"I want you to go to the Courthouse, go cover his trial. 10 AM Monday. It's hard to find parking there, you should probably go down Gra-"
"Don't worry, I been there," I say.
"Huh? What do you mean?" My editor gives me a strange look.
Whoops.
"Ah, nevermind. Don't ask questions. I can get there."
-------------------------------
I'm coming back from the Courthouse, and it's been so long since my youthful indiscretions made me an expert on the location of the courthouse and probation office that I've gotten myself completely lost again. I've been driving around the hood for maybe an hour, making rounds in the same roads, nearly running out of gas a couple of times.
As I finally find my way out, I pass the collection of project buildings that rise straight from the ground, dead grass surrounding the brown pillars, piles of garbage and old plastic chairs on the balconies.
It's as if the Earth itself has died around these places. Cracked out hood rats wearing heavy winter jackets in the 60 degree weather stumble along, eyes blazing under flat brimmed hats.
Black kids walk around in groups. One is wearing an oversized red t-shirts, rapping as he walked walked. He leers at me when I drive by, dark eyes under a red hat. If I had been walking instead of driving, this is the motherfucker that would mouth off about a white boy in the hood. I'm not good at much, but I'm a pro at reading people, and I can tell by his smirk that he would mouth off, and then not do a damn thing except let his boys come after me. He might get a kick in should I go to the ground, but that challenging smirk screams about where he's at in life.
One thing that's changed for me, and has changed me, is that I'm no longer that guy with nothing to lose. I'm not working where I used to. I'm not hopeless. I'm not angry, and I'm not so quick to do the things that would get me locked up. I like to think I'm using my brain more. But that kid... no, he's got nothing to lose. And that's the most dangerous type to tangle with. Just like the Peruvian in the club, as opposed to his friend with the wife and kid. One has a reason to stay out of jail... the other has nothing.
When I was walking from the courthouse, I saw a nursery school, with young kids riding around brand new red tricycles. I watched them as I walked by, my view cut by the heavy metal fencing. Across the street, there are signs saying "Vote Santiago- Put Children first!" This is the future of this once great town- the kids. It's a great political catchphrase, of course, but it's the truth. And I look at these five year olds, these purely innocent little beings that deserve to be safe and taken care of, to have their potential fostered and saved.
The next guy I drive by is another black guy, this one maybe in his mid-30's. He is pushing a stroller with his son in it, and he never takes his eyes off of him, always hovering, protective. He is a tough looking cat, but tough in the way that a bear would be if you came near it's cubs- he's not going to start trouble, but be wary of any man who is with a child he clearly cares about so much. It gives me the merest glimmer of hope.
But then I see those dark, smirking eyes again, and I think that these are just the next generation of bangers and wannabe rappers. I hope I'm wrong.
But I doubt it.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Hood Look
The dance music is pounding, crappy techno like stuff that makes my ears burn and makes me want to hit someone. I keep hoping that they'll play some type of rap that I know, but it never happens.
"I'm going back upstairs, dude," I say.
This is the kind of place where they play hip-hop from 105.1, softer stuff that the girls can shake their asses to. Puffy's Come to Me plays at one point, and it's just like that video- laid back joint, fancy, girls slinking around in sexy skirts, trying to hustle you into buying them a drink.
It was just like this joint.
"Alright, me too," he says.
A friend is dancing like an asshole on the dance floor, looking like a stickbug having a seizure, and I just can't watch it anymore. He'll tell me later that he does it so women assume he's "No threat" and will therefore talk to him.
Sure.
I make my way back upstairs, look for the two girls I was talking to at the bar before when I was ordering my beer; Erin and Carly. Of course, I think Carly got stood up, so when she came back from the bathroom and saw me BSing her friend it got awkward, and I got caught in the, "My friend is a cunt" trap.
They're gone, but there are wonderously good looking women everywhere. We got here too late, and the beers are $5 a piece, which hurts me on the inside, but I'll pay that much to get into where the dime pieces are, as opposed to the white trash, "I just got out of a Bon Jovi convert" lookers that are normally so attracted to me.
There are candles everywhere, and the walls are a deep shade of maroon. Many of the guys smoke their cigarettes like they're gay, and some jazz band that has enough people to represent the UN is playing "Lady Marmalade" in the back room. There's a lot of 43-year-old guidos around, trying to spike the remaining strands of hair up the way they used to back in the 80's, looking around in vain for their third wife. If there's anything sadder than a guido, it's a past-his-prime guido.
It's getting late, and this place is clearing out. We bounce. But we'll be back. Save your nickels up for this place, but it's worth it.
On the way home, five of us are in the car. I am outvoted. Instead of going up the hill, we are descending.
I look at my buddy. "You motherfucker."
"I love this place," he says.
The buildings are getting worse, delapidated and dark, and the air is threatening. It's raining, so the hood rats aren't out tonight, but when I tell you we're in the worst ghetto in the East Coast, I ain't bullshitting you.
It is dark, very dark, inside, and the girls are still horrendous. Not regular woman ugly, either, but stripper-crack-whore-motherfucker ugly. There are buffet trays out, with some kind of rice and seafood in catering platters, and the chairs look like the ones you get when you're at a party at the American Legion, gold legs and brown seat backs. One guy is getting jerked off at the bar.
One of the black strippers with hazy eyes runs over and rips my dancing buddy's shirt right away, starts kissing his chest, until she gets yelled at by pimpette behind the bar.
The strippers do their thing, begging for money in the way that only those with no way out can. I'm drinking, though, and having enough fun, when the stripper offers to take me in the back. There's no lap dances here, though, and "the back" means "let's sit over there, ten feet away." Grimy.
I smirk. "Sorry honey. No money for that." She keeps trying to kiss me, and I'm bobbing my head and rolling my shoulders so she always misses. I tell her, "I'm going to go get money, I'll be right back."
I'm really going for a cigarette, and have no intention of letting this broad near me again. I smoke outside, crouch down and lean on my knees like I tend to, like the guy from Gladiator does before he fights. I rub my hands through the puddle of rain that's been draining from the skies all night. Grimy ass motherfuckers... you ain't getting near my dick honey, I think to myself. Contrary to popular belief, I do have morals, and flatly refuse to consider paying for any type of sex.
When I walk back in, my stripper shoves her lazy tits together. "You have dollar?"
"I got nothin baby. Sorry."
She gives me a hell of a look, storms off. I probably gave the cunt $15 in an hour for being ugly, more or less. There's nothing worse than a stripper with a sense of entitlement.
The soundtrack for this joint is still hip hop, but of a whole 'nother nature. One of the broads puts on 50's first album, and the tracks are hardened and biting, straight from brutal streets.
"You got the realest and illest killas tied up in a knot..."
My buddy is at the bar, talking to a couple of Hispanic guys. One looks like someone I used to work with, tall and skinny with a shaped up beard, so I join the conversation.
"You mothafuckas are cool, man. I ain't down with that hatin' on white boys shit. I got me a job, a wife, a kid. I work, you know? Some of these mothafuckas down here give you shit just for walkin' through, but I ain't down with that shit. You mothafuckas seem like guys I would work for, you know? Like I'm hanging with my boss or some shit."
I know what he means, cause I've had tons of guys like him work under me, and so has my friend (who owns a construction business). That's why I get along with these guys. I don't pretend to be from the hood, but I know what they're saying, how they act, and how they think. But they can get testy when you're on there turf, and I'm surprised at getting so much respect right off the bat from this guy. It's disarming, and I can tell he's a good guy who gets mixed up in bad things. The cut over his eye that's still healing is blatant, and though he tells me he boxes, it could be from anything.
His boy is cool with us too, but he's far more dangerous. Wide eyed and Peruvian looking, he is short and wearing an oversized black teeshirt with a closely shaved head. He's flipping dollars at one of the hideous strippers who's missing teeth.
We got out for a smoke, three white boys and these two ghetto bangers.
"Motherfucka, I just got out of the county. I aint' never goin back to that motherfucka. But I down with you white boys too, I don't be hatin. When I be in there, motherfuckin white boy came up to me and offered me-" he pauses, counting on his fingers- "six cans of tuna, loaf a bread, three snickers bars, and coffee, jus' outta respect. I said, 'Man you ain't gotta do that shit. I 'preciate it, but you ain't gotta do that.' So I down wit' you white boys. Y'all some cool motherfuckers.'"
"When were you there?" I ask.
"Ahh, 2000, 2001, 2004 I think."
"Who helped you out?"
If there was a white guy in County, the odds are I know him or someone he knows.
"White boy named Paul. Paul the second he call hisself."
I know him. Goddamn. Small world.
As he finishes, a tall Italian kid in a blue Yankees shirt and slicked back hair wobbles outside. The little guy looks at him.
"You a bouncer? We in trouble?"
"Bouncer? SHIT SON, I jus' got out County! Look nigga, no laces!" He holds up his foot, showing off the laceless workboots he's got.
"OOOOHHH shit son. You be gettin' that watered down coffee? That shit SUCKED! An, an, the eggs, fuck, that watered down Gatorade."
Just in case you're curious if someone is lying about going to prison, get them around someone else who's been locked up. The FIRST thing they will talk about is how bad the food is.
Before we leave, a one of the other three with us begins antagonizing the little one, doing small things that piss guys off. He does it intentionally to fuck with people, but he doesn't understand how these guys work.
"Let's go. Now."
On the way home I look at my construction worker buddy, and then the drunken retard in the back who was pissing off our ghetto compatriot.
"He doesn't know you can't do that to those guys," I say.
"I know. You can't do that shit," he says.
"Those fuckin guys... you say somthing little, shit starts, and they're not gonna fight. They're gonna stab you and run. Especially if it's two on five."
"Oh I know."
"I'm going back upstairs, dude," I say.
