Up, Down, and All Over The Map w/ Buttons and Jules--Part 4* (Scroll down for Parts 1-3):

Margarito (left)/Cotto (right):

Our seats at the Cotto-Margarito fight. "We must have got the last three seats in the Garden."

"He might be hurt a little."

"...when we encountered two of the cutest little girls I've ever seen."

"Margarito!"* (*Note the odd looking right eye behind the glasses).

So now with all the build-up I’ve given to the Cotto-Margarito fight, you might assume that’s what this post is about; but I don’t have much to say in terms of the fight itself. We must have got the last (3) seats in The Garden; and of the 21,000 + in the crowd I’d say Jules was one of maybe two-dozen Margarito fans.

But our tickets were waiting so that credit-card proved good. At least, good enough to get us in; and as of this writing’s no one’s tried to contact me. Course Buttons loved all the macho nationalism and testosterone-induced stares just as sure as Jules loved the Puerto Rican gals and the street-cred of The Garden. He knew I rooted for Cotto, but every half hour or so one of his California friends would call and hype him up on Margarito. Before the fight started, Jules flipped his cellphone closed and turned to me: 


“My boy says Margarito walked Cotto down last fight and then busted him up. He’s got too much come on. I’d see guys like that in the joint. Can’t hurt ‘em. Determined, you know. Not determined...obstinate. You know?,” (here Jules passed me a shooter from an inside pocket of his jacket), “Like a mule or something. My boy says Cotto danced around last fight, got his licks in; but couldn’t ever slow my guy down. Then Margarito gave him a beatdown. That was him just now (Jules gestured toward his cellphone) “telling me Margarito’s gonna do it all over again. In Cotto’s own town!”

Oh man I couldn’t wait for Cotto to shut Jules the fuck up. Never did he mention the plaster eventually found in Margarito’s gloves or the damage done to Cotto’s face. And Jules was talking so loud amidst the pro-Cotto crowd! With complete disregard for who heard him. The whole fight, even as Cotto whooped Maragarito round after round, Jules just rode Cotto.

“Oh man, my guy’s not hurt. He’s just too slow! But Cotto can’t hurt ‘em. He’s a powder-puncher. My guy never stops coming. Oh no ref--don’t stop the fight! No--NO! Look--my guy’s not even hurt! He wants to keep going. Let the Mexican keep going!--right?! (pointing at the lone Mexican flag amidst the Puerto Rican crowd several rows down and over). We want a knockout! He’s not even hurt--right Lodo?...Right?”

“He might be hurt a little.”

But Jules wasn’t hearing it and in fairness he was probably right that Cotto couldn’t hurt Margarito. He injured Margarito; but never really backed him down.

"That is one tough fucking Mexican," Jules repeated over and over as we filed out. It was hard to tell if he was deriding Mexicans or had genuine admiration for Margarito’s toughness since he’d consistently stress the word Mexican. Like it meant something to him, though I wasn’t sure what. Maybe he didn’t know either, but my niece Jaybird is Mexican; so I was sensitive to the subject.

But with Jules it was always up, down, and all over the place. No sooner did I feel one way about him than he spun me ‘round 180 degrees. We filed our way toward the main Garden exit; Jules at full voice and volume about the toughness of Mexicans, when we encountered two of the cutest little girls I’ve ever seen. Mexican girls with long braided hair, in what appeared to be their best, white Sunday dresses. Neither could have been more than 10 years old and they were probably younger. Both had tears in their dark eyes as they clung to their dad’s tight Wrangler jeans and watched in shocked confusion as the crowd filed past, somehow able to go on with their lives despite the loss of their great Mexican champion, Margarito.

Cute.

As we walked past, Jules gave the older of the girls a pat on the head much like I’d give to my dog Spiffy.

“Margarito!” he said to her with intense, avuncular eyes and a playful shake of his raised fist. The girls stared at the strange man and retreated further between their father’s legs.

“He never quit, right?” Jules said simultaneously to the girls, then to the father. “He never backed down!”

