooftops after the 7th), but the rest of us stayed until the gripping conclusion (wasn't gripping, more relieving).

Thenceforth, shenanigans (and dancing and worming and something resembling a Russian jig and pizza) ensued.

Speaking of pizza, among things that were "eaten" this weekend, included The Rooster downing 5 oz. of A1 Steak Sauce for $60 and April and Grubby doing Butter Shots. For free.

I leave you now to contemplate that. Look how the sodium-y thickness clings to the side of the glass like shit in a sewer pipe.

Lunchtime!

Non-Chronological Rendering of Remembered Events -- Now With Clever Subheads!

2008-07-14T11:49:00.000-07:00

Batting Practice

This weekend officially began, as they all do, when The Rooster called to wake me up at an inappropriate time (two a.m., shattering my hope to get at least 4 hours of sleep before boarding my early morning flight), drunkenly slurring about how much heart he has and that while I'm "brown," I am also, unlike him, "not down."

It rhymes, you see.

After about fifteen minutes of him alternately sounding like Bette Davis after a carton of Pall Malls and a giggling schoolgirl at the opening of the Hannnah Montana movie, I got rid of him by saying there are only two reasons I get calls at 2 a.m. either something happened to AJ or The Rooster is drunk.

"Alright, that's it," he shouted back, indignant. "Bring the kid into it. Bye."

And he was gone.

Throwing Out the First Pitch

The Minnesota/Wisconsin Faction beat me to DP's pad, as did The Rooster. Chad was playing his usual tight style, which works well on this crowd, but not until we've each had 12 drinks and then we forget that Chad is tight. The Rooster was explaining how much heart he has. Drizz was limp-calling flops and then folding. Stb was doing that thing where he scowls at you every time you raise. DP was just sucking, as usual.

I jumped right into the game and promptly got felted, because when DP raises, more likely than not, he's got nothing. 'Cept that time. And the next time too, when Chad and I both got all in with him on the flop. Top pair for me, bottom two for DP, flush draw for Chad. I made a bigger two pair on the turn, dodged the outs.

That is how you suckout, my friends. And then I ran over the table, benefitting from the turn every time. Flop two pair and get it in against The Rooster's OESD? Fill up on turn. Hold a ten on a T44 board? Turn a ten to demolish The Bracelet's (who had arrrived in style) four. After a couple hours, I was up $70, which I'd need to cover my prop bets the rest of the weekend. Jesus. Drizz is an A-List Sandbagger at bar games.

Snack Bar

We made it to Tango Sur, Chicago's finest Argentinian Steak House, with time to spare so thought we'd go next door for a beer like we did last year, except they were having a private party, a fact we only learned when the dude at the door put his finger into my chest--a little hard, I have to say--as we tried to walk in. Naturally, The Rooster had already glided right past him and into the soiree.

Cagey.

I went with El Filet, because I like meat and easy-to-pronounce foreign food and I've been not enjoying much of of either lately. The spinach mashed potatoes were a fine compliment, but not as fine as the wine The Bracelet brought. It was so good that I was threatened with excommunication when I accidentally spilled some of it on the table and was saved only by maigs's quick-thinking tongue as she was able to lap up most of the spillage and no, she didn't lap it up with the gracelessness of a dog, but rather with the dainty class of the Princess she is.

Hit By Pitch

The Rooster ran into an ex-girlfriend. From college. Long ago from another place and time and of all the Argentinian Gin Joints she has to walk into this one when the Rooster is four sheets and on a flap meat jones. Long story short, she was good-lookin' (The Bracelet, unveiling the time-honored RoosterBlock for the first time of the weekend: "The Rooster usually dates ugly girls...") and before you could say "KA-KAW!" our hero was transported to simpler times, before the weight of the world came crashing down and delivered this vision of now-married loveliness to his doorstep. On the way out of the restaurant, I put my arm around him (go ahead) because if anyone in the area code at that point knew about heartbreak and lost opportunity, it was I.

Rooster perked right up. Well, first he started smoking and telling every woman we passed on the street, "Don't fall in love! It's a dead end!"

But then he was fine.

"Alright, Let's Get Two"

The last song I heard on the radio before getting out of my car at Economy Lot C at LAX was "Working for the Weekend" by Loverboy, which is appropos of nothing but being awesome.

Besides being a gracious host, DP also gifted us his excess mileage points which meant I boarded first and settled into my cush first class cabin where hostesses in togas fed me grapes and worked on my lats. The flight was otherwise uneventful as I pulled back an hour of sleep (thanks to space and legroom), watched an episode of "The Riches" on the laptop and did a little writing with a fat, incandecent red and blue pen with palm trees and the Hollywood sign on it because I forgot to bring one from home and the gift shop purchasers at LAX are apparently blind.

I had some bladder issues as the only things I'd put in my mouth (shut it) an hour into the flight were 1) Coffee 2) Water 3) Water 4) Fruit smoothie 5) Water. I went twice in the Terminal, once on the plane before takeoff and then attempted to immediately go on the plane once the Fasten Seat Belt sign went off. Several other people in Rirst Class had that same idea, so I eneded up going about 7th and as I waited I imagined I smelled the scent of stale piss coming from my pants, with stress and sweat on my hands from the takeoff mingling with drying droplets of piss I left behind in my boxer briefs and the more I fixated on the smell, it began to take on substance, color, like a rising plume of fetid smoke, pollution in the air.

Aren't you glad I bought a pen?