This is the kind of place where they play hip-hop from 105.1, softer stuff that the girls can shake their asses to. Puffy's Come to Me plays at one point, and it's just like that video- laid back joint, fancy, girls slinking around in sexy skirts, trying to hustle you into buying them a drink.
It was just like this joint.
"Alright, me too," he says.
A friend is dancing like an asshole on the dance floor, looking like a stickbug having a seizure, and I just can't watch it anymore. He'll tell me later that he does it so women assume he's "No threat" and will therefore talk to him.
Sure.
I make my way back upstairs, look for the two girls I was talking to at the bar before when I was ordering my beer; Erin and Carly. Of course, I think Carly got stood up, so when she came back from the bathroom and saw me BSing her friend it got awkward, and I got caught in the, "My friend is a cunt" trap.
They're gone, but there are wonderously good looking women everywhere. We got here too late, and the beers are $5 a piece, which hurts me on the inside, but I'll pay that much to get into where the dime pieces are, as opposed to the white trash, "I just got out of a Bon Jovi convert" lookers that are normally so attracted to me.
There are candles everywhere, and the walls are a deep shade of maroon. Many of the guys smoke their cigarettes like they're gay, and some jazz band that has enough people to represent the UN is playing "Lady Marmalade" in the back room. There's a lot of 43-year-old guidos around, trying to spike the remaining strands of hair up the way they used to back in the 80's, looking around in vain for their third wife. If there's anything sadder than a guido, it's a past-his-prime guido.
It's getting late, and this place is clearing out. We bounce. But we'll be back. Save your nickels up for this place, but it's worth it.
On the way home, five of us are in the car. I am outvoted. Instead of going up the hill, we are descending.
I look at my buddy. "You motherfucker."
"I love this place," he says.
The buildings are getting worse, delapidated and dark, and the air is threatening. It's raining, so the hood rats aren't out tonight, but when I tell you we're in the worst ghetto in the East Coast, I ain't bullshitting you.
It is dark, very dark, inside, and the girls are still horrendous. Not regular woman ugly, either, but stripper-crack-whore-motherfucker ugly. There are buffet trays out, with some kind of rice and seafood in catering platters, and the chairs look like the ones you get when you're at a party at the American Legion, gold legs and brown seat backs. One guy is getting jerked off at the bar.
One of the black strippers with hazy eyes runs over and rips my dancing buddy's shirt right away, starts kissing his chest, until she gets yelled at by pimpette behind the bar.
The strippers do their thing, begging for money in the way that only those with no way out can. I'm drinking, though, and having enough fun, when the stripper offers to take me in the back. There's no lap dances here, though, and "the back" means "let's sit over there, ten feet away." Grimy.
I smirk. "Sorry honey. No money for that." She keeps trying to kiss me, and I'm bobbing my head and rolling my shoulders so she always misses. I tell her, "I'm going to go get money, I'll be right back."
I'm really going for a cigarette, and have no intention of letting this broad near me again. I smoke outside, crouch down and lean on my knees like I tend to, like the guy from Gladiator does before he fights. I rub my hands through the puddle of rain that's been draining from the skies all night. Grimy ass motherfuckers... you ain't getting near my dick honey, I think to myself. Contrary to popular belief, I do have morals, and flatly refuse to consider paying for any type of sex.
When I walk back in, my stripper shoves her lazy tits together. "You have dollar?"
"I got nothin baby. Sorry."
She gives me a hell of a look, storms off. I probably gave the cunt $15 in an hour for being ugly, more or less. There's nothing worse than a stripper with a sense of entitlement.
The soundtrack for this joint is still hip hop, but of a whole 'nother nature. One of the broads puts on 50's first album, and the tracks are hardened and biting, straight from brutal streets.
"You got the realest and illest killas tied up in a knot..."
My buddy is at the bar, talking to a couple of Hispanic guys. One looks like someone I used to work with, tall and skinny with a shaped up beard, so I join the conversation.
"You mothafuckas are cool, man. I ain't down with that hatin' on white boys shit. I got me a job, a wife, a kid. I work, you know? Some of these mothafuckas down here give you shit just for walkin' through, but I ain't down with that shit. You mothafuckas seem like guys I would work for, you know? Like I'm hanging with my boss or some shit."
I know what he means, cause I've had tons of guys like him work under me, and so has my friend (who owns a construction business). That's why I get along with these guys. I don't pretend to be from the hood, but I know what they're saying, how they act, and how they think. But they can get testy when you're on there turf, and I'm surprised at getting so much respect right off the bat from this guy. It's disarming, and I can tell he's a good guy who gets mixed up in bad things. The cut over his eye that's still healing is blatant, and though he tells me he boxes, it could be from anything.
His boy is cool with us too, but he's far more dangerous. Wide eyed and Peruvian looking, he is short and wearing an oversized black teeshirt with a closely shaved head. He's flipping dollars at one of the hideous strippers who's missing teeth.
We got out for a smoke, three white boys and these two ghetto bangers.
"Motherfucka, I just got out of the county. I aint' never goin back to that motherfucka. But I down with you white boys too, I don't be hatin. When I be in there, motherfuckin white boy came up to me and offered me-" he pauses, counting on his fingers- "six cans of tuna, loaf a bread, three snickers bars, and coffee, jus' outta respect. I said, 'Man you ain't gotta do that shit. I 'preciate it, but you ain't gotta do that.' So I down wit' you white boys. Y'all some cool motherfuckers.'"
"When were you there?" I ask.
"Ahh, 2000, 2001, 2004 I think."
"Who helped you out?"
If there was a white guy in County, the odds are I know him or someone he knows.
"White boy named Paul. Paul the second he call hisself."
I know him. Goddamn. Small world.
As he finishes, a tall Italian kid in a blue Yankees shirt and slicked back hair wobbles outside. The little guy looks at him.
"You a bouncer? We in trouble?"
"Bouncer? SHIT SON, I jus' got out County! Look nigga, no laces!" He holds up his foot, showing off the laceless workboots he's got.
"OOOOHHH shit son. You be gettin' that watered down coffee? That shit SUCKED! An, an, the eggs, fuck, that watered down Gatorade."
Just in case you're curious if someone is lying about going to prison, get them around someone else who's been locked up. The FIRST thing they will talk about is how bad the food is.
Before we leave, a one of the other three with us begins antagonizing the little one, doing small things that piss guys off. He does it intentionally to fuck with people, but he doesn't understand how these guys work.
"Let's go. Now."
On the way home I look at my construction worker buddy, and then the drunken retard in the back who was pissing off our ghetto compatriot.
"He doesn't know you can't do that to those guys," I say.
"I know. You can't do that shit," he says.
"Those fuckin guys... you say somthing little, shit starts, and they're not gonna fight. They're gonna stab you and run. Especially if it's two on five."
"Oh I know."
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
That's Right Pimpin
We're drinking in the back of the tremendously crowded bar on Route 46, and the place is overflowing with women and the spattering of guidos that follows the former around like dogs.
I met an old friend of mine from my blue collar days here, along with the broad he hates but bangs anyway. He looks like he just got out of work- torn up jeans, work boots, a long sleeved t-shirt with holes by the elbows. Me? I wore what I wore all day- a pimpin' collared shirt, nice jeans, actual shoes.
He starts breaking my balls about it instantly, "Look at you all suave and shit. And your damn hair never moves, how the fuck do you do that?"
His girl-whatever... is eyeing me the whole night. Later on she'll smack him and point to me, saying the words that no woman has ever said in reference to me: "Why can't you dress more like him?"
HAHAHAHAHHAHAHA. VICTORY! NO MORE "SCRUFFY" HERE!
He looks at me, shakes his head. "I'm losin' faith in you dude."
Yea, but your girl sure ain't.
Again, I rule.
I met an old friend of mine from my blue collar days here, along with the broad he hates but bangs anyway. He looks like he just got out of work- torn up jeans, work boots, a long sleeved t-shirt with holes by the elbows. Me? I wore what I wore all day- a pimpin' collared shirt, nice jeans, actual shoes.
He starts breaking my balls about it instantly, "Look at you all suave and shit. And your damn hair never moves, how the fuck do you do that?"
His girl-whatever... is eyeing me the whole night. Later on she'll smack him and point to me, saying the words that no woman has ever said in reference to me: "Why can't you dress more like him?"
HAHAHAHAHHAHAHA. VICTORY! NO MORE "SCRUFFY" HERE!
He looks at me, shakes his head. "I'm losin' faith in you dude."
Yea, but your girl sure ain't.
Again, I rule.
Saturday, April 05, 2008
FUCK!!!!!!!
Beyonce, Jay-Z Tie the Knot.
report 1 hour, 8 minutes ago
NEW YORK (AFP) - US singer and actress Beyonce has married her longtime companion, hip-hop mogul Jay-Z, at a private ceremony in New York, People magazine reported on its website Saturday.
FUCK!!!!! My woman is off the market. FUCK!
Damnit Beyonce, we coulda been somethin...
report 1 hour, 8 minutes ago
NEW YORK (AFP) - US singer and actress Beyonce has married her longtime companion, hip-hop mogul Jay-Z, at a private ceremony in New York, People magazine reported on its website Saturday.
FUCK!!!!! My woman is off the market. FUCK!
Damnit Beyonce, we coulda been somethin...
Friday, April 04, 2008
Tagged
Trashman tagged me 'cause he's a whole bunch of gay. I don't really know how to make links and all that crap, so you're gonna have to bear with me. Damn that Trash is gay.
1. Write your own six word memoire.
2. Post it on your blog and include a visual illustration if you want.
3. Link to the person that tagged you in your post and to the original post if possible so we can track it as it travels across the blogosphere.