The girls looked to their father for a translation, which he proceeded to provide in soft Spanish. The girls wiped their eyes as they listened, nodding their heads in affirmation towards Jules.

“Margarito!” he said again with a big loud grin so that the whole crowd could hear. Some jeered him, but Jules just waved them off--performing for the girls. They smiled at his antics and glowed as though something had been restored.

“Margarito!” they chimed back with hesitant giggles as they looked up toward their dad for reinforcement. Then to my amazement, the dad yelled, “Margarito!” proving the eternal moronity of the human race.

But for whatever reason I liked that little exchange. Took notice of it as we walked outside.

“Cute girls, eh? I said.

“Yeah, I liked ‘em,” Jules responded. “I’ve liked the whole night Lodo. That pub we went to seemed like a real place and even those seats were good considering how late we got in.”

“I’m glad,” I said as Buttons snuck me a hug that sent a flood of warmth through my bones.

“...The only thing I’d have changed, “Jules said, “was how that fight ended. I’d have liked to have seen if that Mexican could get knocked out.”

* NOTE: For me to complete this post as originally conceived, its probably going to take another 2-3 parts. Problem is I'm going out of town until after New Years so...not sure what to do. I've had this happen before with other posts and I've just bailed on 'em, but I kind of want to start finishing these multi-part posts. Come back in a few days and I promise to have something posted--even if its just an intermission to tide things over. Thanks for reading and Happy Holidays!!!

**ADDITIONAL NOTE: All pics stolen off Google Images with the exception of 2nd from the top, which was taken by me on the night of the fight. All rights reserved on my pic.

Up, Down, and all Over The Map w/ Buttons and Jules--Part 3* (*Scroll down for Parts 1 & 2):

"...as I sat there on the B train the excitement of Cotto's revenge and my free night at The Garden turned into the realization that I'd been left to buy three tickets..."

Cotto (Left)/Margarito (right):

From Cotto/Margarito I:


Sweet drunk talk. Is there any better kind of talk? Especially amongst new friends made. And Jules called me brother. I liked that.

It was only on the subway back to Brooklyn that I began to clear my head and mentally review my arrangement with Jules. We didn’t need to be at The Garden ‘til 9:00, so he and Buttons went back to their hotel for a nap. Being the New York investigator, it was left for me to find us three tickets on-line.

Cool.

But in my drunken excitement I overlooked a fundamental defect with our plan. Mainly, that I was left to buy the tickets. At least initially. How I was to be reimbursed was never really locked-in as one drink led to another. Course anything could happen in the five hours before the fight; so as I sat there on the B train the excitement of Cotto’s revenge and my free night at The Garden turned into the realization that I’d been left to buy three tickets based on the promise of a stranger.

Still, I went on-line to find three tickets. And it wasn’t easy. I mean, sure there were tickets: $300.00 apiece; $500.00 apiece; $2500.00 apiece. The fight had been sold-out for a month. The cheapest three I could find together were $150.00 each, which still meant almost $500.00 on my card after taxes and fees and whatnot. I picked up the phone.

“Hey sweetie.”

“Hey Buttons," I said, "did I wake you?”

“Naw we were just fooling around.”

“Oh, okay. Great,..so listen--you really want to go to this fight tonight, right?”

“What?!--Yeah, of course we do. Why?--what’s the matter?”

“Welll, its just that,...you know. Like I was saying at the bar, tickets are really expensive so I just want to make sure you want to do this and weren’t just...I don’t know, caught-up in the moment.”

“Naw Lodo, we wanna go--you betcha! Cotta! Cotta! And we’re buying your ticket so get us some good seats.”

“Well, yeah, okay. But good seats are gonna be very...do me a favor, put Jules on the phone.”

So Jules got on the phone and I brought-up my concerns: the limits of my credit card and how even the cheapest, most nose-bleed seats were gonna cost $150.00 each. I told him I didn’t care one way or another if I watched the fight on TV or at The Garden and suggested that he take Buttons on his own or that we all go to a bar or...