In the Big Inning

DP had two extra tickets to our rooftop digs. He sent The Rooster off to find girls to give them to. "Hey ladies, I have two seats. All you can eat or drink!" And Rooster still couldn't convince any ladies to come with him. Probably all the Brut he was wearing. Seriously, he was still upstairs in the shower when we first smelled it downstairs as it cut through the lingering fog of Beer and Ass. "Puerto Rican Shower," said StB.

So still two tickets available and DP decides to tell some of the ladies already on the rooftop to call some friends. He finally convinced one to do so and around the 5th inning, these two young blondes show up and immediately tilt the entire male population of the rooftop. Soon after, the following pic was taken and a new term was created.

Behold the "Face Boner." (© Joe Speaker, 2008)

Jeez. This could take a while. I'm gonna pause here.

Yup

2008-07-13T22:02:00.001-07:00

The weekend went by way too quickly (the top of the 9th excepted) and I'm home and feeling that familiar tug that I always get when I have to leave my hilarious, fucking insane friends. While it's good to be home and in my own bed (my sleeping arrangements the last two nights were a hardwood floor and a cozy bed with DonkeyPuncher, who said this morning, "Thanks for not cuddling too much") and looking forward to seeing AJ again tomorrow, I just bleeping wish the times I got to spend with these people were more frequent and less between.

As usual, The Rooster stole the show (although DP had a strong 5 hours on Saturday afternoon), this time without hitting anything (other than the bottle) or wearing a wifebeater. Contrary to popular belief the Defending Champ and Ultimate A-Lister does tilt. He'll also do pretty much anything for $60.

More when the brain cells settle. If they do. Here's a pic from near the top of the rooftop stands where we saw the Cubs beat the Giants, the single greatest live baseball game experience of my life that didn't involve the A's beating Clemens in the playoffs.

Slow Clap

2008-07-10T23:28:00.000-07:00

Congratulations Iggy.

Step One Complete

2008-07-09T21:40:00.001-07:00

I've been engaged in a continuous debate in my head about this post. Not that I wasn't going to write it. I always was. It was whether or not to include pictures.

Because it's not about vanity.

Maybe a little. Fifteen percent. Tops.

But it didn't start out that way.

*

Ninety days ago, I decided, with little-to-no idea of what I was getting myself into, that I'd had enough of being unhealthy. Not out of shape, but unhealthy. So, on Monday, April 7th, I quit smoking. And drinking.

After three days of detox, I began a 90-day workout program on April 10th. I also incorporated a strict nutritional diet.

I looked like this:

Now sure, those pics are shitty. Sorry, 'bout that. Perhaps I did it (and by "it," I mean not figuring out how to work the timer on my camera, so I didn't have to shoot into a mirror while holding the damn thing) on purpose because, truth be told, I was chagrined by the state of my body. Two years of not playing soccer, of drinking too much and sitting on the couch playing poker...well...that's what you get: a concave chest, a beer gut, whatever the hell it is that you call that fat above the stomach and below the sternum, flabby arms, a total lack of definition and saggy boxer shorts.

So, why am I including pics? Because if there's one person out there who is looking to become healthier, who is results-oriented, then I want them to believe. And I say this with the utmost sincerity:

If I can do it, anyone can.

*

Now, I don't want to give the impression that I've adhered to the program with a boot camp-style mentality. Yes, I did at the start. It was no less a matter of life and death to me. For five weeks. In that time, I did not smoke, drink or go off a strict, low-carb, low-fat high-protein diet. Since then, I've partied a few times. I've socially smoked. I've eaten burritos. I've missed workouts (though, only four).

How did I feel about that? Fine. Absolutely fucking fine. Which might be the biggest change, in that I didn't beat myself silly for "slipping." What I did was get right back on the Non-Smoking, Broccoli-Infused Horse.

*

I finished Day 90 of the program earlier this evening. I start Day 1 of a new, more intense, pysical program on Monday. From now until then, I'm gonna celebrate. Not because I lost 11 pounds. Not because I lost two inches in my waist and gained nearly two on my arms. Not because I feel better than I have in 10 years.

No, I'm going to celebrate because I showed a discipline with the program that had been lacking in my life, one that has already bled into other aspects. Because I've re-discovered that motivation and energy I had in my life many years ago. Before X, before I allowed my life to become something I thought it should be instead of something to be attacked with vigor and optimism.

I'm no Adonis. I will never be. Again, not what it's about. But I'm proud and thankful to the many of you all for your words of encouragement.

If anyone wants information on how I got here, I'm happy to share via e-mail. I don't want to shill for the program. I will say it takes less than an hour a day, incorporates a gradual progression that guards against soreness and injury, comes with complete nutritional guidelines and recipes, and an online support system that is, at turns, invaluable and hilarious. Get in touch and I'll point you in the right direction.

Next pics in 90...er...94 days. Until Monday, I'm gonna forget about all of this. If you need me, I'll be at the bar.

Go Forth, My Little Friend

2008-07-09T10:08:00.000-07:00

We (that's me and some of his little friends) are here to wish Iggy good luck and smooth sailing today.

Follow along with the rest of us, including the spirit of Eddie Gaedel, over at Tao of Poker (though let's hope we are spared further mental images such as Isabelle lowering herself to choke on Dario's tongue) as our diminutive hero, atop 8 or 9 Everest Poker seat cushions, makes his wee way through the massive Main Event field.

Is it me, or does mini-Peter Criss look like Lars Ulrich? They're the same height, I know that much.

Boss! Boss! The turn! The turn!