4. Tag at least five more blogs with links.
5. Leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play....
Here's mine:
1. "I fuckin kick ass shit. Really."
2. Visual was down a bit with me holding a bottle of Jameson screaming like a black preacher.
3. Don't know how to do this. Big gay Trash did it, click on his link to the right of the page if you'd like to see my queer friend getting a facial (mountains of gay right there).
4. Don't know enough bloggers to pull this off.
5. Might do this later. But it's Friday, so I'll likely be drunk.
Slainte motherfuckers. Hoboken tonight... we ride to ruin...
1. Write your own six word memoire.
2. Post it on your blog and include a visual illustration if you want.
3. Link to the person that tagged you in your post and to the original post if possible so we can track it as it travels across the blogosphere.
4. Tag at least five more blogs with links.
5. Leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play....
Here's mine:
1. "I fuckin kick ass shit. Really."
2. Visual was down a bit with me holding a bottle of Jameson screaming like a black preacher.
3. Don't know how to do this. Big gay Trash did it, click on his link to the right of the page if you'd like to see my queer friend getting a facial (mountains of gay right there).
4. Don't know enough bloggers to pull this off.
5. Might do this later. But it's Friday, so I'll likely be drunk.
Slainte motherfuckers. Hoboken tonight... we ride to ruin...
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
I always figured when I got older, God would sorta come inta my life somehow. And he didn't. I don't blame him. If I was him I would have the same opinion of me that he does.
- Ed Tom Bell, No Country for Old men
It may just be coincidence that I picked up Gettysburg and watched it again, or grabbed the soundtrack and played it in my car on the way to work today, but Ghost Hunters is exploring the Cashtown Inn tonight. It's a place that I have passed in my travels, and is nearly legendary in the lore of we that have studied the Civil War extensively.
The brief history is that the Cashtown Inn is just that... an Inn at a hole in the wall town in the Pennsylvania hills named Cashtown. What makes it special? It was the headquarters for Major General A.P. Hill's III Corp in the few days before Gettysburg. On the night of June 30, General Henry Heth, one of Hill's brigade commanders, asked Hill if he had any objections to Heth going into the town of Gettysburg the next day. Many of his soldiers had made the long march from Virginia barefoot, and he'd heard there was a shoe factory in the town.
Hill uttered the words that would send over 50,000 men to the boatman- "None in the world."
General Hill
The next day, Heth brought his boys down the Chambersburg Pike, heading towards town... and came under fire from General John Buford's Union Cavalry. Heth's men broke off the Pike, formed battle lines, and attacked... and when they did, every soldier on both sides began making a beeline towards the small crossroad town of Gettysburg- in a day, there'd be over 170,000 men facing murderous hails of bullets on these gentle rolling hills.
On Ghost Hunters, the fella that owns the Inn said something about how when people go into the basement, sometimes the water heater and piping is gone. The whole thing. Gone.
In it's place is a scene 150 years old, where two soldiers are helping one man who seems mortally wounded... and the indicators of the present are erased, like God swiped it away with His mighty hand.
They say it's a residual haunting, like a memory caught in time, bound to replay itself again and again.
Hell, search it online. This is the first picture I found- there's a face in the window at the top.
Here's a close up of the face:
Now, I know more ghost stories about Gettysburg than I could tell you. I know more about the battle of Gettysburg than any scholar you've seen on TV. I know the position and troop strength of every brigade throughout the battle. In seventh grade my teacher let me teach the class for two days about Gettysburg, then concluded it by saying, "You know more than I do."
They say some folks are just drawn to the town, like magic, like they know they should live there.
I think I'm drawn there because these stories... they're all I got. They're as American as can be. For instance, the story of Winfield Scott Hancock and Lew Armistead, two men who were close as brothers before the war, only so they could split up, with Hancock going North and Armistead going South. In a Biblical twist of irony, Armistead led Pickett's Charge against Hancock's men at Gettysburg. Armistead was mortally wounded in the charge. Heaving, on his deathbed, he asked to see General Hancock, only to have someone tell him that Hancock had also been hit. Armistead went nearly hysterical, dying soon after. Hancock survived.
It is said that on the last night before they left California, where they were stationed before the war, Armistead grabbed Hancock on that last night, and with tears in his eyes, said, "Win, if I ever raise my hand against you... may God strike me dead!" I never caught the significance of this story until my own best friend was dead. I could picture me saying something like that to Ryer, because I am overly dramatic like that... and then one of us not making it out.
It is the story of the dead Carolinian, where on his body, they found a note saying, "Tell my father I died facing the enemy."
It is the story of the boy Liutenant who cut the last tendons of his leg off with his pocketknife after an artillery ball shattered it.
These stories, and the stories of their hauntings... they're all I got. I always keep thinking that one day, when I'm old and ready to die, that God will have entered my life, and I'll have made peace, and I'll get to heaven.
But He doesn't seem to be getting any closer. And what if I don't make it long enough? Then I die a half-Catholic, and go... to Hell? If I die in a car accident tomorrow, which is as likely as it isn't, I'm FUCKED.
So I'm left with Ghost Hunters. I'm left with the recording they got of a picture frame sliding across the table, as if A.P. Hill himself saw something important in that old brass frame. I'm left hoping that I'm not one of those miserable, trapped souls that has to reenact the bad scenes in my life over and over. The energy doesn't leave this world. The love you have, the anger, the strength, the loneliness.... that stuff doesn't dissipate. It changes forms... but it doesn't leave. Some things are forever.
Let me be honest with you people- I am absolutely terrified.
Don't ever wonder why I drink so damn much. Although I doubt any of you do.
- Ed Tom Bell, No Country for Old men
It may just be coincidence that I picked up Gettysburg and watched it again, or grabbed the soundtrack and played it in my car on the way to work today, but Ghost Hunters is exploring the Cashtown Inn tonight. It's a place that I have passed in my travels, and is nearly legendary in the lore of we that have studied the Civil War extensively.
The brief history is that the Cashtown Inn is just that... an Inn at a hole in the wall town in the Pennsylvania hills named Cashtown. What makes it special? It was the headquarters for Major General A.P. Hill's III Corp in the few days before Gettysburg. On the night of June 30, General Henry Heth, one of Hill's brigade commanders, asked Hill if he had any objections to Heth going into the town of Gettysburg the next day. Many of his soldiers had made the long march from Virginia barefoot, and he'd heard there was a shoe factory in the town.
Hill uttered the words that would send over 50,000 men to the boatman- "None in the world."
General Hill
The next day, Heth brought his boys down the Chambersburg Pike, heading towards town... and came under fire from General John Buford's Union Cavalry. Heth's men broke off the Pike, formed battle lines, and attacked... and when they did, every soldier on both sides began making a beeline towards the small crossroad town of Gettysburg- in a day, there'd be over 170,000 men facing murderous hails of bullets on these gentle rolling hills.
On Ghost Hunters, the fella that owns the Inn said something about how when people go into the basement, sometimes the water heater and piping is gone. The whole thing. Gone.
In it's place is a scene 150 years old, where two soldiers are helping one man who seems mortally wounded... and the indicators of the present are erased, like God swiped it away with His mighty hand.
They say it's a residual haunting, like a memory caught in time, bound to replay itself again and again.
Hell, search it online. This is the first picture I found- there's a face in the window at the top.
Here's a close up of the face:
Now, I know more ghost stories about Gettysburg than I could tell you. I know more about the battle of Gettysburg than any scholar you've seen on TV. I know the position and troop strength of every brigade throughout the battle. In seventh grade my teacher let me teach the class for two days about Gettysburg, then concluded it by saying, "You know more than I do."
They say some folks are just drawn to the town, like magic, like they know they should live there.
I think I'm drawn there because these stories... they're all I got. They're as American as can be. For instance, the story of Winfield Scott Hancock and Lew Armistead, two men who were close as brothers before the war, only so they could split up, with Hancock going North and Armistead going South. In a Biblical twist of irony, Armistead led Pickett's Charge against Hancock's men at Gettysburg. Armistead was mortally wounded in the charge. Heaving, on his deathbed, he asked to see General Hancock, only to have someone tell him that Hancock had also been hit. Armistead went nearly hysterical, dying soon after. Hancock survived.
It is said that on the last night before they left California, where they were stationed before the war, Armistead grabbed Hancock on that last night, and with tears in his eyes, said, "Win, if I ever raise my hand against you... may God strike me dead!" I never caught the significance of this story until my own best friend was dead. I could picture me saying something like that to Ryer, because I am overly dramatic like that... and then one of us not making it out.
It is the story of the dead Carolinian, where on his body, they found a note saying, "Tell my father I died facing the enemy."
It is the story of the boy Liutenant who cut the last tendons of his leg off with his pocketknife after an artillery ball shattered it.
These stories, and the stories of their hauntings... they're all I got. I always keep thinking that one day, when I'm old and ready to die, that God will have entered my life, and I'll have made peace, and I'll get to heaven.
But He doesn't seem to be getting any closer. And what if I don't make it long enough? Then I die a half-Catholic, and go... to Hell? If I die in a car accident tomorrow, which is as likely as it isn't, I'm FUCKED.
So I'm left with Ghost Hunters. I'm left with the recording they got of a picture frame sliding across the table, as if A.P. Hill himself saw something important in that old brass frame. I'm left hoping that I'm not one of those miserable, trapped souls that has to reenact the bad scenes in my life over and over. The energy doesn't leave this world. The love you have, the anger, the strength, the loneliness.... that stuff doesn't dissipate. It changes forms... but it doesn't leave. Some things are forever.
Let me be honest with you people- I am absolutely terrified.
Don't ever wonder why I drink so damn much. Although I doubt any of you do.
Monday, March 24, 2008
The Fights
I was going to just throw this back in last year's revisions, but it's fucking good, so you're all going to read it.