Yet no sooner had I made this last point when Jules interrupted me saying,

“Now Lodo, you know that’s not what we talked about. I told all my Mexican buddies I’m going to Madison Square Garden to see this guy Margarito and from what you’re saying it sounds like you’ve found us some real nice tickets. So here’s what you need to do. You got a pen? Okay good, now here, write this number down...”

Jules proceeded to give me a credit card number. Expiration date. Provided an address and gave me the name the way it was written on the credit card. Cool, right?

Only the name on the card wasn’t Jules. Not that I knew him for any period of time; nor did I assume Jules was or had to be his real name. Still, the name he provided for the card didn’t even approximate Jules; and the city address and zip code didn’t match the area code of his cellphone number.

But whatever--right? So long as the card worked. Plenty of possible explanations; and besides, Jules is a grown man. He’ll do as he sees fit. He didn’t just offer to take me to The Garden--he said he wanted to take me. Him and Buttons both. So I didn’t want to look a gift-horse in the mouth.

I was more than ready to use that card, and for a few moments I was even tempted to buy those $500.00 seats. After all, hadn’t Buttons instructed me to “get good seats?” But in the end my better judgment caught up with me and I bought us the $150.00 tickets.

Only that wasn’t the end of it. ‘Cause shortly thereafter the ticket broker emailed me a form, requesting that I sign it and return it.
What? I thought to myself. I’ve never had to do that before. Usually you give them a number and they process the card. But the broker insisted that I sign a form (or Jules sign it--or whoever’s name was on that card!) and then email it back to them.

So I felt bad having to get back on the horn with Jules, but seeing as how the broker wanted a signature it just seemed like Jules should...I don’t know, just take things over and buy the tickets himself.

But no, Jules said he “didn’t like to send emails” and besides, he was “more than fine” with my signing his name on that form.

“Yeah Jules, but it doesn't even seem like your name I’d be signing.”

“Oh sure it is Lodo--you know me as Jules but I’m really ____ ________. Just make the ‘H’ very pronounced and then the rest of the name is just a squiggle.”

Umm hmm. So I’d sign and email the form to the broker using my email address for over $500.00 worth of tickets. The investigator in me wasn’t crazy 'bout that arrangement, though I quickly chastised myself for thinking the worst of Jules.

But later, when Jules insisted I go to the ticket window to pick-up the tickets, I got the feeling he had concerns about showing his face.

Or what might be waiting there.

* NOTE: Due to the length of this post, I'm going to split this into another part. Part 4 should be done in a few days.

* ADDITIONAL NOTE: All pics of Cotto and Margarito stolen off Google Images.

Up, Down, and All Over the Map w/ Buttons and Jules--Part 2* (*Scroll down for Part 1):

Miguel Cotto connects on Antonio Margarito (Madison Sq. Garden):

"I just got off the phone with some of my Mexican buddies out in California."

"...like when they had the big match against Muhammad Ali and Smoky Joe."
Antonio Margarito (w/ broken right orbital bone):


"Miguel Cotto’s Puerto Rican, but Madison Square Garden is like his home crowd. All the Puerto Ricans turn out for him. And when they do he sells-out the entire place, not just what they call The Theater at Madison Square Garden, which is a lot smaller. That’s where they usually stage all the fights; but Cotto’s so popular he sells out the whole big Garden."

And that’s who’s fighting tonight?” Buttons asked, wide eyed from her bar stool.

“Yep,” I told her, “he’s fighting a Mexican guy named Antonio Margarito,”

“Oh a Mexican, eh? Wow.”

“Yep, Mexicans and Puerto Ricans have been fighting a long time,” I told her as we clinked glasses filled with fresh drinks. “The Mexicans usually win.”

“Wow, I didn’t know that.”

“Its true, but I think this is gonna be Cotto’s night.”

Jules suddenly ambled back thru the door. He’d been outside on a call--one of several he had to take despite it being Saturday, but now returned with a determined look to drink his pint of Stella.