I know. Dwarf/midget jokes. I'm hilarious. And original.

Go Iggy!

May I Kindly Suggest You Kids Get Off My Fucking Lawn

2008-07-04T22:34:00.000-07:00

Young man, I am okay with your ringtone being an obscenity-filled and derivative rap number. Where I part ways with my tolerance is when you don't answer the damn thing, instead holding it up to your ear and thumping your foot to the beat, and the tinny noise fills the small lobby of the ice cream shop where a bunch of kids are waiting around for their mint and chip cones and you, and that fine hip-hop artist, treat them to two "motherfuckers" and a "bitch." Because your defiant stance and distinct possibility of packed heat, I merely suggested you lower the volume on that "dope ass cut" rather than do what I longed so, which was to turn it to vibrate, shove it up your ass and call you repeatedly.

I laugh at you, teen about town, with your flat-brimmed ballcap askew, at an angle which I imagine you think is "rakish," but is actually moronic. I actually enjoy, get a kick out of, a chuckle, the waistband of your pants holding up the bottom of your droopy ass, despite the presence of a studded belt that matches the accoutrement on your wrist. I know it's a generational thing, though the only true fashion faux pas I can recall from my own high school days was the occasional flipped Izod collar. Oh wait, there was some velour, too. And a mullet or two. So, you see, you and I are not so different. I would like to think you'll look back someday--as I do--and laugh at your garment choices. Alas, when I politely ask you to step aside so my son and I can pass through the narrow mall hallway, I would be most appreciative if you didn't look at me with slow-eyed, slovenly contempt as if I had just asked you to wipe my ass free of a week's worth of medium-texture diarrhea, and move aside more than that slight half-step with your purposeful speed and dexterity of a tortoise on quaaludes. The next time you do that, I'm going to drop you right there in front of Eddie Bauer and pummel you flat as a v-neck sweater. I've been working out.

I was genuinely thankful when you two boys invited AJ into your game of catch in the pool and even when it turned into a more aggressive form of grab-ass-ery, with more participants, more surface-skidding balls, and blood high in the cheeks, I was cool with the escalation. Then you specifically made it a plan to try to hit others in the face with your throws, which is the moment I desired to ask your parents if they would like me to play the same game with them. I've never had the most accurate arm, but I've got a hose. You can believe that.

Can You Hear the Drums, Fernando?

2008-06-30T23:14:00.000-07:00

"Cometh the hour, cometh the man."
--Andy Gray

Nearly two days later and I'm still pumped for Spain and Fernando Torres. I watched the final again today. A victory for beauty over industry, for flair over cynicism. And nothing is more satisfying in the sports world than a team (or country) shedding a "Choker" label, particularly when those characterizations are unfair.

It had been a spotty tournament for Torres. He only netted twice and a case could be made he should have had half a dozen others. He was subbed in every match he started and if he didn't outwardly pout, the firm set of his jaw showed his displeasure.

All washed away with a moment of otherworldly brilliance. Every criticism. Every blade of poor luck. Forty-four years.

He had no right to get to the ball before the hapless Philip Lahm. He ate up the yards two-to-one and at maximum pace, fully stretched, he managed lift the ball over Lehmann and then lift himself over the keeper's hurtling mass in a display of balance rivaling a world class ballet dancer.

Felicidades España and El Niño.

This is What You Should Have Gotten Me For My Birthday

2008-06-30T10:20:00.000-07:00

You may recognize the three guys in yellow shirts. They are, for the uninitiated, from left to right, Steve McManaman (only my favorite footballer ever), legendary Liverpool striker Robbie (God) Fowler and some French guy (kidding of course, the classy Thierry Henry).

The guy in the blue shirt in the foreground? My buddy Steeno.

I envy him with every molecule of my body.

Vini, V.D., Vici

2008-06-26T10:25:00.000-07:00

I came, I saw, I cankered.

That's an old Saturday Night Live joke. Tim Kazurinsky, I believe. Early 80s. Don't know what made me think of it, but the smeared back mirror at Jumbo's, and the fact the place seems 20 years out of time might have had something to do with it. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

*

I screwed up the first decision of the day, opting for Wilshire instead of the 10 on my jaunt westward to 90210 from downtown L.A. I forgot to check SigAlert Dot Com beforehand and since it took me an hour to get to The Puncher of Donkey's swank-ass Residence Inn, I'm guessing I took the long way. No matter. This is L.A. We had a meet and greet at 7:30, which, if you've seen "Swingers" means 9 p.m. I forgot that part, too, as I forewent my planned quickie (I'm talking about a workout here) in the hotel fitness center for a Newcastle and a shower and a free ride to the Formosa Cafe.

DP went seersucker and linen. I opted for v-neck and sportcoat.

We got off on the wrong foot with the bartender because he thought the old lady and the minor who came in right behind us were part of our party and when they ignored his edict that the kid couldn't sit at the bar, he got all huffy thinking we, too, were brushing him off. He apologized when it all became clear and dropped a heavy Jameson's pour on me by way of amends.

The Formosa Cafe is so old that because of the heat outside, the draft beer was all warm.

We sat there an hour before anyone else showed up. That translated to three whiskeys and three filet mignon sliders. That's right, filet mignon sliders.

We sat there another hour before we stopped sitting there and moved across the street to Jones Cafe where our Party of Now-Eight swarmed the bar like the it was the Beach at Normandy, if the Beach at Normandy were a topless beach. They said it would be an hour for a table to accommodate our size (exact words, ladies), so we ate at the bar. That's when we came up with Danny Manning.