“Tell Me" is pounding through the speakers in the heaving, sweating bar, and the floor rumbles accordingly. The announcers on TV howl over the din as Mayweather puts on his sombrero and saunters to the ring, 50 Cent rapping next to him: “When I’m out in NY boys blunts and phillies, when I’m out in LA boys wraps and swishes.” The noise in the bar increases ten fold; being overwhelmingly close to Paterson, it’s mostly blacks and Hispanics at this joint.
This crowd is evenly split between Mayweather and De La Hoya, and it's predominantly along racial lines; blacks with dreadlocks and oversized white t-shirts rooting for Floyd, and Hispanics with their chinstrap beards and curvy girlfriends pulling for Oscar. I'm with the Spanish guys, hoping Oscar will pull off the upset.
From the opening bell, though, the fight goes as I thought it would. Mayweather bobs and weaves, going from his flat footed, taunting, open stance to sudden jabs and straight rights, immediately angling out, moving with a grace rarely seen in a boxing ring. De La Hoya tries to cut off the ring and corner him, sometimes successfully. He flurries body shots that appear to land but really don’t, all blocked by Floyd’s elbows. De la Hoya doesn't have enough power to put him down, and although he’s certainly the busier fighter, he’s not hurting Floyd at all. Looks just like every fight I’ve watched Mayweather fight.
Like a switch, Floyd turns it on around the fifth. Oscar’s not catching him on the ropes as much, and the fighters are circling far more in the center of the ring. This is Floyd’s game, and Oscar should know that. Floyd catches him with a straight right with fifteen seconds left in the round that shows Oscar that he’s going to be in for a long night.
It progresses like this, and Mayweather is taking control more and more in this kinetic chess match. Floyd is landing more 1-2’s, fighting his fight and outscoring De la Hoya consistently. The winner is decided in my mind in the tenth, when Mayweather lands another hard straight right that seriously hurts Oscar, knocking him straight back. It might look like just another right to someone else, but I see that Floyd, after the punch lands, immediately pulls it straight back to his chin and is looking for another shot. It’s the tenth round, and he’s not dropping any of his technically flawless punches… and it doesn’t even look like he’s breathing heavy. Oscar doesn’t have a chance in hell.
For the next two rounds, Floyd counters and parries, always throwing punches that land as he’s backing up. It is like he is made of liquid, disappearing and reforming somewhere else. The only other man I have seen move like this is Barry Sanders, another that seemed like all of his body parts could move completely independent of each other, but were somehow not only connected, but in sync. In the end, the judges see it my way, and when they announce the winner I’m hardly surprised.
There are only two things in this world that can stop a fighter with such spectacular hand speed and defensive ability like Floyd Mayweather. The first is a taller fighter with an incredible jab and similarly stunning hand speed. Zab Judah, with his quick hands, hurt May weather a couple of times, more seriously than I’ve seen anyone else be able to. And on May 5th, the only times that Oscar remotely hurt Mayweather was when he began to work his jab (of course, he miraculously holstered it somewhere around the ninth when he decided that he didn’t actually want to win).
Yes, Castillo, the phenomenal body puncher, also gave Mayweather difficulty, but it is that combination of hand speed and strong, hard jab and quick follow ups that may beat Mayweather some day. Ironically enough, Floyd might only lose to someone exactly like him.
The second thing? Well, you know. It’s the boxer’s greatest fight… the one they always lose. One day, Floyd will be a half-second slower, and those hard straight rights that he once dodged with ease will connect. One day, those elbows won’t come down so quickly, and the hard shovel hooks thrown by the Castillos and Hattons of the world will land, and destroy his liver. One day, he will get knocked down, and out. My only hope is that he has enough sense to get out of the game before that happens, before he becomes a shell of his formerly fantastic self, another Joe Louis getting knocked out by a young, hungry Marciano, or another Roy Jones Jr. getting taken out by a mediocre Antonio Tarver.
Like all fighters, though, he will refuse to admit defeat, and will continue until the game has taken more from him than he has taken from it. It is the saddest part of our brutal, beloved sport: the inevitable wearing down of the body by Father Time, and the horrific realization that we are, indeed, mere mortals…even the inimitable Pretty boy Floyd. Maybe I’m wrong, and he’ll retire a champ, giving us the image of this fierce, young killer to hold in our heads until we’re gone….but I don’t think so.
“Tell Me" is pounding through the speakers in the heaving, sweating bar, and the floor rumbles accordingly. The announcers on TV howl over the din as Mayweather puts on his sombrero and saunters to the ring, 50 Cent rapping next to him: “When I’m out in NY boys blunts and phillies, when I’m out in LA boys wraps and swishes.” The noise in the bar increases ten fold; being overwhelmingly close to Paterson, it’s mostly blacks and Hispanics at this joint.
This crowd is evenly split between Mayweather and De La Hoya, and it's predominantly along racial lines; blacks with dreadlocks and oversized white t-shirts rooting for Floyd, and Hispanics with their chinstrap beards and curvy girlfriends pulling for Oscar. I'm with the Spanish guys, hoping Oscar will pull off the upset.
From the opening bell, though, the fight goes as I thought it would. Mayweather bobs and weaves, going from his flat footed, taunting, open stance to sudden jabs and straight rights, immediately angling out, moving with a grace rarely seen in a boxing ring. De La Hoya tries to cut off the ring and corner him, sometimes successfully. He flurries body shots that appear to land but really don’t, all blocked by Floyd’s elbows. De la Hoya doesn't have enough power to put him down, and although he’s certainly the busier fighter, he’s not hurting Floyd at all. Looks just like every fight I’ve watched Mayweather fight.
Like a switch, Floyd turns it on around the fifth. Oscar’s not catching him on the ropes as much, and the fighters are circling far more in the center of the ring. This is Floyd’s game, and Oscar should know that. Floyd catches him with a straight right with fifteen seconds left in the round that shows Oscar that he’s going to be in for a long night.
It progresses like this, and Mayweather is taking control more and more in this kinetic chess match. Floyd is landing more 1-2’s, fighting his fight and outscoring De la Hoya consistently. The winner is decided in my mind in the tenth, when Mayweather lands another hard straight right that seriously hurts Oscar, knocking him straight back. It might look like just another right to someone else, but I see that Floyd, after the punch lands, immediately pulls it straight back to his chin and is looking for another shot. It’s the tenth round, and he’s not dropping any of his technically flawless punches… and it doesn’t even look like he’s breathing heavy. Oscar doesn’t have a chance in hell.
For the next two rounds, Floyd counters and parries, always throwing punches that land as he’s backing up. It is like he is made of liquid, disappearing and reforming somewhere else. The only other man I have seen move like this is Barry Sanders, another that seemed like all of his body parts could move completely independent of each other, but were somehow not only connected, but in sync. In the end, the judges see it my way, and when they announce the winner I’m hardly surprised.
There are only two things in this world that can stop a fighter with such spectacular hand speed and defensive ability like Floyd Mayweather. The first is a taller fighter with an incredible jab and similarly stunning hand speed. Zab Judah, with his quick hands, hurt May weather a couple of times, more seriously than I’ve seen anyone else be able to. And on May 5th, the only times that Oscar remotely hurt Mayweather was when he began to work his jab (of course, he miraculously holstered it somewhere around the ninth when he decided that he didn’t actually want to win).
Yes, Castillo, the phenomenal body puncher, also gave Mayweather difficulty, but it is that combination of hand speed and strong, hard jab and quick follow ups that may beat Mayweather some day. Ironically enough, Floyd might only lose to someone exactly like him.
The second thing? Well, you know. It’s the boxer’s greatest fight… the one they always lose. One day, Floyd will be a half-second slower, and those hard straight rights that he once dodged with ease will connect. One day, those elbows won’t come down so quickly, and the hard shovel hooks thrown by the Castillos and Hattons of the world will land, and destroy his liver. One day, he will get knocked down, and out. My only hope is that he has enough sense to get out of the game before that happens, before he becomes a shell of his formerly fantastic self, another Joe Louis getting knocked out by a young, hungry Marciano, or another Roy Jones Jr. getting taken out by a mediocre Antonio Tarver.
Like all fighters, though, he will refuse to admit defeat, and will continue until the game has taken more from him than he has taken from it. It is the saddest part of our brutal, beloved sport: the inevitable wearing down of the body by Father Time, and the horrific realization that we are, indeed, mere mortals…even the inimitable Pretty boy Floyd. Maybe I’m wrong, and he’ll retire a champ, giving us the image of this fierce, young killer to hold in our heads until we’re gone….but I don’t think so.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
One Ricky Hatton
I'm strapping the glove to my right hand, which is impossibly hard when your left also has that thick black pad over it.
"Hatton's back on May 24th. Fighting Lazcano."
"I love how you love that stupid limey fighter. He fuckin' sucks. Leads with his head all the time. He's gonna' be retarded."
"That's not my problem. But he's all heart, and that's why he's my man."
I've stated before that fighting isn't like anything else. There's not a team to root for, or some nobody that can fuck it up.... no, the fight game is one on one. You root for one man to go into a ring and be as violent and brutal as he can. Along the way, you learn certain things. You get to know his style. You get to know his personality. You know how much heart he has, when he'll quit and when he won't. You'll see looks in his eyes that mean something, that mean that you know what's coming. No other sport has that, because no other sport has boxing's nature.
You'll never learn more about somebody than when they have been physically knocked down. The reaction that immediately follows is what tells you what kind of persona you have. Do you sit there stunned? Or do you get up angrier? Do you charge back in, regardless of the fact that the next time you get put down, you might die from it? It's never about winning or losing. It's about heart. It's about how you react, and how hard you'll keep on coming, even after you get knocked down.