“Hey there Lodo,” he said as he smacked my back and grabbed his pint off the bar, “I just got off the phone with a couple of my Mexican buddies out in California and they say that guy Margarito’s one tough mother-fucker and that he’s gonna whip your guy Cotto’s butt!”

“What?!”

“They said (here Jules took another dramatic swig of his beer for Button’s amusement and thrust his finger into my chest) “that Margarito’s one tough fucking Mexican and that you have to kill that guy if you’re gonna beat ‘em and that your man Cotto ain’t the guy to do it!”

“You’ve gotta b...”

“Oh no way!” Buttons suddenly interjected in my defense as she slammed what must have been her third Cosmopolitan down on the bar. “Your guy cheated last time and this is Cotta’s hometown--right Lodo? All the Puerto Ricans are gonna turn out and they’re gonna fill the whole Madison Square Garden like when they had the big match between Muhammad Ali and Smoky Joe. Lodo told me everything, the whole story. "Bout those things inside his gloves; that--plaster. Cotta’s fans are pissed off! You betcha they are. That’s why Lodo couldn’t get tickets.”

Wow reader, I’d really sold Buttons on this fight. That eagerness of her’s. Her sister Rules could never have been convinced to go to a boxing match. Soon as it was mentioned her ears would have turned off. But Buttons gets it. Her and Jules both. A championship fight? HBO. The Garden sold-out to the roof with vengeful Puerto Ricans? Oh yeah, we get that. Made me upset that I’d grown irritated with her earlier.

And even Jules--who’s finger-jab I didn’t like turned out to be a surprise.

“So listen Lodo,” he said to me a short time later, “ Buttons and I definitely want to go this fight. And we want to take you with us.”

“Really Jules?”

“Yeah, really brother. Why don’t you find us three tickets and we’ve got yours covered.”



"Margarito's one tough fucking Mexican and you have to kill that guy if you're gonna beat em..."


* NOTE: Thanks to anyone who's stuck w/ me so far on this one. I got side-tracked for several days; and also wanted to get some permissions in regards to picture usage (permissions I never could get). I apologize if this installment doesn't really push the narrative along; but I had to get back in the groove/feel of this post. Part 3 should be here a lot faster. All pics included herein were stolen off Google Images. See you in a few days--and thanks again!!

Up, Down, and All Over The Map w/ Buttons and Jules (Part 1):

"...his face wasn't weathered so much as marked of character. Something almost cowboy about him."



I thought I’d caught the blog up last week--or at least started the process; but now I see I’m forever behind. A whole ‘nother week of my life’s gone by. Lost and wasted--though certainly not wasted. Not in New York with Buttons and her boyfriend (Jules). They visited for a week and man--they got it, by which I mean New York. Those two know how to have fun.

I’ve known Buttons for years--she’s the sister of my friend Rules. But I’d never met Jules before this visit.

We all met up in midtown on Saturday (December 3rd). Their flight had landed at JFK a few hours earlier, but of course they had no jetlag. Not Buttons. In fact both seemed fueled with the pent-up mania of sustained cabin pressure and cramped quarters suddenly released on urban NYC.

I’d never met Jules before; yet he greeted me with a real smile and a familiar pat on the back as the three of us walked round Herald Square in search of a pub. To get acquainted. At some point--in mid conversation, Jules suddenly stopped where we were on the sidewalk and noted the building.

“Hey Lodo, does this happen to be a post office?”

“Yeah man. Why?--you need something?”

“Actually,” he said as his gloved hands fumbled with the inside pocket of his overcoat, "would you mind putting this in an inside box for me? If you’d do that, Buttons and I could run across the street and buy a couple of shooters. What d’ya like--scotch?”

“Yeah, I like Johnnie if you’re offering. Sure.”

So I accepted the document-sized envelope from Jules and ran it inside to a mailbox. Didn’t think anything of it, and when I returned outside, there were Jules and Buttons across the street waving me over. Expectantly. Something in Button’s eager wave that kind of irritated me though I quickly shrugged it off and reminded myself not to get anxious round her charged energy.

