Author: Jefe

or,

Friends, head shaving, and kissing booths make a great vacation.

I never manage to make it all the way through this story, but I’m gonna give it a shot. Once again, I am on vacation at SXSW. It all began, as it always does, with Shiner’s and Brad. I broke very little bread, as I had to go to work. I split from work early and caught up with a few folks at Paradise, my favorte 6th Street bar that many others have now fallen for as well. The juicy goodness really began for me on Saturday. Eight days with no work and brilliant wonderful people around me allthe time. I can never tell the full story, so I’m not even going to try. I am instead going to include the highlights that matter.

I have long decided that the great experiences and places of my life are predicated on the people I have found along the way, the friends that I have made. Every year at SXSW is no exception. There are old friends who have gathered from past years and far away, and their are those whom I have not met or really gotten to know yet. It happened last year, and in try to write the wrap up, I gushed over Kevin, MJ, Carole, and Josh. This year, I will simply gush, and leave the story out. Those of you who know me know that will be difficult, but here goes.

Jessa, whom I have read a lot about, finally met. It happened, where else, at the bar at the Omni Hotel. I knew her blog. SHe knew of 20X2, but didn’t know it was something I was involved in. We got to talking. For Jessa, this is easy and fresh. She is bright, articulate, and wonderfully easy to talk to in a very feminine way. She does the most amazing and simple thing, a thing all women can do, but she does very well. She touches you while you talk. Lightly resting her hands on your arm, your hand. It has the most amazing effect. I could talk to her for hours. Granted, I could talk to ANYONE for hours, but Jessa can make you feel that she is really listening to you with just that simple touch. sSe was wonderful. Also, she is quite funny. She made me laugh several times that first night, and again many times over the next several days. She is vivacious and warm, brave without being crazy (I think) certainly not afraid to put stickers on her ass and let people photograph them, which I witnessed. (On second thought, maybe she is crazy.) I had a great time hanging out with her.

James McNally is one of the most genuine people I have ever met. I got to know James a little bit last year, but felt that this year I had more time to spend talking to him. He is honest and frank, both when speaking seriously or joking. He is polite and a bit soft spoken (compared to me, almost everyone is, I suppose) , very smart and very interesting. He was open to everything I had to say, and full of great ideas. Also, as I understand now, he is quite good at keeping secrets. He and Smokler and I, along with dozens of others, had what I still believe was the best panel discussion of the conference, and we had it in Bruce Sterling’s backyard. Like James, I’ll never tell.

more to come……

or,

“These Retards are Rockin’ my Lame Ass!” – Griff

We did it again! 20×2 was an amazing success! I’m still in the throes of SXSW week (and in fact I’m blogging right now from the music panelist green room) and once again it has been the best week of my year. I again find myself breaking down the experience by both the old and dear friends I have seen this week, and the new and dear frineds that I have made this year. I feel sadness and loss at their departure, and excitement and a sense of new beginning from the creativity that they have inspired in me.

Plus, I get to see bands this week, starting tonight. The finale of my evening will be Pong, so I can get a chance to thanks them for their part in 20×2, and let them now just how much Griff liked them.

The full story, I promise, is yet to come………

or,

My best player screwed me, stole from me, then sold his soul to Satan because, basically, I let him, and all I got was this stupid T-shirt.

So, It is Done. The most impossibly awful piece of sports business ever transacted (yeah, it’s a word) is now worse than ever. The $250 million Man has gone to the Evil Empire. As a Ranger’s fan, It’s like being a kid and watching your dog willingly run away from home, pulling your little red wagon with your comic book collection, your G.I. Joe’s, the one dog-eared Playboy you managed to swipe from your old man, your Ken Griffey rookie card (I used to have two) and your bike all piled inside.

Except I never really like that damn dog anyway.

A-Rod ripped off Rangers owner Tom Hicks like a gang from a Tarantino movie, except that instead of getting killed in some twisted Mexican Standoff, he got away clean. Hell, he’s still stealing from Hicks! Some of the provisions of the A-Rod trade, made public on ESPN yesterday, include:

1) The Rangers agree to assume the cost of A-Rod’s travel expenses from the Yankees. A-Rod’s contract in Texas stipulates he stays in a full Hotel Suite of his own on the road. Apparently, Satan, er, Steinbrenner wasn’t cool with this, but Hicks doesn’t mind continuing to pick up the tab for baseball’s premier prima-donna to chill after the game.