The women were all about 15 years under my preferred demographic. The men, this was West Hollywood after all, were just about right.

I had pizza and Amstel Light. The jukebox was awesome. I know this 'cause DP said it sucked. And also, I heard KISS's "Dr. Love" and AC/DC's "High Voltage" while I was there, songs I used to play repeatedly on 8-track. In the back yard. Using a tennis racket for a guitar.

On to The Village Idiot, which, far as I know, is not named after me. "There's one for ya," DP said, and he was right. Mid-30s at least. If not in my wheelhouse, at least a pitch I can handle. Just bravado, though. I get scared talking to girls. They're so pretty. So we just stood on the other side of the bar from what we termed "Gay Corner," lest we be tempted by mesh shirts.

In true "Swingers" fashion, we bailed from there, too. "Dead tonight," said our fearless, intricately-coiffed leader.

Next was Three of Clubs, a formerly (key foreshadowing word, "formerly") hip nightspot on Highland. I have not been inside its environs in eight years, three months and 28 days. Approximately. Actually, the reason I remember the exact date I last graced the club is because it was on the night of my wedding to X.

It was not my choice to go there, though stepping inside did not tilt me. And nobody had a panic attack that required a 911 call.

Someone said the clientele was gathered for Slump Buster Night. True. Also, all the patrons seemed to have come from East L.A. They all talked like Oscar de la Hoya. We lasted one beer.

Four blocks north was "The Bowery." We drank PBRs out of cans. Some people--not your lightweight narrator--had shots. We heard "Dr. Love" again (what's with that?). Really, just killing time before the Main Event.

Jumbo's Clown Room.

It's a strip club, but since nobody's doing any stripping, nor are they showing skin beyond PG-13 (the only visible nipples were poking out under DP's linen), that's something of a misnomer. One stage. One pole. Five ladies in rotation, one song and done. Mysterious substances on the back wall, which is mirrored, like somebody smeared hand lotion (not me!) or toothpaste on it. With all the High End Stripper experience of my readership, y'all might wonder what the hell the is the fascination? Hard to say. But there was a line to get in.

Maybe it was the acrobatic stylings of the Korean girl, who danced one song to Snoop Dogg and had clearly choreographed the whole number complete with gang signs. It was more like Zumanity (with lotion on the mirrors) than Spearmint Rhino. We did our part, sitting off in the (not gay) corner and chucking wadded up singles (Rain Dance!) onto the parquet stage and making fun of the clientele with hairdos that would have embarrassed Gene Simmons.

Naturally, we shut Jumbo's down.

Which is when the fun ended because all that was left for me was an interminable cab ride (at least 45 minutes) back to the hotel for four hours of tortured (drunk) sleep before I had to get back home to parent hungover. The best way to parent hungover when it's 108 degrees outside? Take the kid to see a movie, in a sweet, sweet, air-conditioned theater, and sleep through the film. It was "Get Smart." I'm sure I didn't miss anything.

Lean and Mean and Not Too Far Between

2008-06-20T09:23:00.000-07:00

Musings and Updates before hitting Jumbo's Clown Room tonight with DP. He hangs out with Derrick Rose last night and now he gets to hang out with me. How lucky can one mofo be? Though I am glad he got that autograph shit out of the way. That's not how we do it here in the City of Angels with our reliance on cultivated ambivalence toward celebrities.

(Does not apply to Salma Hayek.)

Been watching the whole of Euro '08 on TiVo the past 13 days. Helluva tournament. Just a couple stinkers and some seriously flowing play. The manner in which the Russians tooled up Sweden the other day was beautiful. The Dutch and their emphasis on positive football is a shining light in the international game. Though I suppose if I had that highly-suspect back four, I'd sub in attacking players like Robben and Van Persie with a one-goal lead, as well. Best defense is sometimes a good offense. The Turkish comeback against the aging Czechs, who looked not a day under the century mark in the last half-hour (and I like the Turks today v. Croatia, too). Just a fabulous set of games so far (France and Austria excepted).

I'm down another belt hole. That's two in 64 days if you're counting. I'm looking pretty fucking lean for a guy about to turn 41. At least until DP buys jello shots tonight.

Belated, but no less heartfelt congrats out to 125 Pounds of Brick-Defying Fury for his Razz cash, Ignatious J and LJ for their Main Event seats and Casey Aldridge for his pipe-laying (hat tip thg).

AJ was supposed to be in Cancun this week with his mom, the fiance and his kids. They did not actually go, which is absurd on so many levels. I felt terrible for AJ, who has been talking about this trip for months, while at the same time being amused and angry at X for being such a numbskull. See, they were an hour away from their flight when she realized AJ's passport had expired. Detail-oriented, she is not. Pretty much in character. If you need more proof, she booked the trip both a week early (AJ's school actually ended THIS week, not last) and they were scheduled to depart on Father's Day.

You can't make this stuff up, people.

Triple-digits in the Southland for the third straight day. If you need me this weekend, I'll be by the pool.

Resumption

2008-06-10T10:07:00.000-07:00

I am prone to instant inspiration, especially where sports are concerned. In 1976, after watching Frank Shorter win a silver medal in the Marathon at the Montreal Olympics, I laced up my shoes and went to the local high school. I ran around the track pretty much until I puked. A couple weeks later, after seeing a brief in the local paper, I ran in an AAU Junior Olympics cross country race and finished 10th out of more than 100 participants, my only experience as a "runner" being the recent battles with the cinder track at Granada High.

