Dead Religions

People often wonder why the Jackalopes held Cubs’ fans in such disdain. Only lobotomized savages would do that.

1908.

Why did this good looking U.S. patriot purchase a WBC Team Canada shirt from the discount rack at Peoria Stadium?

A. Because Team Canada won the scrum versus Team Mexico, and it is always a good thing when a first world country smacks around a third world country.

B. He looks good in red.

C. He was very drunk.

D. The tanks are about to roll!

Conversations last night.

Mrs. Bads: Why is it that you are fine with my nephew going to Arizona with us, but not my parents?
Me: C’mon, he is THE BELOVED NEPHEW. I was taking him to games when he was still in high school. He’s a Jackalope! He is coming for the oral tradition.
Mrs. Bads: I think it’s just because you want someone to drink with.
Me: That is a hell of a thing to say about your Mio.
LB: Cousin [BN] said I would be a Jackalope if I got a girl on the lawn to show me her boobs. Is that true, Dad?
Me (facing Mrs. Bads’ icy stare): What? Don’t blame me; he is your nephew. Besides, I have Fast Eddie for a drinking buddy—-
Mrs. Bads: Wait, HE’S coming?
Me: He’s meeting us at the park. I told you that weeks ago.
Mrs. Bads: Yeah, but he’s a flake. Perhaps my parents shouldn’t go if HE is going to be there. You don’t want them to go anyway. I need to call my nephew NOW.
Me: That’s not—
LB (whispering): Don’t say anything, Dad. You’ll just get in more trouble.

A little bit later, on the phone:

Me: You have to be there. She’s expecting you.
Fast Eddie: She hates me.
Me (lying): She doesn’t hate you; you just make her nervous sometimes because you text her things on Christmas like ‘Did you get that black dildo you wanted?’
FE: That was meant for you. I thought that was your number. You should be asking me why I have your wife’s cell phone number. Alright, I’ll go to the game if you pick me up.
Me: I can’t pick you up; we are bringing the Prius.
FE: Wait, did you just say, ‘Prius?’ You own Prius now? You are such a ####### sellout! Remember when you were going to have a ‘66 Chevelle?
Me: That was high school, Dude. You really should try to grow past that.
FE: Mr. ‘I-Rule-The-Road! Kings-and-Queens-Move-Aside When-I-Am-in-the-Fast-Lane’ now owns a ####### Prius. You aren’t going to be intimidating any Hells’ Angels with that vehicle, are you?
Me: That was a long time ago, and they weren’t Hells’ Angels. They were Yuppie Bikers.
FE: Yeah, well now Yuppie Bikers can laugh at you because you drive as Prius. I bet you have a Phillip Phillips CD in the deck, don’t you?
ME (pause): No.
FE: She has it in the other car, doesn’t she? Hurry up and have a mid-life crises so you can get your soul back.

“From Here on In, I rag nobody.” — Henry Wiggen

Without a doubt, the MLB player who hasn’t wore a Cleveland Indians’ uniform who I have blasted the most is Troy Percival. Long time readers from the Now Defunct, Widely Popular blog will remember why, so there is no reason to rehash all of that, although the tossing of miniature Indians’ batting helmets into the Angels bullpen while Percival was warming up in the first game after David Justice smacked him around with his batting helmet should never be forgotten. However, Troy Percival is no longer a major league baseball player; he is a high school varsity baseball coach for Moreno Valley High School. Percival made over 52 million dollars as a MLB player, and now coaches his alma mater’s team for free because he wants to give back to an institution that helped him when he was a youth.

Today, Percival’s team played Li’L Bobby’s team, Aquinas High School, in San Bernardino. Aquinas won 6-5, and after the game, Percival was gracious enough to sign my daughter Kathleen Angels’ hat and pose for a picture with her, even though his team dropped a close game. He also joked around with my wife and daughter, having a sincerely good time.

Quite often, baseball fans take major league baseball too seriously. Just as frequently, MLB players lose track of what is really important. Percival took over a program in shambles because he did not forget where he came from and what is important. While I am sure he will gain immense personal satisfaction from such an endeavor, he unselfishly is undertaking this task for the kids in the community where he grew up, something that is truly admirable.

At the risk of causing Hell to freeze over, I tip my hat to Troy Percival.