Ricky Hatton is my favorite because he's just like me. He's not that tall, not that big, and not that talented; however, he does all that he can do, charging in and pounding to the body with brutal hooks, taking advantage of openings upstairs with whipping uppercuts. He'll never outbox you, never out-flair you. He's just going to hustle constantly, and keep pressuring you like his life depends on it... because it very much does. He's not the cleanest fighter, and certainly adverse to rabbit punching or wrestling. It's a streetfight every time with him, and you better be ready to brawl when he walks in.
He is a modern day Micky Ward- not too much talent, but all heart and soul. He dips his head, wraps your arm, and delivers the hard looping punches that he relies on. He likes drinking Guinness and playing darts, and never takes himself too seriously. Maybe it's an act, but I doubt it. He sincerely seems like the type that would buy you a beer at the end of the night when you're out of cash, and there's something to be said for that, especially amongst famous athletes.
Yes, he lost to Floyd Mayweather. But Mayweather, who is the most talented boxer alive right now, is unbeatable. If you have to lose (as all champions do) then it may as well be to the best fighter on the planet.
But on May 24th, our lad will come charging out to the strains of "Blue Moon" once again, and he'll show what champions are truly made of. He'll show us that it's not flair and style that makes champions, but grit and determination.
And once again, like always, we'll be here singing... "There's only one Ricky Hatton."
"Hatton's back on May 24th. Fighting Lazcano."
"I love how you love that stupid limey fighter. He fuckin' sucks. Leads with his head all the time. He's gonna' be retarded."
"That's not my problem. But he's all heart, and that's why he's my man."
I've stated before that fighting isn't like anything else. There's not a team to root for, or some nobody that can fuck it up.... no, the fight game is one on one. You root for one man to go into a ring and be as violent and brutal as he can. Along the way, you learn certain things. You get to know his style. You get to know his personality. You know how much heart he has, when he'll quit and when he won't. You'll see looks in his eyes that mean something, that mean that you know what's coming. No other sport has that, because no other sport has boxing's nature.
You'll never learn more about somebody than when they have been physically knocked down. The reaction that immediately follows is what tells you what kind of persona you have. Do you sit there stunned? Or do you get up angrier? Do you charge back in, regardless of the fact that the next time you get put down, you might die from it? It's never about winning or losing. It's about heart. It's about how you react, and how hard you'll keep on coming, even after you get knocked down.
Ricky Hatton is my favorite because he's just like me. He's not that tall, not that big, and not that talented; however, he does all that he can do, charging in and pounding to the body with brutal hooks, taking advantage of openings upstairs with whipping uppercuts. He'll never outbox you, never out-flair you. He's just going to hustle constantly, and keep pressuring you like his life depends on it... because it very much does. He's not the cleanest fighter, and certainly adverse to rabbit punching or wrestling. It's a streetfight every time with him, and you better be ready to brawl when he walks in.
He is a modern day Micky Ward- not too much talent, but all heart and soul. He dips his head, wraps your arm, and delivers the hard looping punches that he relies on. He likes drinking Guinness and playing darts, and never takes himself too seriously. Maybe it's an act, but I doubt it. He sincerely seems like the type that would buy you a beer at the end of the night when you're out of cash, and there's something to be said for that, especially amongst famous athletes.
Yes, he lost to Floyd Mayweather. But Mayweather, who is the most talented boxer alive right now, is unbeatable. If you have to lose (as all champions do) then it may as well be to the best fighter on the planet.
But on May 24th, our lad will come charging out to the strains of "Blue Moon" once again, and he'll show what champions are truly made of. He'll show us that it's not flair and style that makes champions, but grit and determination.
And once again, like always, we'll be here singing... "There's only one Ricky Hatton."
Saturday, March 15, 2008
On DRAMA!!!!
I recently bitched at the world on a Myspace survey about how women constantly say, "I don't want drama", or "This is a drama free zone". You see it all over online, especially with broads. I am convinced that it's the stupidest damn thing in the world to say.
----
Looking at me through whiskey drunk eyes while we're outside smoking, I see him glaring at the door.
"What the fuck are you looking at?"
"Waitin' for that motherfucker to come out the door, I'm gonna hit him."
This is my big Irish Army friend who lies to women constantly and gets far too hammered drunk for his own good. He told me years ago that Ryer and I were like the older brothers he never had, and even after all this time it's clear that I'm one of the only people around that can keep a handle on him, that he'll actually listen too.
"Like fuckin' hell you are, he's one of my buddies," I say.
"He's a dick."
At that moment my buddy walks out, and they start jawing at each other, low mumbled threats meant so that the other one could overhear. Both of them are tough kids, and a fight would be hideously ugly and end badly.
I look at my buddy, and now I'm between them. "You don't fuckin touch him, I know this guy."
Then I turn and grab Army's arm, leading him away. I turn to him and point directly in his face. "You don't fuckin do anything. You fucking hear me?"
"But he's a dick, he's-"
"I don't want to hear it. You remember The Departed? You remember the guy who tells people who they can hit and who they can't? Well, that's fuckin' me. And I say you don't fucking hit him."
He looks upset, like a puppy you just kicked, but this is for his own good. "Fine," he mumbles.
"Where do you live? How you gettin' home?"
"I'm walkin, I live down there. Look, fuck that kid-"
"HEY! I don't want to fuckin hear it. This ain't optional. Get fucking moving."
He looks at me open mouthed, as if he has something else to say, but all he manages is a resigned, "Fine..." He turns around, begins to trail off, stumbling down the road.
Had it continued any more, I would have had to pull the Ryer card with my other buddy, and tell him that if Ryer was here he would kill him for laying a hand on Army. I don't like bringing him up, because it can ruin a night quickly and depress the hell out people... but I was not about to watch anyone touch him. As much as I'm like his older brother, he's like my younger one, and I have to watch out for him because no one else will. His parents hate him for being a stupid drunk, his grandfather threw him out, and his friends are shakily loyal. That's bad when you like whiskey and have a big mouth, but there's nothing I can do. I won't watch him get beat down by anybody.
-----------------------
"DRAMA!" And you know what? When I'm on my deathbed, I will wish like hell for ten more minutes of that same "drama" that all the broads hate so much. If you want to drink, fight, fuck, live, then drama is entwined in all of it. Good luck getting away from it.
I fuckin loooooovvveeeee it!
----
Looking at me through whiskey drunk eyes while we're outside smoking, I see him glaring at the door.
"What the fuck are you looking at?"
"Waitin' for that motherfucker to come out the door, I'm gonna hit him."
This is my big Irish Army friend who lies to women constantly and gets far too hammered drunk for his own good. He told me years ago that Ryer and I were like the older brothers he never had, and even after all this time it's clear that I'm one of the only people around that can keep a handle on him, that he'll actually listen too.
"Like fuckin' hell you are, he's one of my buddies," I say.
"He's a dick."
At that moment my buddy walks out, and they start jawing at each other, low mumbled threats meant so that the other one could overhear. Both of them are tough kids, and a fight would be hideously ugly and end badly.
I look at my buddy, and now I'm between them. "You don't fuckin touch him, I know this guy."
Then I turn and grab Army's arm, leading him away. I turn to him and point directly in his face. "You don't fuckin do anything. You fucking hear me?"
"But he's a dick, he's-"
"I don't want to hear it. You remember The Departed? You remember the guy who tells people who they can hit and who they can't? Well, that's fuckin' me. And I say you don't fucking hit him."
He looks upset, like a puppy you just kicked, but this is for his own good. "Fine," he mumbles.
"Where do you live? How you gettin' home?"
"I'm walkin, I live down there. Look, fuck that kid-"
"HEY! I don't want to fuckin hear it. This ain't optional. Get fucking moving."
He looks at me open mouthed, as if he has something else to say, but all he manages is a resigned, "Fine..." He turns around, begins to trail off, stumbling down the road.
Had it continued any more, I would have had to pull the Ryer card with my other buddy, and tell him that if Ryer was here he would kill him for laying a hand on Army. I don't like bringing him up, because it can ruin a night quickly and depress the hell out people... but I was not about to watch anyone touch him. As much as I'm like his older brother, he's like my younger one, and I have to watch out for him because no one else will. His parents hate him for being a stupid drunk, his grandfather threw him out, and his friends are shakily loyal. That's bad when you like whiskey and have a big mouth, but there's nothing I can do. I won't watch him get beat down by anybody.
-----------------------
"DRAMA!" And you know what? When I'm on my deathbed, I will wish like hell for ten more minutes of that same "drama" that all the broads hate so much. If you want to drink, fight, fuck, live, then drama is entwined in all of it. Good luck getting away from it.
I fuckin loooooovvveeeee it!
Friday, March 14, 2008
Characters
If you're in trouble, or hurt or need - go to the poor people. They're the only ones that'll help - the only ones. - John Steinbeck
I will miss them, these fuckin idiots I work with at the shop. They are always whistling at each other, sharp whistles that would make a dog heel. They call out, tap fists every time they pass, call your name and hold their fists up as they walk by, wordlessly. It's strange until you figure out that they're just saying what's up, and that's the way they do it. There is a strong sense of camraderie that pervades the place, as if they were going to war tomorrow instead of just fabricating metal parts.
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He's a short, stocky guy with a thick Indian accent. He always adds an "S" to the end of my name; it might because of his serious lack of teeth. We are standing by the time clock waiting to punch out for lunch when one of the Mexicans comes up behind him, reaches around, and grabs his chest.
"Motherfucker! See Irishes, you gots to watch these motherfuckers, there a bunch of fuckin fags around here. Watch yourself Irishes. Especially this fuckin guy, he a fucking tinkerbell." He looks at the Mexican with disdain. "You motherfucker."