(Interestingly enough, these AAU races were qualifiers, so when I finished 10th, I was one of 20 who moved to the next level--a regional race three weeks later--where I finished 13th, and again qualified for the next step, a semi-final to be held in Vegas, one rung below the National Championship. Alas, I was not able to attend and because of soccer, little league and other sports, my running career stalled until junior high track and field).

One of the thoughts that came to me during the last couple months of regular exercise was that I'd love to play soccer again. I've been feeling fitter than I have in years, many of the moves in my regular routine are similar enough to the muscle needs of the game, or can easily be tweaked to be soccer-centric and while I'm stridently sticking to my daily routines, I am getting kind of bored doing the same moves over and over again. I have always preferred games, competition, over solitary workouts, as my physical endeavor. Still, I thought it best to wait until I'd completed the 90-day program, to make sure there were no interruptions.

Then Euro 08 started. Dammit. Can you even imagine the trouble I could get in if Frank Shorter were starting for Austria? Or if England had actually made the field (eat my farts, Steve McLaren)?

When I sent the e-mail to Julian, I told myself it was just to give him a heads up, a sort of, "Hey, I'm interested in getting out there again, maybe in the fall, I'm kind of fit, if anything comes up, let me know." I played with Jules for ten years, often as partners in the center of midfield and I knew two important things about him. One, he plays on like 14 teams (slight hyperbole, but if he has fewer than six games a week, I'll be damned) and two, he lives closer to me than the last league I played in, which was 45 miles away and pretty much an all-day commitment that I am, at my advanced age, no longer willing to make. So I asked, "Any teams/leagues out my way?"

I could not have imagined that I'd be starting in the center of defence less than 36 hours later at a pristine pitch--Field Turf, not grass--less than 10 minutes from my house.

I had suited up against a number of these players before. Their team name is well-known in the area. A bunch of over-30 guys, which is charitable to some, who are WAY over-30 guys, good players, nice group, attractive tactics. I felt right at home, though the league is All Ages and our (duh, Latino) opponents were all south of their third decade. I got in about 65 minutes. We won 3-2. I passed the audition.

"How do you feel about tournaments?" John, the manager, asked post-game.

"Depends," I said, nodding toward AJ. "If it's not a Daddy weekend, I'm in."

"We're playing Santa Barbara in August, over-30 division," he said. "You over 30?"

"I'll be 41 in 3 weeks."

He looked shocked. I gave him my "Clean Livin'" smile.

"You look terrible for 25," he said. "But pretty good for 40."

"Thanks."

"See ya next week?"

"Hell yes."

The Doctor is In

2008-06-09T09:55:00.000-07:00

Even from his misted bungalow at Sin City's hot new resort, Sheckytown, Dr. Pauly still manages to get out a June edition of Truckin' featuring lots of bad beat stories and hookers (male and female) and blow and...wait....wrong publication.

Go read these. Then, of course, refresh The Tao every seven minutes for all the Hot Vegas Action.

June 2008, Vol. 7, Issue 6

Welcome to the birthday issue of Truckin! We have now been around for six years.

1. Ikeaphobia by Paul McGuire
I kept imagining Swedish people in Sweden coming home from their Swedish jobs and sitting down on their Swedish couches and eating Swedish meals cooked in Swedish pans and served on Swedish plates... More

2. The Crucification of Kaminsky by Betty Underground
The diet pills made her skinny. Made her feel excepted in the land of the beautiful. The speed getting her through the days. Coke came at night, when she needed to escape her own mind. Her past... More

3. One Night Out, Part I by Sigge S. Amdal
I noticed that I wasn't alone in the alley, and I looked up quick enough to see a prostitute coughing up a recognizable white substance. She looked up and for a brief time our eyes met. Only one window apart earlier, but out here we were both equally being sick. It was a strange moment of solidarity... More

4. The Reason Why... by May B. Yesno
The place had a less than classy name, The Roamin Gardens, to say little of the fact the only garden about it were two fake, potted palm trees at the front door. A typical sleazy pick-up joint. One in which you feel like everything you touch you can pick-up most anything... More

5. Drafting Richard Petty by Drizz
Imagine starting every day with these heavy chains pinning you to Davy Jones' Locker, and having zero motivation to try to swim to the surface because those depths didn't provide any sunlight to reach... More

6. FLASHBACK - Fukuoka, Phishy City by Tenzin McGrupp
The workers are tiny Japanese girls who wear the most adorable white and red uniforms and lovely white gloves cover their tiny hands. They greet you with big smiles and sing a nice happy song to you as the customers pay... More

What a Long Strange Trip It's Been...

From the Editor's Laptop:

Welcome to the special birthday issue of Truckin'. We turned six this month. Man, I'm still socked that we're still operating on this little corner of the web. The last year was one of the best to date. I want to personally thank everyone who has been involved with Truckin', especially over the past twelve months.

This issue includes some of your favorite writers include Sigge S. Amdal, Betty Underground, and May B. Yesno. Drizz makes his Truckin' debut with a touching piece. I wrote something about Ikea and this issue also includes a flashback from the very first issue when I wrote a story about following Phish in Japan. I used my pen name... Tenzin McGrupp.

If you have friends, family, or co-workers that love the written word, then please tell them about your favorite Truckin' stories. It takes only a few seconds to pass along the URL. The writers certainly appreciate your support.

Also, feel free to shoot me an e-mail if you know anyone who is interested in being added to the mailing list or if you are interested in becoming a Truckin' author.