Dear Babs,

It has been a while since we conversed. I know that you hoped I went away forever, but I would like to think a small part of you still cares how I am doing. After all, it is part of your job description to care about your constituents. The last time I wrote you, Sir Barry Lamar Bonds was still playing baseball, and Hunter S. Thompson was still alive. I know you were close to Hunter, so his passing must have been hard for you. I was tempted to reach out to you shortly after he blew his brains out, but a deal is a deal, and I said I would no longer bother you if you used your political clout to ensure that Keith Olbermann would not be able to continue writing baseball articles. However, it is my duty as citizen of the great state of California to inform you that a menace is spreading in our fair state; I fear that the traffic school industry has been infiltrated by white collared goons.

Yes, Babs, this is not a personal letter (to the intern that is reading this; your boss used to be quite the looker as she had the Honey Wilder thing down pat. Remember that the next time you mumble under your breath about her been a barren, old witch), this is a call to arms. Traffic school has become an instrument of torture and prejudice — a way for grown study hall monitors to inflict pain just because they can. Recently, I was ticketed for driving above the posted speed limit near Blythe as I was driving to Arizona to watch baseball. I know you are thinking, “He was on his way to hang out with those reprobates that fancied themselves outlaws.” Alas, Babs, the Jackalopes are no more; we have been scattered across the desert sands by a cruel wind named Father Time. Besides, we didn’t fancy ourselves as outlaws, we felt we were protectors of our turf. In retrospect, we were probably just a bunch of guys who had looked back and realized our youth had been wasted, but now is not the time for that story because a CRISES is at hand.

Last night I enrolled in an online traffic school to put that nasty ticket business to rest permanently, and I was outraged to learn that online traffic school now has a minimum time requirement, unduly punishing quicker readers. Hasn’t the dumbing down of America since 9/11 gone on long enough? Why is it frowned upon to be of higher intelligence in this nation? Why are bureaucrats allowed to inflict mental anguish on those who don’t have to struggle to formulate ideas?

I was forced to wade through six hours of menial reading. One of the first things I learned is that  person’s car can be impounded if he is caught having sex with a hooker in it, and it was all downhill from there. I question the purpose of that law — what type of puritanical nonsense is that? Do law makers really believe that will keep the whores off the street? People like to have intercourse. Why can’t the working folk pay for sex?  As you well know, Babs, the elite certainly have no problem paying for sex. Also, why was this information presented in the first ten minutes of class?

Much later in the class, I learned that vehicles carrying explosives are not allowed to travel over 55 MPH. Wouldn’t be more prudent to let the ecoterrorists who want to blow up the Redwoods speed so the CHP can pull them over and search their cars? Same with the Tea Baggers who believe that imploding the capitol dome will get Obama out of office. Allow the CHP to bust them before they get to Sacramento. Think of the photo op possibilities with these victories in The War On Terror on California soil!

But I digress. Traffic school should be a leaning exercise, not a punitive experience. The State already spanked me for speeding with the large monetary fine; it doesn’t need to have some cubicle rats figure out to how to waste my time with mundane material (the class included two pages concerning how to reset the trip odometer; something that has nothing to do with traffic safety). I understand that traffic school has become an industry, and I do not wish to hurt that industry. In fact, I propose we expand that industry by making it a requirement to attend a meaningful traffic school anytime their have to renew their driver’s license. Let’s face it, Babs, there are a great many morons on the road who get in my way. Educate these fools, and the STATE will reap the monetary benefits. However, the curriculum of traffic school must change, and most importantly, it should be made shorter, eliminating the filler material to satisfy a time requirement.

For example, part of my reading included what the Low Fuel Indicator and the  Trip Odometer Reset Button was for. Babs, things like this have nothing to do with traffic safety or getting slow drivers out of the fast lane. I also read that I should pack a bag of kitty litter on long trips in case my car gets stuck in the snow or mud. Is the State trying to put AAA out of business, or has the kitty litter lobby become so powerful that it influences product placement in traffic school classes?

I suggest you form a Senate Committee that investigates this Traffic School Gone Wild. At the very least, put some interns on the matter immediately instead of just letting them suck on the government teat. Also, you should funnel some of that traffic school revenue into a fund that will allow my fair city to build a minor league baseball park. Think of it as reimbursement for my time lost in the six hours of traffic school I had to endure.

It has been good to reopen our line of communication, Babs, but I really have to go now because Justified will be on soon. I trust you will do the correct thing.