The Mexican gives a hearty laugh, and mumbles, "Pendejo"
--------------------------------------------
He stands at a mighty 5'2", ironic because his name is Maximillion. He's older, and wears glasses when he's doing work that requires his close attention. English is not his forte, but when he talks to the other Hispanics he uses great swooping gestures and his voice rises and falls like the waves. Don't ever think that people who don't speak your language are dopey, for this guy is certainly as animated as anyone I've ever met. He is also quiet and watchful, and those qualities often belie a sharp mind.
Alicia Keys' No One reverbs through the shop, ringing off the metal machines and echoes off through the walls. When it gets to the "Oh oh oh oh ohhhhhhh" chorus section, he raises his arms and starts swaying, yelling out the words as he goes. He sees me laughing at him, and he looks at me and smiles, raising his arms in a shrug as you would if you were saying "I don't know"
"Who?" he asks me.
He answers himself definitively: "NO ONE, NO ONE, NO ONEEEEEEEE!!"
He does this every time the song comes on, which comes out to about three times a day.
-------------------------
He strides through the garage door, a cigar blazing and his head bopping to my radio, and Biggie Smalls is halfway through Hypnotize when he catches the beat and starts smiling, bopping his head in the cloud of smoke that trails him and he's singing the words, "Biggie Biggie Biggie, can't you see, sometimes your words just hypnotize me".... This is my tall black buddy, a genuinely intelligent man who is wasting his time working the grunt work that this shop provides. He married a Puerto Rican chick, and has a little daughter who I'm sure, like so many women of mixed heritage, will be a knockout one day. If she's anything like her father, then she will be smart as hell, too. It bothers me that he still works there- there is alot of things he could do using his mind instead of his hands... not to mention the world needs smart black men out there proving that the stereotypes are unequivocally wrong.
I picked up the phrase, "That's right pimpin" from him, and he's truly one of the coolest cats I've ever met.
I bought him American Gangster as a parting gift, and we start watching it at lunch. He gets antsy as Denzel owns the the screen and the tension builds like a glacier, but one where there's an avalanche at the end.
"Irish, you the fuckin man. Thanks man."
------------------------------------
He's cool in the way that only an old black man can be. He's another short one, and ambles in the way that old men do. He's got a graying goatee that is often obscured in sweet smelling smoke from the pipe he always has, which he often smokes while simultaneously chewing tobacco and wearing a nicotine patch.
"I'm glad you leavin. Ain't no future here for you. I keep telling these other motherfuckers, "What the fuck you doin here? That tall motherfucker especially. He's bright, ain't no reason for him to work here. I mean, you get hurt and they don't give two shits about it. Look."
He takes the glove off his left hand, and shows me two deformed fingers that are, honestly, a mess. "I done got mashed up twice here. They don't care. You go to retire, ain't no pension. They give you a shit party and throw you out. I'd leave if I was younger, but I'm old, don't nobody want an old motherfucker like me. I'm glad you leavin'."
He's got a calender in his welding booth that has nearly naked women posing, and one shot is of a girl at the beach as the sunset. Her ass takes up most of the shot, and it is a fine ass at that. Apparently he thinks so too, because I haven't seen that calender change months since I've worked there. At one point he calls me "daddio", and it's the coolest damn thing I've ever heard.
He comes up before he leaves and shakes my hand. "It's been a pleasure working with you. I hope you make it. See you when I see you."
----------------------------------------------
He's an oak tree of a man, with a black goatee and a black hat perched on his head. A tan flannel jacket covers his back. He's Hispanic of some type, and he diddy bops through the shop every day yelling out, "Ju liiike it? Ju like it? I looovvveeee it." He doesn't say this once in a while, or even often. He says it every time someone walks by him, or he walks by someone, or he's yelling it across the shop to someone. It got to the point where I really thought that's all he could say in English.
"Hey man! Hey man!"
"Yo!"
"Ju like it? Ju like it?"
You answer back, "Hell yeah baby, I like it!"
He smiles, "OK baby, I fuckin' loooovvveee it"
You never let on that you have no idea what he's talking about.
He surprised me today, with perhaps the best thing I've ever heard from a person's lips. We're cleaning metal phalanges when he starts talking.
"Man, life is fucking beautiful man. I a poor old man, ju know? I sixty-four years old. I fuckin happy. I see these young guys, they walk around with lots of money, they miserable! Not happy! Fuck that man! I happy! I like it! I looooovveeee it! Is beautiful!"
This guy is talking about life. Regardless of the fact that he's old, and that I think his foot is rotting off, and he is barely at work because of it... he walks around saying every second "Life is beautiful, and I fucking love it".
Why I really will miss blue collar work is because of the characters. I'm sure there's people like this in the professional world, but there is one thing that seperates us from them, and this fella epitomizes it when, ten minutes after telling me this, he says how he wants to stab one of the other guys in the kidney twenty times because he's an asshole. He then acts out what the guy will look like when he falls, and even though he's serious I can't stop smiling.
I'm going to watch out for these motherfuckers, these crazy, beer drinking, life loving idiots. Management would rape them in a second if they could, and it's guys like me that have to watch their asses, and publicize it when someone tries to screw them. I'll be, like Steinbeck, a watchdog for the working classes, to make sure these hardworking fuckers get exactly what they deserve for doing the job that you don't want to do.
They'll teach you a lot, if you listen. But you have to listen.
I fuckin looooveee it too baby. I really do.
I will miss them, these fuckin idiots I work with at the shop. They are always whistling at each other, sharp whistles that would make a dog heel. They call out, tap fists every time they pass, call your name and hold their fists up as they walk by, wordlessly. It's strange until you figure out that they're just saying what's up, and that's the way they do it. There is a strong sense of camraderie that pervades the place, as if they were going to war tomorrow instead of just fabricating metal parts.
---------------------------------------
He's a short, stocky guy with a thick Indian accent. He always adds an "S" to the end of my name; it might because of his serious lack of teeth. We are standing by the time clock waiting to punch out for lunch when one of the Mexicans comes up behind him, reaches around, and grabs his chest.
"Motherfucker! See Irishes, you gots to watch these motherfuckers, there a bunch of fuckin fags around here. Watch yourself Irishes. Especially this fuckin guy, he a fucking tinkerbell." He looks at the Mexican with disdain. "You motherfucker."
The Mexican gives a hearty laugh, and mumbles, "Pendejo"
--------------------------------------------
He stands at a mighty 5'2", ironic because his name is Maximillion. He's older, and wears glasses when he's doing work that requires his close attention. English is not his forte, but when he talks to the other Hispanics he uses great swooping gestures and his voice rises and falls like the waves. Don't ever think that people who don't speak your language are dopey, for this guy is certainly as animated as anyone I've ever met. He is also quiet and watchful, and those qualities often belie a sharp mind.
Alicia Keys' No One reverbs through the shop, ringing off the metal machines and echoes off through the walls. When it gets to the "Oh oh oh oh ohhhhhhh" chorus section, he raises his arms and starts swaying, yelling out the words as he goes. He sees me laughing at him, and he looks at me and smiles, raising his arms in a shrug as you would if you were saying "I don't know"
"Who?" he asks me.
He answers himself definitively: "NO ONE, NO ONE, NO ONEEEEEEEE!!"
He does this every time the song comes on, which comes out to about three times a day.
-------------------------
He strides through the garage door, a cigar blazing and his head bopping to my radio, and Biggie Smalls is halfway through Hypnotize when he catches the beat and starts smiling, bopping his head in the cloud of smoke that trails him and he's singing the words, "Biggie Biggie Biggie, can't you see, sometimes your words just hypnotize me".... This is my tall black buddy, a genuinely intelligent man who is wasting his time working the grunt work that this shop provides. He married a Puerto Rican chick, and has a little daughter who I'm sure, like so many women of mixed heritage, will be a knockout one day. If she's anything like her father, then she will be smart as hell, too. It bothers me that he still works there- there is alot of things he could do using his mind instead of his hands... not to mention the world needs smart black men out there proving that the stereotypes are unequivocally wrong.
I picked up the phrase, "That's right pimpin" from him, and he's truly one of the coolest cats I've ever met.
I bought him American Gangster as a parting gift, and we start watching it at lunch. He gets antsy as Denzel owns the the screen and the tension builds like a glacier, but one where there's an avalanche at the end.
"Irish, you the fuckin man. Thanks man."
------------------------------------
He's cool in the way that only an old black man can be. He's another short one, and ambles in the way that old men do. He's got a graying goatee that is often obscured in sweet smelling smoke from the pipe he always has, which he often smokes while simultaneously chewing tobacco and wearing a nicotine patch.
"I'm glad you leavin. Ain't no future here for you. I keep telling these other motherfuckers, "What the fuck you doin here? That tall motherfucker especially. He's bright, ain't no reason for him to work here. I mean, you get hurt and they don't give two shits about it. Look."
He takes the glove off his left hand, and shows me two deformed fingers that are, honestly, a mess. "I done got mashed up twice here. They don't care. You go to retire, ain't no pension. They give you a shit party and throw you out. I'd leave if I was younger, but I'm old, don't nobody want an old motherfucker like me. I'm glad you leavin'."
He's got a calender in his welding booth that has nearly naked women posing, and one shot is of a girl at the beach as the sunset. Her ass takes up most of the shot, and it is a fine ass at that. Apparently he thinks so too, because I haven't seen that calender change months since I've worked there. At one point he calls me "daddio", and it's the coolest damn thing I've ever heard.
He comes up before he leaves and shakes my hand. "It's been a pleasure working with you. I hope you make it. See you when I see you."