Thanks again to everyone who wasting their precious time with Truckin'. And special thanks goes out to all of the Truckin' writers who shared their blood work and exposed their naked souls for free. Thanks for inspiring me and taking a tremendous leap of faith with me.

Be good,
McG

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say." - Anais Nin

Published by Truckin' Staff at 6/05/2008 12:02:00 AM | Permalink

Relocation

2008-06-06T11:09:00.001-07:00

X admonished me the other day. "Why weren't you this way when we were married?" Oddly, she said this soon after she said, "I like your shirt," and "Those sunglasses look good on you," and "Your shoulders are getting big."

She clearly didn't realize the tilt the question would inflict upon me. I thought it was insensitive. I told her so. Even moreso, it was fucking ironic.

What spawned this hot probe? My wanderlust. I don't want to live here any more. Number of reasons. Soulless corporate exurb. The tenuous nature of the industry in which I am employed. The bubbling desire to find a niche where I belong instead of hemmed in between my neighbors, lovers of 4x4s and neck tattoos. At the most basic, it's time for a change.

The reason I feel like I can make such a move right now is because I'm not running away from anything. I am, for lack of a better term, peaceful. I'm taking care of business (every day). My days of spending all my blood on the concerns of others are through. I'll not deny myself, mask my own needs and wants, in pursuit of others and theirs. Which has left me with a singular question.

What ARE my needs and wants?

I admit to you, I had no answer to this question when I first posed it. Face and brain more empty than the Seattle Mariner trophy case ("There's no fucking easy way out of this!"). By now, I have some suspicions.

One of them is I want more experience and to get it in a manner that is initially terrifying. Out on the last limb. Not thinking about why I CAN'T do it, but the reasons I should.

The complication, of course, is AJ. I won't leave him. In the conversation where I mentioned half a dozen places where I would like to start looking for jobs, X gave a thumbs up to each. But she won't leave. Because The Douchebag won't. Because he's "established" here.

Get the irony?

She laments that I wasn't more open to adventure/moving/limb walking, yet she is consigning herself to a person who is confident in the depth of his roots and will be going nowhere for the next 20, 30 years. Won't even entertain the idea of moving to be near his children (Austin, TX, for the record and I'd totally move there so April could be my designated driver).

All of which leaves me with a life out of my control, in the hands of someone with whom I've no connection at all. This, ultimately, will not stand.

Triple Crown Memories

2008-06-03T11:48:00.000-07:00

Subtitled: Suck it East Coast Douchebag Racing Establishment.

You too, Pat Day.

Bankroll Management

2008-06-02T10:47:00.001-07:00

Overheard on the train:

Older Lady: When are you going to Vegas?
20-something Male: I don't know.
Older Lady: I thought you were going soon.
20-something Male: I was, but I don't have any money.
Older Lady: Oh.
20-something Male: I went to Morongo (local Indian casino) on Saturday night.
Older Lady: What were you doing out there if you don't have any money?
20-something Male: Trying to win money for Vegas.

AJ Rakes

2008-06-01T09:42:00.001-07:00

There's nothing quite like the sound of wood connecting with horsehide, except for aluminum on soft t-balls and the pride in your boy's voice.

No Way

2008-05-30T10:11:00.000-07:00

I have no plans to go to Vegas this summer. It will be my first non-attendance at some point during the WSOP since 2004. I am totally fine with this. I haven't been playing, so I'm stale (though my bankroll's fine since I haven't lost, either). I've got other engagements, like parenting and a mid-July trip. And Vegas wouldn't exactly be a positive influence on my non-smoking lifestyle. Seriously, I've done a good job so far, but why chuck myself into the deep end (hell, more like the bottomless end)?

Again, I'm totally fine with this. Fine. No issues at all. None. Really. Certainly didn't start convulsing a little while reading all the posts from our fine bretheren (and sistren) gearing up to cover seven weeks worth of poker and scenery.

So let's just let the linkage commence:

Pauly will be doing most of his posting at home and at Las Vegas Vegas, which is awesome, since we'll get mostly color instead of play-by-play. Joe Speaker advocates color.

change100, Geno and 130 lbs of Rookie Fury will be on hand donkumenting (hehe; clever) the action for PokerNews and Falstaf (still one 'f' last I heard) will be providing his morning recaps from his bunker in NC.

My Main Spaceman will be doing his thing for Poker Listings and the venerable Otis will be short-timing it for Poker Stars blog at the end of the month.

I'll also be keeping an eye on Pokerati (for the articles) and Wicked Chops (also for the articles).

If I forgot anyone who would like to be mentioned here, please drop an e-mail or comment. I can't be held responsible for my behavior since I'm not going to Vegas this summer. I'm really not. I don't care how many of you (and you and you) say you're going or thinking about going and I don't care my birthday falls on the same weekend you're going and my birthday plans fell through and the economy has rendered rooms relatively cheap.

Nope. Totally not going to Vegas. Not a chance.

Makeover

2008-05-29T10:21:00.001-07:00

The question I've gotten more than any other is "What made you do this now?" which is like asking Stephen Hawking if he has any opinions on the origin of the universe. I've made a career here out of intrepid and constant navel-gazing, so such inwardly-focused inquiries are bound to set me off on extended flights of introspection. Please move your seat-backs to the upright and locked position.

As I reach Day 45, the mid-way point of my Total Body (and Mind) Makeover, I have, as you'd expect from me, a few thoughts.