Your friend in baseball,

Bads85

The next Cleveland Savior, Trevor Bauer, thinks he is a rapper. Our Lady of Perpetual Black Eyes just took another hit to the orbital socket as Bauer evidently decided to rap about his old team. For a supposedly cerebral guy, Bauer raps like a dumb ass, prompting Mac Daddy Frank G. Jackson to state, “He is not allowed to live in Cleveland city limits. We have a reputation to maintain. He needs to live east of Euclid and commute to work.”

So last May was the last time the Mormon Micro Manager as my DIRECT SUPERVISOR. She couldn’t get through the day without one last power struggle, a final impotent shot across the bow. Shortly after lunch, she informed me that she was making me move my office to an office across campus in the library, and I had to move today. That is certainly fine with me; I’ve been trying to get the office there for years because people will leave me the hell alone in there. However, there was the little matter of moving my enormous baseball library.

My library has always been a bone of contention with the MM, who thinks it has no place at the workplace. I beg to differ, since I do my best research on the company dime without the distraction of my kids, plus Mrs. Bads put a limit on the amount of baseball books I can keep at home. The MM has tried to make me get rid of it numerous times, but I have higher appeals to our True Authorities than her, and they know a happy Bads is a productive Bads. Plus, it took me a long time to shoplift all those books. About nine months ago (April 2nd to be exact), The MM was in my office:

MM: Why do you need thirteen copies of Baseball Prospectus in here?
Me: They are annuals, not copies. Each year is different.
MM: Why do you need them?
Me: Do you know what BP does? Data analysis. These guys crunch numbers, and then make projections with deadly accuracy. Part of my job is to crunch numbers, remember? These guys are my inspiration.
MM: How are baseball people going to help you do your job?
M: Do you know who works for BP? Colin Wyers! Surely you have heard of him. He is a guru.
MM: I haven’t heard of—-
Me (throwing up my hands in exasperation): You need to expand your professional readings. Google him. Why did you come to see me again?

From that point forward, I began dropping Colin’s name in our conversations as an appeal to authority. The MM is pretty sharp with data analysis, but she often stilts data to bash her employees. I usually don’t let that stand, unless I don’t like the clown on the hot seat.

MM: I need those regressions on referrals and teacher absences.
Me: Colin says there is no significant correlation. My numbers agree. Here, look.
MM: Colin doesn’t work here.
Me: Colin is a part of me. In fact, he is a part of everyone. You still don’t know who he is, do you? Google him.

The MM wears a WWJD bracelet, something I thought went out of style a few years ago. On April 4th, I wrote a large WWCD? (What Would Colin Do?) on the SMART board in my office. I seriously thought about getting some WWCD bracelets in that Lance Armstrong rubber bracelet style, but that costs money, and I really didn’t want to pay to push this joke. Instead, I just continued dropping Colin’s name into our exchanges:

MM: Do you have those pivot charts for the District Benchmarks and the CELDT scores?
Me: Colin would think that is a waste of time since the Benchmarks are invalid tests. I agree.
MM: Colin is not your direct supervisor; I am. I want those charts.
Me: Are you saying I don’t answer to Colin? You still don’t know who he is, do you? Google him.
MM: Is he one of your Baseball Think Factory buddies (MM visibly flinches every time she sees BTF on my screen).
Me: Good guess!  I went to a Dodger game with him last summer.
MM: I WANT THOSE CHARTS!

When The MM dropped the move on me today, I smiled broadly:

Me: Wonderful! This will give me the chance to re-organize my shelves. I think I will move BP under the Bill James’ and move the Ron Shandler books down. The baseball history books will fit nicely in the corner bookshelves. I am going to have so much room now. Thank you!
MM: I am surprised you not putting Colin on top.
Me: Above Bill James? I don’t think Colin would be comfortable with that. You still don’t know who he is, do you? Goog—-
MM: I did! I came up with something about Manufactured Runs and Albert Pujols!
Me: Excellent! I think we are done here.

This year, MM is no longer my direct supervisor, but she is the principal of the school where my office is. She has jerked my chain about this office because she can—she is in charge of the site, so she can make me move whenever she wants, which is a pain in my ass because I have to move my baseball library also (I don’t even unpack most of it anymore). At the start of this year, MM set forth APPROPRIATE ROOM ENVIRONMENT GUIDELINES, which was her way of controlling how teachers decorate their rooms. One of her edicts was that teachers should have a corner that is personal stuff. Since my office is on her campus, she said this applied to me as well. My first reaction was to tell her to piss up a rope, but what type of ass goes to a supervisor about their office wall? I had to pull strings to get my office here where my wife works; I would have surely won this pissing match with MM, but THE POWERS THAT BE might have moved me to the District Office, which is where I really should be anyway.