----------------------------------------------
He's an oak tree of a man, with a black goatee and a black hat perched on his head. A tan flannel jacket covers his back. He's Hispanic of some type, and he diddy bops through the shop every day yelling out, "Ju liiike it? Ju like it? I looovvveeee it." He doesn't say this once in a while, or even often. He says it every time someone walks by him, or he walks by someone, or he's yelling it across the shop to someone. It got to the point where I really thought that's all he could say in English.
"Hey man! Hey man!"
"Yo!"
"Ju like it? Ju like it?"
You answer back, "Hell yeah baby, I like it!"
He smiles, "OK baby, I fuckin' loooovvveee it"
You never let on that you have no idea what he's talking about.
He surprised me today, with perhaps the best thing I've ever heard from a person's lips. We're cleaning metal phalanges when he starts talking.
"Man, life is fucking beautiful man. I a poor old man, ju know? I sixty-four years old. I fuckin happy. I see these young guys, they walk around with lots of money, they miserable! Not happy! Fuck that man! I happy! I like it! I looooovveeee it! Is beautiful!"
This guy is talking about life. Regardless of the fact that he's old, and that I think his foot is rotting off, and he is barely at work because of it... he walks around saying every second "Life is beautiful, and I fucking love it".
Why I really will miss blue collar work is because of the characters. I'm sure there's people like this in the professional world, but there is one thing that seperates us from them, and this fella epitomizes it when, ten minutes after telling me this, he says how he wants to stab one of the other guys in the kidney twenty times because he's an asshole. He then acts out what the guy will look like when he falls, and even though he's serious I can't stop smiling.
I'm going to watch out for these motherfuckers, these crazy, beer drinking, life loving idiots. Management would rape them in a second if they could, and it's guys like me that have to watch their asses, and publicize it when someone tries to screw them. I'll be, like Steinbeck, a watchdog for the working classes, to make sure these hardworking fuckers get exactly what they deserve for doing the job that you don't want to do.
They'll teach you a lot, if you listen. But you have to listen.
I fuckin looooveee it too baby. I really do.
Sunday, March 02, 2008
Some call it better...
He's fat, with a goofy jacket that only makes him look fatter and a hat and sunglasses that make him look like a tourist. He lights a cigarette, and starts talking to one of my friends who leers at him with curious disgust. I'm right there with him. We've just gotten off the train and are heading into the heart of Hoboken for the St. Patrick's Day parade and celebration that is a couple weeks early.
"Look, I fought some guy." He holds up a swollen right hand that's not in good shape. "Last night, I fought some guy. He was like 6'10". I got'em though. I always get in fights when I go out... will you guys help me if I get in a fight?"
It takes all I have to not laugh at him. It takes even more to not be terribly dickheaded and tell him that we don't want him following us and BSing. We're being pretty nasty towards him though, being as none of us want to be bothered with this annoying fat man.
"No, we won't," we all say, nearly in unison.
"Oh.." He looks disheartened in a pathetic way. "They told me people in Hoboken are nice... you guys aren't nice."
I look at him when dead eyes. "You're looking for the Yuppies. They're off today."
We swing into a liquor store and buy a couple pints of whiskey for the walk. I put it in my breast pocket, and grab a long straw so I can slide it down into the bottle in the midst of a crowded bar. It's working well, and I'm all over trying to keep a handle on one of my compatriots who is walking up to every broad in front of him and dancing and talking. I am apologizing and bullshitting with a mediocre looking Polish girl about Warsaw or something when I see my friend whirling like a gyre, resisting the futile dance towards the door that the bouncer is making him do.
"Isn't that your friend?" the blond says to me.
"Ahhh fuck me yea it is."
It's been a long while since I got thrown out of a bar, the last time being last St. Patty's day when I connected with a right hook so big that it shattered the bones in my hand and started all my problems. I've never had a bouncer put his hands on me, a good thing because when I'm drunk enough to not listen to you telling me to leave, I'm drunk enough to hit you. It's likely that I'm the guy that Rob the Bouncer complains about all the time (minus the coke habit that the guidos have.)
It's a two way street with bouncers. I'm very respectful to most people, and I don't go out to cause trouble. I know your night sucks, and I'm not there to make it worse. But if you think that the black "STAFF" written on your shirt gives you the authority to talk to me like the cops talk to me, you are sadly mistaken. These bouncers were assholes, and I decided when I was sober that if this guy put his hands on me, he was getting my signature right hook to the body.
"Let's go to Trinity".
"Let's go to City Bistro".
My buddy looks at the girls, blowing smoke up with a quizzical look. "Bistro? Sounds like a fag place. I won't drink anywhere called a "bistro."
I realize how oddly out place I feel here. The people aren't dressed any better, and certainly aren't as good looking as me, but there's a heavy arrogance that wafts off the water, pervades every bar here. The guys are, well, complete metrosexual bitches, and the women have their noses so far in the air that it's a wonder they're not walking into chairs. The bars are hip places, but the people just suck.
I remember playing Hoboken for the State Championships back in my football days. They were all blacks and Puerto Ricans, tough, lean kids and you saw it in their eyes, that look that boxers have when they're coming up through the ranks- they were hungry. They wanted out. No more ghettoes- these boys were playing for their mammas, playing to escape and get to college where the white kids would idolize them for the talents on the field, and there'd be no more bangin'. They weren't like playing the Paterson teams, which were lazy, fundamentally unsound messes. No, playing them was like playing guys who were fighting for their lives.
As I look down Washington Street, with its lines of neon lit bars, $3.50 dark roast coffee latte joints with fake ass French names and red signs, and liquor stores where a pint of JD costs $15, I can only shake my head.
Some people would say the place is better now. You'll hear the catchphrases, the same ones they're throwing around about Newark and Jersey City now. "Safer." "Cleaner." "Happier." I say it's lost it's heart, sold out amongst a sea of commercialism.
Where those kids at now... where's that hungry look? Even though I have a job that is going to be filled with actual professionals, I always want that connection to the streets. I'm not from them, make no mistake; but I know plenty of guys who are. When I start boxing, that's who I want to be around. They'll keep you down to Earth, they'll keep you jabbing, they'll never let you sit back.
That's why I say give me a strip club in Newark any day over this souless mess, give me the place where people are struggling and striving and there's flames in the streets burning like an flash fire and riots are always a step away. That's passion baby... That's fire.
This?
This is baby boomer shit. And you motherfuckers can keep it.
"Look, I fought some guy." He holds up a swollen right hand that's not in good shape. "Last night, I fought some guy. He was like 6'10". I got'em though. I always get in fights when I go out... will you guys help me if I get in a fight?"
It takes all I have to not laugh at him. It takes even more to not be terribly dickheaded and tell him that we don't want him following us and BSing. We're being pretty nasty towards him though, being as none of us want to be bothered with this annoying fat man.
"No, we won't," we all say, nearly in unison.
"Oh.." He looks disheartened in a pathetic way. "They told me people in Hoboken are nice... you guys aren't nice."
I look at him when dead eyes. "You're looking for the Yuppies. They're off today."
We swing into a liquor store and buy a couple pints of whiskey for the walk. I put it in my breast pocket, and grab a long straw so I can slide it down into the bottle in the midst of a crowded bar. It's working well, and I'm all over trying to keep a handle on one of my compatriots who is walking up to every broad in front of him and dancing and talking. I am apologizing and bullshitting with a mediocre looking Polish girl about Warsaw or something when I see my friend whirling like a gyre, resisting the futile dance towards the door that the bouncer is making him do.
"Isn't that your friend?" the blond says to me.
"Ahhh fuck me yea it is."
It's been a long while since I got thrown out of a bar, the last time being last St. Patty's day when I connected with a right hook so big that it shattered the bones in my hand and started all my problems. I've never had a bouncer put his hands on me, a good thing because when I'm drunk enough to not listen to you telling me to leave, I'm drunk enough to hit you. It's likely that I'm the guy that Rob the Bouncer complains about all the time (minus the coke habit that the guidos have.)
It's a two way street with bouncers. I'm very respectful to most people, and I don't go out to cause trouble. I know your night sucks, and I'm not there to make it worse. But if you think that the black "STAFF" written on your shirt gives you the authority to talk to me like the cops talk to me, you are sadly mistaken. These bouncers were assholes, and I decided when I was sober that if this guy put his hands on me, he was getting my signature right hook to the body.
"Let's go to Trinity".
"Let's go to City Bistro".
My buddy looks at the girls, blowing smoke up with a quizzical look. "Bistro? Sounds like a fag place. I won't drink anywhere called a "bistro."
I realize how oddly out place I feel here. The people aren't dressed any better, and certainly aren't as good looking as me, but there's a heavy arrogance that wafts off the water, pervades every bar here. The guys are, well, complete metrosexual bitches, and the women have their noses so far in the air that it's a wonder they're not walking into chairs. The bars are hip places, but the people just suck.
I remember playing Hoboken for the State Championships back in my football days. They were all blacks and Puerto Ricans, tough, lean kids and you saw it in their eyes, that look that boxers have when they're coming up through the ranks- they were hungry. They wanted out. No more ghettoes- these boys were playing for their mammas, playing to escape and get to college where the white kids would idolize them for the talents on the field, and there'd be no more bangin'. They weren't like playing the Paterson teams, which were lazy, fundamentally unsound messes. No, playing them was like playing guys who were fighting for their lives.
As I look down Washington Street, with its lines of neon lit bars, $3.50 dark roast coffee latte joints with fake ass French names and red signs, and liquor stores where a pint of JD costs $15, I can only shake my head.
Some people would say the place is better now. You'll hear the catchphrases, the same ones they're throwing around about Newark and Jersey City now. "Safer." "Cleaner." "Happier." I say it's lost it's heart, sold out amongst a sea of commercialism.