Before I get to The Theory, let me get everyone up-to-date on the bare statistics.

Pounds lost: 13
Belt holes reduced (in lieu of "Waist Inches Lost." More masculine): 1 1/2 (I can totally pull to two, but it's a little--just a little!--snug)

I've reached "slender" status again and am not going to lose any more weight. I don't really have any more to spare, though a decade of decadence has likely rendered my beer gut (and attendant love handles) permanent. I'm okay with that, I suppose. I've shrunk it, continue to try to cardio and crunch it out of existence, but will happily live with it, since it's not about appearance or vanity, but health and energy and feeling better mentally and unintended benefits and not having man tits.

Near as I can tell, the process came about organically. I was tired. Tired of smoking and drinking and living a life of dreamy disconnection. I felt terrible. Every morning, every day, most of which I was hungover. To get out of the subway, I had to climb a few flights of stairs and by the time I got halfway, I was wheezing. When I got to the top, I had to stop and rest, catch my breath, so I could light up a cigarette. I'd wrestle on the bed with AJ and need a break after two minutes. The house was a mess. My clothes smelled like stale bread. I wrote long loathesome screeds about missed opportunity and failed potential and sheer motherfucking laziness. I think it's safe to say I hated myself. I found my niche and it was this roller coaster ride of fleeting euphoria, white-knuckle intensity and abject wallowing. Bi-polar, basically. Or maybe tri- or quad-.

Kurt Cobain said it best, "I miss the comfort in being sad." The episode with X left me rotten inside. I've acted less than admirably. Woe is me and because of this bad beat, I could afford to be reckless, with myself and others. "Look what tragedy has befallen me!" I could shout and use it as an excuse for erratic behavior, escapism. My mood was capricious at all times, going zero to 60 in no time flat for no reason at all and the only ways for me to silence the demons were to drink them into oblivion or lose all contact with myself via total and laser-like focus on another.

This served as the basis for me to ignore the path down which I was heading. Total self-destruction. I busied myself with the logistics of my relationship, plans drawn in the sand with no contingency for rising tides. I held fast to the way I felt for her, avoiding self-examination, even when she asked for it. I could answer, sure. Glib one-liners and profligate adverbs.

You know what comes next. She became too real for me to handle. WE became too real for me to handle. So I detonated a bomb and blew us to smithereens. Zero to 60. And then I could wallow again, where I felt comfortable, as opposed to holding up my own end. In retrospect, I think that's exactly what I was doing. Subconsciously. My feelings were valid. Deep and true. I've no doubts of that, for they continue to this day, more clearly even, more easily grasped with a less-muddled heart. But knowing I wouldn't be able to play my part, not in that present condition, pushed me to an unjustified level of anger and disappointment.

The aftermath was similar. That pain, profound and murky, that has no antidote. The sudden outbursts, waves of irretrievable sadness, all familiar to me from when X walked away. And somehow, this stung at an even higher level, because of all those things I said I'd do when X left, all those improvements, changes, goals and desires. Lies. I was nowhere different from where I'd been then. And what struck me, finally, irrevocably, was that I am, now and forever, officially on my own.

While there are aspects of this view that focus on the maudlin ("I'm going to die alone" is a biggie), the acceptance and the wider implications are nothing but positive. It means I have to build that trust in myself, a trait I've not possessed in a long time. It means my self-worth will come from within, will radiate outward, instead of trying to find personal value in the character and actions of others. What it means is, I have to take care of my own fucking business.

So, on the same day, at the same hour and moment, I quit smoking, drinking, playing online poker (five nights a week) and started eating right and exercising. I feel unbelievable.

Yes, I've had to sacrifice. I don't get to talk to a lot of you as often as I'd like. That's a temporary affliction. My social life is comatose (which is too bad since I'm getting kind of ripped for a skinny guy. Hear that ladies?!?!). There are things I can't say, things I want to, feel like, I should say, but have no right. Not yet. Not honorably.

Make no mistake. I consider this a full-scale rehabilitation. It's not simply physical and/or mental. It's about discipline more than anything. It's about character-building. Maturity. Sincerity. Spirituality.

I like to joke about my little mid-life crisis. That may well be what it is. Gold chains might be just around the corner for me. But I'm not forecasting. I'm living in the present, trying to attach myself to something permanent instead of the blurred decade that has preceded Now. There's only one person I'm going to wake up with from now until the end, so I guess I'd best get used to what I look like in the morning.

"Sorry, Dude."

2008-05-28T09:55:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Miami Don's post, I was reminded of one of the greatest moments in the history of the Murderer's Row home game. Though I was not present that particular evening to experience it, everyone's favorite Poker Geek tells the story so perfectly that we all feel like we were in attendance. It does help that we've all seen Chanel get bad beat hundreds of times, too.

Go read this exceptional post:

Two Time Cover Boy for Bad Beat Magazine

Signatures

2008-05-26T22:51:00.000-07:00

All I ever wanted. Lipstick scars I wear proudly and touch unconsciously like twirling a discarded wedding ring, flexing a severed limb. Ghostly fingers on her neck. Forgotten trail.
Tasting something awful. Acrid smoke rising like a phantom, burning comfort and I bow, forced reverence, fear, sudden crack of thunder. Thank you. I missed you. Covers over my head.
Falling to pieces. I hide behind handsome words and black sunglasses; with yellow wisdom I can flip your manger upside down. Cold and still signatures on a contract. Dispensible.
Solitary man. Echoed verses off the stars; that vast tormented distance altered by sound, tricks of time so I can reach my burdened elders in unfamiliar hours. Statues decay and cast shadows.