So I just went ahead and put some personal stuff up—pictures of my kids, my wife, Miami University pennant, etc.—- and went on with my life. About a week later, MM waddles in with her admin crew with a wall rubric and proceeds to drop a bunch of red ink on me. After I was done laughing in her face, I reminded her that she was no longer my direct supervisor, so her wall rubrics really did not pertain to me. She cackled and said she knew that, but she was still going to include me in her room evaluation, and said she’d be back in a week to see if I had made any improvements. I told her I’d get right on that.

Upon reflection, I figured that MM would try to use this wall thing as an excuse to be a pain in my ass all year. Sure, I could have stopped her through conventional means, but that would make me look like a drip, plus it wouldn’t be any fun. I decided that the only way to fight crazy was with crazy. If she wanted personalized wall space, I would give her personalized wall space. On one wall, I began building a shrine to baseball by cutting out pictures from old baseball books and mounting them next to a Negro Leagues’ poster and a poster of Dodger Stadium. Guys like Reggie Jackson, Jackie Robinson, Mark McGwire, Ruth, Cobb, Dimaggio, the San Diego Chicken, and Sir Albert Belle are on the walls, as well as Skydome, Seals Stadium, and Jacobs’ Field. On the other wall, I put stuff about me—things like a blown up picture when I was a raft guide, the kids, Mrs. Bads, a Jack Reacher novel cover, a Gaslight Anthem CD case, a Time magazise cover with Springteen, and an Avengers poster. On my bookshelf, I put a few bobbleheads—Bob Feller, Ken Griffey Jr., Tim Salmon (the only one of have left from the Tim Salmon Bobblehead Night Massacre), and a broken Tim Couch in Cleveland Browns Stadium, which represents the failed hopes and dreams of a dying city. 

I have to say, it looked pretty damn good, and would certainly get CRAZY off my ass. However, I didn’t want her to feel that I had acquiesced. Something was missing. I needed something that would make her loathe coming to my office. Ding! The lightbulb came on in my head, and I began searching the internet for a picture of Colin Wyers. It didn’t take long at all; I printed an 8×11” shot of Colin looking all badass, put it under the Avengers, and stapled a “WWCD” underneath his rock solid chin. Sure enough, it stopped the Mormon Micromanager in her tracks—she didn’t recognize the face, but put two and two together when she saw the “WWCD.” She wanted me to take down the entire display (she wasn’t about to tell me just to take down Colin’s picture, which would be an immediate white flag in our petty little war). I told her to call my direct supervisor is she wanted anything take down. She never did.

So now the picture of Colin is on the wall behind me, looking down. I probably would have taken it down, but I love the reactions I get when district drones come to my office for data meetings.

Drones: Who is that on your wall?
Me: That is the Dude of Statistical Analysis.

So I called Fast Eddie on the way to The Airborne Toxic Event show this past week, just to rub his nose into the fact that I was going, and he would not be attending.

Fast Eddie: I turned you onto those guys, remember? I took you to Spaceland to see them —
Me: It isn’t Spaceland anymore. It’s The Satellite.
FE: Typical Silverlake bullshit. Candyasses probably thought that sounded more hip. Anyway, I have turned you onto any good band you have ever listened to.
Me: Sure thing.
FE: It’s true. When have I ever steered you wrong?
Me: When you said Dennis DeYoung and Tommy Shaw would have bigger solo careers than what they did with Styx.
FE: My God, that was almost thirty years ago. Let it rest, man.
Me: You said Soul Asylum would be bigger than Radiohead.
FE: That isn’t what I said. I said Soul Asylum could hang on The Strip, and Radiohead was one of those bands that would get their heads stomped in —
Me (trying to avoid FE’s patented rant): Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ve heard this many times. Spring Training starts early this year.
FE: Are those two crazy dudes coming?
Me: No. One tries to forget that it ever happened so he doesn’t lose his mind, and the other already lost his mind. He might be dead.
FE: Jolters? No, I see him on Facebook. That dude got himself cursed by the priest when he tried to put the Cleveland Stadium Mustard on the Holy Eucharist. “Mind if I put this on Baby Jesus to appease my palette?” Funny shit, except for the curse.
Me: You and your curses.

Flashback to 2001: We are driving to Peoria to see an Arizona Fall League night game, filled with euphoria because we are on our way to see live while most of the country can only watched the bloated playoffs on television.