2) The Rangers agree to assume the mortgage payment’s on A-Rods house in Texas while they SELL IT FOR HIM! Maybe Alphonso Soriano will buy it.

3) The Rangers agree to assume the cost of seat licenses for A-Rod’s seats at both the Ballpark in Arlington (which I guess it’s cool to have so your mom can come watch you play) and his seat licenses at The American Airlines Center, where, let me check…yeah….yeah…..the Rangers don’t ever play. Ever. Marc Cuban has got to be laughing his ass off at that one.

So, after doing a little digging (i.e. getting pissed and making some shit up) here are a few other elelments of the trade you might not know about:

A) As a provision of the deal on A-Rod’s pad, Tom Hicks will attempt to sell the house for roughly 225% of the current market value. Anything they get less than that, Hicks must try to get the Red Sox to assume the financial burden, or just pay it out of his own pocket.

B) Tom Hicks will fly to Florida to A-Rod’s off season home once a week to mow his lawn and wash his cars. That’s right, cars, plural. Wax on, Wax off, jackass.

C) If Hicks can not find anyone to buy A-Rod’s seats, or if the celebrity status of the purchaser is judged by Mark Cuban to be less than that of A-Rod, The Rangers will trade any future minor league pitching prospect they have to the Yankees in exchange for Billy Crystal and Spike Lee’s prescense in A-Rod’s seats.

D) Hicks agrees to trade all current minor league pitching prospects to the Red Sox for naming rights of the infamous Red Sox “Curse”, and then legally assume that name for himself.

Plus, somehow, someway, the Rangers re-acquired Kenny Rogers, and not to sing or make fried chicken. Lord help us all, and Thank God for the Astros.

or,

The Passion of The Short Stop

Today I read an ESPN.com – MLB – Report: Yanks nearing deal for A-Rod

Dear God, they were so close to getting it RIGHT in Texas. (Anyone who does not see the sarcasm there knows nothing about my religion.)

Any chance we can crucify the Ranger’s front office? More to come………….

Or,

If Brittany can do it, then I can too.

Recently, a dear and far away friend broke up with 2003. It was tasteful and dignified, it seems to have gone really well for them.

I am not her. My new realtionship with 2004 is being FedExed to Hell on a handcart, and I want out right now. I need to get this marriage annulled, and I keep thinking I should have done it at the 55 hour mark. I’ve already changed the locks, and thrown all this year’s shit out the window. I’ve been cutting up the pictures of us after blacking out the year with a magic marker. I burned all the year’s letters, and I’m keeping all it’s cd’s. What could this year have done that could have been so awful? Here’s the list.

I turned 30. This was not supposed to happen to me.

I found the first gray hair. Plus, one big thick black one on my back. What’s next, ear hair?

I lost my wallet, so now I have no ID. I’m old as hell and I still can’t get into bars or buy beer.

I broke my glasses Now they sit crooked on my face.

The Ivory Cat got burglarized. The guy had clearly cased the joint, knew how to get past our security measures, and then drank a can of our grapefruit juice and left it behind withhis fingerprints all over it. Jackass.

The City shut down the bar two days later A broken water main cost us one whole nights business, not to mention I only made 13 dollars in tips before they made us shut it down. Assholes. At least it reopened the next day.

So, anyone know a good divorce lawyer, ’cause this year sucks, and it’s only 23 days old. I haven’t left my room since I got up this morning, and I’m not sure I want to.

I sort of cleaned up the negative space around here a little, I hope it looks less jumbled.

Also, I love playing with colors. It’s a bit of an homage to Mark and chimchim dark.

“You don’t know the Power of the Dark Side, my son.” Man, I’m a geek.

So, whaddaya think?