Where those kids at now... where's that hungry look? Even though I have a job that is going to be filled with actual professionals, I always want that connection to the streets. I'm not from them, make no mistake; but I know plenty of guys who are. When I start boxing, that's who I want to be around. They'll keep you down to Earth, they'll keep you jabbing, they'll never let you sit back.
That's why I say give me a strip club in Newark any day over this souless mess, give me the place where people are struggling and striving and there's flames in the streets burning like an flash fire and riots are always a step away. That's passion baby... That's fire.
This?
This is baby boomer shit. And you motherfuckers can keep it.
Monday, February 11, 2008
That's Right, Pimpin
I am listening to so much goddamn hip hop because of the guys I work with it's sickening. However, there's so much good stuff out that I can't even knock it. I used to only half-heartedly listen to it, but a lot of people with a lot of soul are going all out... Jay Z and Kanye blow me away, to be honest.
I've even picked up an incredible saying from the black dude I work with- "That's right pimpin."
"Pimpin" is used as a noun here, not a verb. So the subject of your sentence, he's called "pimpin." He does something smooth, and you lay it down- "That's right pimpin!" I could put a comma in between the "right" and the "pimpin" to let you know that "pimpin" is the subject, but it's said all in one shot, no breaths.
So Eli Manning scores the game winning TD in the Super Bowl? "That's right pimpin".
Your buddy hooks up with a hot blonde after he lies his balls off and tells her he plays for the New York Rangers? "That's right pimpin"
Manny Ramirez hits a game ending, walk off homer? "That's right pimpin".
It's gotta be something you do with style- you can't really call it that if, let's say, your buddy knocks a guy out at a bar. Even a one punch shot.... it's still not really "pimpin". It's "badass", to be sure, but not "pimpin". Now, The Rock in the first ten minutes of The Rundown, that's "pimpin", especially where he flips the clip out of the gun while he's staring the other guy down. It's all about style.
Deion Sanders is "pimpin".
Mike Tyson is not.
Michael Irvin is "pimpin".
Tom Cruise is not (although he was in both Top Gun and Cocktail).
If you have to wonder whether or not you're "pimpin", well, then you're not, and you shouldn't try to be. I'll explain this more later.
I've even picked up an incredible saying from the black dude I work with- "That's right pimpin."
"Pimpin" is used as a noun here, not a verb. So the subject of your sentence, he's called "pimpin." He does something smooth, and you lay it down- "That's right pimpin!" I could put a comma in between the "right" and the "pimpin" to let you know that "pimpin" is the subject, but it's said all in one shot, no breaths.
So Eli Manning scores the game winning TD in the Super Bowl? "That's right pimpin".
Your buddy hooks up with a hot blonde after he lies his balls off and tells her he plays for the New York Rangers? "That's right pimpin"
Manny Ramirez hits a game ending, walk off homer? "That's right pimpin".
It's gotta be something you do with style- you can't really call it that if, let's say, your buddy knocks a guy out at a bar. Even a one punch shot.... it's still not really "pimpin". It's "badass", to be sure, but not "pimpin". Now, The Rock in the first ten minutes of The Rundown, that's "pimpin", especially where he flips the clip out of the gun while he's staring the other guy down. It's all about style.
Deion Sanders is "pimpin".
Mike Tyson is not.
Michael Irvin is "pimpin".
Tom Cruise is not (although he was in both Top Gun and Cocktail).
If you have to wonder whether or not you're "pimpin", well, then you're not, and you shouldn't try to be. I'll explain this more later.
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
Hate it or Love It
I place the letter I wrote below in a plastic bag, and lay it on the ground. Through it I stick the small Giants flagpole, pinning it down, and lean over.
"You'd have loved it buddy. You'd have fucking loved it. I hope you saw it."
I lean over, kiss the cold metal, and rise. I turn and walk away.
As I walk, I slowly turn around and look one last time towards his grave. I stop, and smile. I raise my arms and yell it, like Rocky... "Hey yo Ry-Air, the underdogs on top! They did it!"
I know he heard me.
Monday, February 04, 2008
Hey Ryer
Hey Ryer,
They did it. They did it. They fucking did it. The Giants won the Super Bowl (and without your boy Shockey) in the biggest upset since the Jets in '68. Oh you motherfucker, you would have loved it.
It wasn't like how miserable we were when they caved in 2000, getting hammered by the Ravens in the Super Bowl in as terrible a game as I've ever watched.
It wasn't like how pissed we were in 2001 when they dropped that game to the Vikings, losing by a point, one fucking point, in the last minutes. No, it wasn't like that.
It wasn't like when they dropped that lead in 2003, when the Niners found their legs in the fourth quarter and the Giants caved again, and I was furious and swearing this Goddamn team off... again. No, it wasn't like that either.
No, Ryer, it wasn't like that at all.. Know what it was like? It was like that last game in 2004, a month before you died, when everyone somehow got tickets for that last Giants-Cowboys game.
That was the day that you didn't want to come over by where we were all tailgating because you were being a bitch like you tended to do, crying about some thing or another. That's when Chud called you, saying "If you don't come hang out, I'm burning your ticket, and you're not getting in". That got your ass over there. Really quickly.
We got drunk for hours, all fifteen or so of us, and went in to that Stadium expecting the Giants to blow it like they always did, to dissapoint us in all the creative ways that they'd mastered over the years. Big Blew it? Yup. For a long time they always did. They had lost eight in a row at that point, and our season was down the toilet. But tickets were tickets, and drinking was drinking. So more like loyal drunks than Giants fan, we took the oppurtunities.
But you remember that shit? The Giants kept it close, fighting as hard as they had all year, but were still down in the fourth quarter. I thought it was over, but then I'm a pessimist. What we saw in that last two minutes of that game reminded us again why we loved football.
We watched, in shock and fucking awe, as Eli Manning marched that broken down Giants team down like a Field Marshal, showing flashes of his pedigreee, and an innate strength of character that we never knew he had. When Tiki took that ball in for the last touchdown as time ran out, breaking records as he did, we watched the future of the Giants walk off the field for the first time... as a winner.
One of the last things I remember from that night was asking you if you were driving home, and you closed your eyes and put your head down and said, "Man, I am so fucking drunk. I can't do anything."
Well, that's what this day, this game, was like, Ryer. It was horrible and beautiful and senselessly stressful to watch, and I thought it was over at the end. But Manning took that team, grabbed them by the scruff of their neck, and dusted them off, marching them back down like a fucking warrior in the two minute drill, just like the first time we watched him. With that last touchdown pass with thirty-five seconds left, he put a nail in the heart of New England, and struck the bells that signalled the death knell of these 18-0, undefeated Patriots, the twelve point favorites.
I hope they have TV's wherever the hell you are, and I hope you saw it. We were all thinking of you when they won. I'll be there this week sometime, and I'm leaving a Giants flag on your grave. I said all along that God willed the Giants to win... but I like to think maybe you had something to do with it, too.
Rest in Peace brother. Go Big Blue.
They did it. They did it. They fucking did it. The Giants won the Super Bowl (and without your boy Shockey) in the biggest upset since the Jets in '68. Oh you motherfucker, you would have loved it.
It wasn't like how miserable we were when they caved in 2000, getting hammered by the Ravens in the Super Bowl in as terrible a game as I've ever watched.
It wasn't like how pissed we were in 2001 when they dropped that game to the Vikings, losing by a point, one fucking point, in the last minutes. No, it wasn't like that.
It wasn't like when they dropped that lead in 2003, when the Niners found their legs in the fourth quarter and the Giants caved again, and I was furious and swearing this Goddamn team off... again. No, it wasn't like that either.
No, Ryer, it wasn't like that at all.. Know what it was like? It was like that last game in 2004, a month before you died, when everyone somehow got tickets for that last Giants-Cowboys game.
That was the day that you didn't want to come over by where we were all tailgating because you were being a bitch like you tended to do, crying about some thing or another. That's when Chud called you, saying "If you don't come hang out, I'm burning your ticket, and you're not getting in". That got your ass over there. Really quickly.
We got drunk for hours, all fifteen or so of us, and went in to that Stadium expecting the Giants to blow it like they always did, to dissapoint us in all the creative ways that they'd mastered over the years. Big Blew it? Yup. For a long time they always did. They had lost eight in a row at that point, and our season was down the toilet. But tickets were tickets, and drinking was drinking. So more like loyal drunks than Giants fan, we took the oppurtunities.
But you remember that shit? The Giants kept it close, fighting as hard as they had all year, but were still down in the fourth quarter. I thought it was over, but then I'm a pessimist. What we saw in that last two minutes of that game reminded us again why we loved football.
We watched, in shock and fucking awe, as Eli Manning marched that broken down Giants team down like a Field Marshal, showing flashes of his pedigreee, and an innate strength of character that we never knew he had. When Tiki took that ball in for the last touchdown as time ran out, breaking records as he did, we watched the future of the Giants walk off the field for the first time... as a winner.
One of the last things I remember from that night was asking you if you were driving home, and you closed your eyes and put your head down and said, "Man, I am so fucking drunk. I can't do anything."
Well, that's what this day, this game, was like, Ryer. It was horrible and beautiful and senselessly stressful to watch, and I thought it was over at the end. But Manning took that team, grabbed them by the scruff of their neck, and dusted them off, marching them back down like a fucking warrior in the two minute drill, just like the first time we watched him. With that last touchdown pass with thirty-five seconds left, he put a nail in the heart of New England, and struck the bells that signalled the death knell of these 18-0, undefeated Patriots, the twelve point favorites.
I hope they have TV's wherever the hell you are, and I hope you saw it. We were all thinking of you when they won. I'll be there this week sometime, and I'm leaving a Giants flag on your grave. I said all along that God willed the Giants to win... but I like to think maybe you had something to do with it, too.
Rest in Peace brother. Go Big Blue.
Saturday, February 02, 2008
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