Fast Eddie: What is this we are listening to, man? Alternate rock, my ass. These are talent lacking pukes who hope they can score one hit like Big Country or Men Without Hats. These guys would get crushed by the Punks on The Strip.
Me: Oh, not this again! The only thing you know about the punks is what you learned from Repo Man
FE and Sir Jolters (in unison): The lights are growing dim, Otto. I know a life of crime has led me to this sorry fate, and yet, I blame society. Society made me what I am.
FE: Whoa, dude. Get out of my head.
SJ: I’m not in your head. Suppose you’re thinkin’ about a plate o’ shrimp. Suddenly someone’ll say, like, plate, or shrimp, or plate o’ shrimp out of the blue, no explanation. No point in lookin’ for one, either. It’s all part of a cosmic unconciousness.
FE: You know, I was thinking you were kind of a prick until now. I’m going to have to re-evaluate that. We should play Gypsy Curse.
Me: Absolutely not.
Yard Gnome: What is Gypsy Curse?
FE: We can only talk using pop culture references — music movies, TV shows, etc. If someone can’t figure out your reference, you do a shot.
YG: That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.
FE: You wouldn’t be good at this game.
Me (to YG): He’s right. You’d have a better chance if the rules were “Everyone under 5’6″ has to drink a shot.” Maybe you could will yourself to grow.
YG: Your eyes get a twinkle when you think you are funny. I bet the women used to think that was attractive. Too bad you root for losing sports teams that crush your soul, so you walk around all the time looking like you just ate a bowl of steaming phlegm. Now you are old, ugly and go around mumbling, “RED RIGHT 88!” Only your wife will sleep with you, and she does that out of pity. Anyway, I am nothing but 175 pounds of romping, stomping tiger meat. I’ll chew your ass up, then spit it out because it is too cantankerous for my all meat diet.
Me: Can you spell that big word?
YG: Sure, T-I-G-E-R.

And so continued our little game of one upmanship. By time our last ride came around, the ritual would have become a vicious game of King of the Mountain being anally raped by Three Billy Goats Gruff. Being the civilized men we were, we would develop strict rules, and any transgressions would earn STRICT PUNISHMENTS. But that night, none of those rules were in place, and all we were worried about was going to a baseball game and the outcome of Sir Jolters and Fast Eddie’s game of Gypsy Curse.

We were sitting in Karsen’s, drinking Crown on the rocks, arguing about what to do next.

Me: Aren’t we overreacting a bit? We really didn’t do anything wrong — well, that they can prove anyway. Let’s just have Numbnuts there hide his stash and get back to the business of watching baseball. We need to get to Peoria for the night game.

Fast Eddie: This is Arizona, man. They squash cocaine users. They don’t need evidence; they’ll plant the evidence, and in case you haven’t noticed, I ain’t white. They don’t like my people. We need to find a place to hide until this blows over.

Me: Your people? You are from Hicksville, Indiana, dipshit.

Sir Jolters: No, you don’t understand. Things are different here. The Wild West is on its last breath, and people are pissed. Just listen sometime, and you can hear the Wild West being crushed by asphalt. White people blame their lifestyle change on brown people.

Yard Gnome: Baby Jesus in a Formula One Car! Would you stop with your empowerment bullshit? The cops are looking for us. We need a plan.

Fast Eddie: We can’t stay here. The cops will be coming through that door real soon.

Yard Gnome (looking at me) He’s right. You done bleeding yet? We gotta roll.

Me: We don’t have any wheels, remember? We took a cab to the game.

Sir Jolters: My wife will come get us.

Fast Eddie: That’ll take too long.

Jolters: Rocks, call us a cab.

Fast Eddie: No cabs, man. They are all narcs. The Heat will be waiting for us wherever he drops us off.

Yard Gnome: The team in Miami? No calls THE LAW the Heat anymore. Go to the bathroom and splash some water on your face, and GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER.

After Fast Eddie went to the bathroom, the discussion turned to him.

Rocks: Your friend is trouble, man. Never trust an Indian who likes his drugs.

Me: He’s Filipino.

Rocks: What tribe is that?

Yard Gnome: The kind with dots on their head, man. Savages.

Sir Jolters: You are just mad he threw you into the urinal.

Me: The Phillipines! Not India!

Yard Gnome: Look, man, you are going to be a real buzzkill if you keep explaining the jokes to the ASU fans. Make them earn it.

Me: You really want me to beat your ass, don’t you?