or,

The Big Cloudwrangler in the Sky

A man wakes up from a troubled sleep in the passenger seat of an old car, driving down a long, dusty desert highway. The world is sun-drenched, dry, and yellowed, all except the woman driving the car. She’s wearing faded comfortable jeans, a red and black baby doll tee shirt, and no shoes. Her skin is sliky smooth and white, and her jet black, shining hair is pulled up and away from her face. The man blearily wipes his eyes, scratches his scruffy unshaven face, shuffles a hand through his unkempt hair, and looks dreamily out the passenger side window. Slowly creeping up in the next lane is an old square behemoth of a car, a Buick or Lincoln, possibly a Cadiallac. It has certainly seen better days. The car is painted bumper to rusty bumper in spotty brown and white, like an old Palomino horse in the Westerns. Driving the car, so short that his head barely appears over the driver side door in the window, is a smiling little boy, about 9 years old, with a dark ruffled pageboy haircut. He looks over at the man and smiles a little boys big, broad smile. One of his front teeth is missing. The man in the passenger seat squints in just-awakened confusion and disbelief. The little boy gives him an excited, flailing, whole-arm little boy’s wave. As he waves with his left hand, his right still on the wheel, the car slowly veers off the road and away into the surrounding desert, a long blazing cloud of dust trailing in its wake, driving ever steadily towards the horizon. The man says sleepily and confused to the girl, “Where the hell are we?” and she replies, “Baby, I have no idea.” With a last look out the window at the cloud of dust and the Palomino car vanishing away in the distance towards a dusty, yellow nowhere, the man shrugs absently and hunkers down to go back to sleep.

I bet seeing God is kind of like that.

Or,

Ranting about my job, again. (Thanks to Alison)

I left a long rant about Rule 39 on “Modern Drunkard’s 86 Rules of Boozing” at Alison’s site, now I am gonna rant about some others. You’re gonna want to strap yourself in, ’cause work has been pissing me off lately.

Rule 28. If you can’t afford to tip, you can’t afford to drink in a bar. Go to a liqour store. This is not a joke. Please remember that not all areas of the country have bartender unions. It’s not a great job unless you are really, really good at it (like me). Bartenders and servers in Texas make less than one half of minimum wage. They are required to report to the IRS that you tipped at least 8 percent, whether you do it or not. This is absolutely the golden rule, don’t fuck around on this one. It is also important to remember that this is in your best interest as well. Poor tippers wait longer in line. The established rule is $1 per drink, not per round. Do not order three beers and two cocktails and tip one dollar. Dick.

Also, it makes you look like a cheap bastard, not to mention terribly unsophisticated, if the first thing you ask a bartender is, “What’s on special?” Say hello, Ass. Then ask about specials if you must. If you don’t like the special, or if there is none, instantly ordering a Bud Light also makes you look like a cheap prick. This will directly affect the rate at which your drinks get served in the future. If you like Bud Light, just order the damn thing and don’t waste my time asking about specials you weren’t really interested in any way.

64. The people with the most money are rarely the best tippers. How do rich people get rich? By being cheap fucks. Don’t order a wonderful glass of single malt scotch by name, pay $12.25 for it, and tip $0.75. In these cases, the one dollar per drink rule is obviously not in effect. If you make lots of cash, if you come to the bar well dressed and sporting lots of bling-bling, if you drink well and buy rounds for others or for women to show off and then DON’T TIP WELL, it does not mean you are well off and generous, it means you are full of shit.

40. If you have ever told a bartender, “Hey, it all spends the same,” then you are a cheap ass. Truer words were never spoken, muh friend. It does all spend the same, but don’t be that guy, really.

74. If you hesitate more than three seconds after the bartender looks at you, you do not deserve a drink. No screwing around, I got work to do here. A good bartender wll never SAY that to you, but it is in fact true. If you are the only person in the bar, it’s one thing. Asking the bartender for a recomendation if you don;t know what you want is pointless, they know everything. It’s too general a question. say, “Well, I usually like ” blah blah blah” but I’m in the mood for something different, what do you suggest?” This gives your bartender a starting point to work from. If you do this, the $1 dollar rule goes up, tip for the drink and then more for the expertise. If your bartender serves you something the name of which you’d be embarrassed to say to your grandmother, don’t ask him or her again, because they suck. However, you should still tip bartenders who suck, at least on the first round, and then order form someone else. Even idiots have to pay rent. And remember, don’t ask for pointless drink advice if the crowd is three deep at the bar. That said,

68. If there is a line for drinks, get your goddamn drink and step the hell away from the bar. Got it?

61. Never rest your head on a table or bar top. It is the equivalent of voluntarily putting your head on a chopping block. Also, it will get you kicked out or arrested. Remeber, I don’t drink Jack in your bed, so don’t sleep in my bar.

41. Anyone on stage or behind a bar is fifty percent better looking. Unless, of course, you’d like me to drink Jack in your bed, sweetheart.