Drowning His Sorrows

2008-05-25T12:37:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I'm tempted to start an Ichiro blog. He may play for a division rival of my favorite team, but he's the best quote in sports these days. Perhaps the best since Mike Tyson. Who can forget his excitement at facing Dice-K for the first time stateside?

"I hope he arouses the fire that's dormant in the innermost recesses of my soul. I plan to face him with the zeal of a challenger."

Now, he's applying his zeal to the atrocious season of his Mariners and a theoretical enjoyment of alcohol.

“Playing on this team and seeing what is happening around me, I feel that something is beginning to fall apart,” the center fielder said after Friday’s 13-2 loss to the Yankees.

“But, if I was not in this situation, and I was objectively watching what just happened this week, I would probably be drinking a lot of beers and booing.’’

Over at USS Mariner, the un-edited quote includes recommendations...

"Usually I enjoy Japanese beer, but given the situation, if I was objectively watching the game, I wouldn’t care if it was Japanese beer, American beer or beer from Papua New Guinea."

...which has set the faithful (and you'd have to be a "faithful" if you are spending a lot of time on an M's message boards as repellent as that team is--for the low, low price of $117 million!) on a quest to find beers from Papua New Guinea in the Seattle area.

They've failed as of this writing and because I take such great pity on M's fans (partly because of their team's horrid history, partly because an inordinate percentage of them are morons), I beg my readers in the Pacific Northwest to be on the lookout for South Pacific Export Lager, SP Lager Beer and Niugini Ice.

Perhaps, if you locate some, you can Fed Ex it to M's GM Bill Bavasi with a note suggesting he trade Ichiro to the A's for 5 replacement level players, which seem to be the kind he likes to sign to multi-year contracts (coughJerrodWashburnCarlosSilvacough).

Kanpai!

Day at the Zoo

2008-05-24T16:28:00.000-07:00

Twenty years I've lived in L.A., but I've never been to the Zoo which sits on the northern rim of Griffith Park, next to the Wilson and Harding golf courses where I used to play every Friday morning before I broke my wrist. You can tour it in three hours, see everything it has to offer, less than $20 for Dad and son, unlike the World Famous San Diego Zoo, where we've gone twice, just a couple hours south, an all-day affair and you'll be sore in the calves the next day from all the hills and you ain't getting out of Balboa Park spending less than $150 for the privilege.

So, ghetto zoo it is.

The fairly pedestrian nature of the flora, fauna and, it must be said, some emaciated looking jungle cats, didn't register on AJ. We might as well have been smack dab in the middle of the Serengeti. Here, he explains to me all I need to know about lions.

So yeah, price was right, kid was amused, we were home and dry by Happy Hour and got some good pics. And some less than good. I told him to look cool with the camel.

Then he wanted to take a picture of me with the same camel and...well...if you look closely enough...you can see a couple humps back there (that's what she said).

That became the game. Each of us taking pics of the other and trying to get both human and animal in the picture. He managed to get me and animal in once more.

I swear there are some flamingos back there.

Last, my favorite picture of every trip AJ and I take: the one with him passed out from exhaustion while I drive home (this time with his new stuffed viper; it's not a boa constrictor. Trust me). I swear, when I'm in adult diapers, I'm going to do the same to him every time. Except I'll snore louder.

One Thousand and One

2008-05-21T15:57:00.000-07:00

When we'd lie in our bunk beds, he, the older, on top, he'd tell me stories about his classroom, a ridiculous place with a frustrated teacher and a roster full of cut-ups, and he'd do all the voices and parts like a stage show, which it was, in a manner, since he was simply aping Cheech and Chong routines and no, there was never anybody in his grade who never washed his neck. Sometimes, I'd keep him awake with chatter and he'd challenge me to count to one-thousand, to myself. I would, triumphantly finish, announce my success, and hear only his snores in reply. Once, he told me the best way to make sure my punishment was short was to tell Dad that his whippings didn't hurt. We'd wrap dish towels around our hands with rubber bands and box each other; the more he hit me the angrier and bloodier I got and I'd flail away at him, tears mixing with my gushing nose and he'd grab me and pin my arms to my chest and laugh, which infuriated me even more, that the game was over and that I had no chance to win. He was in charge of me and my sister most times when my parents went out and he had as little use for the rules as we did, so we played baseball with a wadded-up sock or built walls in our doorways across the hall from behind which we threw tennis balls at each other. He's six years older than me but when my parents brought me home from the hospital, wailing into his only child world, he wanted to play with me. He couldn't pronounce my name, so he gave me a new one that everybody still uses. I tagged along with him everywhere after we bought the house and if my mom forced him to take me, he never let me know that, and he made sure I didn't get picked last for his baseball games, he'd always choose me before one of his friends 'cause he knew how sad it would make me to be last, though a case could also be made that I was better than at least one of his peers. He put his arms on my shoulders that day I told him I was sick of all the white bread kids at my white bread school teasing me about my dark skin and he said his friend with the dark skin got all the girls. He got in big trouble the night I got the scar on my forehead from playing blind man's bluff in his room, when I gashed myself open on the bed frame and sat sniffling with the dog in my lap on the sofa while Mom yelled at him and my forehead didn't hurt so much as the thought he wouldn't play with me any more because he got grounded even though it wasn't his fault. And I don't know what I can do to repay him all these things, though I'm really fucking trying.