Sir Jolters (to me): Look, your friend is really not right. Normally, that is a plus in my book, but he scares my wife, and I understand why. He scares your wife, and she doesn’t scare. She even likes Numbnuts there.

Yard Gnome: All women love me. It’s just the nature of the beast.

Sir Jolters: Except the one you have slept with. They all hate you.

Fast Eddie began freaking out in the cab after about four blocks. We ignored him the best we could, but the cab driver was getting anxious. The Yard Gnome, sitting in the front seat, slipped him some currency and shrugged. The cab driver was silent the rest of the way to Casino Arizona, then sped off without a good-bye.

Fast Eddie: This is a really bad idea. They have cameras everywhere, plus our cabbie is on the phone with THE LAW now.

Yard Gnome: Not the Heat? Hey, since our ride isn’t here yet, you guys mind if I go play a few hands of pai gow?

My roundhouse caught the Yard Gnome square in the ear, staggering him him, but he stayed on his feet. We were all silent, and other patrons began to stare.

Yard Gnome: I suppose I had that coming, but let the record show no one said no. Be back in a few.

The Yard Gnome wasn’t back in a few. Eventually, we had to go in with Sir Jolter’s wife to get him while Fast Eddie stayed outside. We found him at the cashier’s window, filling out the paperwork necessary when one wins enough money to have to report those winnings to Uncle Sam.

Yard Gnome: We got a bankroll now, boys! Let’s get to that game. Drinks are on me. We’ll even get Rocky there all the Band-Aids he needs. No drinking the cheap shit tonight, Champ.

Sir Jotler’s Wife: Are you sure that’s good idea? The weirdo is still in the parking lot.

Sir Jolters: It’s okay, Honey. It’s Arizona. The statute of limitations has expired.

Next: Peoria

When security walked into the bathroom, the Yard Gnome had just finished putting his cocaine in his underwear, all while complaining he had no duct tape to secure it under his scrotum. Fast Eddie was wiping cocaine boogers off his face, and I was trying to stop the bleeding from my outer ear.

Security Guard: What the hell are you doing here!
Sir Jolters: These men were assaulted by the guy in the red shirt! He beat the hell out them over a gambling debt. Quick, catch him before leaves!
The Yard Gnome: And call 911! I want to press charges!

The bewildered guard scampered from the restroom, and Sir Jolters said emphatically, “We need to go now. Numbnuts here just go the cops involved.”

So we ran — out of the stadium and up Drinkwater Boulevard to lose ourselves in the art show at the Civic Center. For reasons unclear now, the Yard Gnome had my backpack on his back, but soon was twenty yards ahead of us. They sky was grey, an indicator that summer was finally loosening its grip on the Valley. Still, we were winded pretty quickly; adrenaline surges only trump years of neglect to one’s body for so long.

Sir Jolters: Look at him with that backpack. He looks like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. RUN! FORREST! RUN!

The sight of the Yard Gnome backpack altered gait seemed extremely funny to us, and we laughed hard, quitting our run. The Yard Gnome kept loping, but we were done running — until we heard the sirens. We made it into parking garage to catch our breaths out of sight. The Yard Gnome was waiting for us.

YG: Jesus, you fuckers are old. Don’t die on us, Eric (Sir Jolters)! I can’t explain that one to your wife.
SJ: Just shut up for once. We wouldn’t be running if you hadn’t told him to call the cops. Now we need a plan.
FE: We can’t go to the art show. Too many witnesses.
Me: We’ll blend in.
FE: No, we won’t. Look at yourself. You are still bleeding, and that shirt is ruined. People dress nice at art shows; you will stick out.
YG (looking at me): Good. I have been meaning to talk to you about that shirt anyway. It is time to let your wife start dressing you.
SJ: Knock it off. We are going to end up in Tent City if we don’t think.
FE: We can’t think here. They’ll be searching the garages first.
Me: Let’s go to Blue Moose.
FE: Are you nuts! That is the closest bar to the stadium.
Me: Karsen’s then.
FE: They’ll look there too!
ME: I need to get my head right, plus they will have something to disinfect me ear. Asshole over there probably has rabies.
FE: Well, then you are fucked anyway. Don’t drag us down with you.
SJ: No, he is right. Karsen’s it is. Rocks will know what to do.

Rocks was the bartender at Karsen’s, called so because the smallest shot he’d pour came in a rocks glass. He was a dull witted chap, so I didn’t how he was going to help us, but the ear was starting to throb. Not for the last time, we rolled into Karsen’s to assess our immediate future.

Next: To The Casino!