63. If you’re going to hit on a member of the bar staff, make sure you tip well before and after, regardless of her response. Also, learn to take no for an answer. If she says no, it’s probably just because she is working and busy, and not a disparagement of you. Also, rememebr that servers don’t normally wear flashy jewlery while working, so if she says she’s engaged don’t ask where her ring is. Dick.

And now, two of my favorites: 66. Asking a bartender what beers are on tap when the handles are right in front of you is the equivalent of saying, “I’m an idiot.” and 67. Never ask a bartender “what’s good tonight?” They do not fly in the scotch fresh from the coast every morning. Come on people. Bars always have neons and siplays of the products they carry. The back of the bar has all the bottles in plain view for a reason, you morons. And everything I make is good. If I made shitty drinks, my bar would go out of business pretty quick, wouldn’t it? Also, since you are most likely good at your job, you should assume that I also amat mine (I am in fact better at mine than you are at yours, but we won’t bring that up in the bar.) Finally, don’t touch my shakers, screw around with my straw caddies or make messes on the bar that you don’t have to. Do I come to you office and rearrange the shit on your desk? I didn’t think so.

Finally, 72. Never argue your tab at the end of the night. Remember, you’re hammered and they’re sober. It’s akin to a precocious five-year-old arguing the super-string theory with a physicist. 99.9% of the time you’re wrong and either way you’re going to come off as a jackass. I am the bartender, I am El Jefe, and I am always right. So pay up, tip well, and get the fuck out.

Or,

‘Endeavor’ is my favorite word because it’s the answer to everything.

Well, I did it again. I sat somewhere, pulled a little black book out of my pocket, borrowed a pen, and started scribbling, not because I wanted to , but because I had to. My God, it felt good, and here it is:

So. I was at home fuming

I was pissed until

I realized I was hurt.

I was a victim.

It took me a while.

I typed.

I love typing.

It makes me feel

important

accomplished

intact.

It makes me feel

like I have something

to say.

Until I look up.

I look at my fingers.

I can’t type for shit.

I drag my shifts.

I mispell

completley

apparenteley

beautifil

I can spell with a pen, not

with my fingers.

Worse, I barrell forward

I can’t see what I’m

Doing.

Only what I’ve

Done.

It’s drivel

rave

anger

spit

& vinegar.

It’s awful.

I posted it anyway,

then I drove.

I talk to myself behind the wheel.

I rant, I preach.

I have no disciples,

one disciple,

all the acolytes I could

ever

want

need

forgive.

Can I forgive them?

They don’t seek it.

They are rightous

patriots

martyrs

idiots

madmen

simple men

men of faith

MADMEN.

Men.

Animals.

Bundles of instincts

with no where to go

but East

Down

to Hell that doesn’t

Exist

to an Allah that who has

forgotten them, us

Everything.

But I’m just licking my wounds.

It’s because I’m a victim.

We all are.

Or

How lunatics killing each other make me feel humble for loving baseball.

A few days ago, I compared the Yankees to Al-Queda. They lost the World Series (to a team with less than 1/3 their payroll) and I’m glad about that.

Meanwhile, lunacy brings back the real point. In a God-forsaken place across the world,a suicide bomber strikes an Iraqi town, after another lunatic with a bomb blew up the headquarters of that insidious group, The Red Cross.

THE RED CROSS!!!!!!!!

How far out of hand have things gotten when people will kill other people, people just like them, people of flesh and blood, people with parents and pets and bills to pay, people who’ve had bad dates, people who’ve had their hearts broken, people who’ve seen the sun and smiled from time to time, other people just trying to live their lives? How bad has it gotten when people who are willing to help others, under a time honored symbol of peace and neutrality, people giving out food and medicine and blankets and hope become targets of lunatics? Once again, there are too few kind people, people of compassion and sanity in the world. Once again madness has overtaken someone, driven men to do the unspeakable to each other.

“Tonight the streets of Heaven are too full of Angels”

I wish I could believe that. The problem is that these people are doing all of this in the name of God, a God that’s supposed to be universal between the three great religions that were born in the burning stretch of desert where this madness has taken root. A God that has likely turned its back on all of us, thrown in the towel and said “Screw it, you guys clearly don’t get the point. Go ahead, Kill each other, who gives a shit?”

I deeply hope that’s not the case.

I hope it’s down on it’s knees, weeping at what we have done in it’s name. And I hope it knows I’m sorry for comparing baseball, something that has brought me great joy and an understanding of God just a little bit, to something insane that others have done in God’s name.