“Hey man, did you mail that for me?” Jules asked as he handed me a shooter of Johnny Walker out a paper bag.

“Yeah, man. I dropped it in the box.”

“Oh that’s great Lodo. I like the way you did that.”

“Did what?” I asked as I twisted the cap off my bottle.

“The way you mailed that for me. Thanks. I really didn’t want to deal with all those steps, but you just were able to run up and mail it. And that’s great. So now listen, what do you want to do tonight?”

“Well, I’d kind of...”

“Anything you want to do Lodo. You name it,” Jules insisted as he tilted back a shooter of his own. Buttons hung on his arm with a huge smile on her face like a schoolgirl; and in fact, Jules was a lot older than I’d expected. He had deep wrinkles round his leaden eyes that sat deep in his skull; though his face wasn’t weathered so much as marked of character. Something almost cowboy about him despite his wool overcoat and fedora. The freedom of excess. And excesses taken.

“Well, I’d kind of like to watch the Miguel Cotto/Antonio Margarito fight. You guys probably wouldn’t be into that, but...that’s what I’d do tonight. We can meet after that if you want.”

“And where’s that gonna be?” Jules asked.

“Well the fight’s at The Garden, but I’d just go to a bar and watch it. Otherwise its gonna be a hundred dollars just to get in.”

Jules and Buttons exchanged a glance.

“Well we could afford that,” said Jules as he flippantly tossed his empty shooter into the street.

* NOTE: Due to the length of this post, I'm gonna split it into another part. Part 2 shouldn't take long.

** ADDITIONAL NOTE: All pics stolen off Google Images except for # 1. All rights reserved on my pic.

What're You Gonna Do? (or maybe...The People Have Spoken!):

YouTube legend Christina (332,589 hits as of this writing):



Dave Douglas' Keystone (114 hits as of this writing):



w/ my man Dave Douglas (at Jazz Standard.) Don't get discouraged Dave--no man can compete w/ Christina!!

Hall of Fame! (but we already knew that):

* Article stolen From Yahoo Sports this A.M.:

CANASTOTA, N.Y. (AP)—Thomas “Hitman” Hearns, the first man to win titles in four divisions, tops a list of 13 people elected to the International Boxing Hall of Fame and Museum.

Hearns, who won five titles altogether, compiled a 155-8 amateur record and was 61-5-1 with 48 knockouts as a pro.

Also selected were: Mark Johnson, a two-division champion; ring announcer Michael Buffer; trainer Freddie Roach; broadcaster Al Bernstein; and journalist Michael Katz.

Inductees were selected by members of the Boxing Writers Association and a panel of international boxing historians.

Induction day is June 10, 2012.

* NOTE: All pics stolen from Google Images, with the exception of the photo depicting sax great James Carter and me.

On Books I've Read, Talking Animals, and my Thanksgiving Donnybrook:

"What they need to do is crack some heads..."



w/ my Grandma:


I don’t like to go more than a week without a post--that’s just not blogging! But the holiday threw me off schedule, and the weather here in New York’s been so freaking great that I couldn’t waste these balmy days in front of computer. So this post won’t be much more than a check-in with my readers and and an attempt to get back in the swing of things.

Sooo,...lets see. Well, first of all, I finished On the Road by Jack Kerouack; and I have to say at no point did Kerouak write, “Today I had a beer. Tomorrow,..I’ll have another beer.” So I don’t where you got that line Rules! He also failed to mention a three-way between Neil Cassady, Alan Ginsberg, and Cassady’s wife; so I don’t know where my buddy Catfish read that.

We don’t write book or movie reviews here at Intermission. That kind of dead writing’s for college students and professors; but I have to say I really liked On the Road. In fairness to Rules, I think I’m a better storyteller than Kerouack; but he’s a far better writer. And way more original. Half my life philosophy--if not the whole damn thing is spelled-out within the pages of On the Road. Only now its 2011, whereas Kerouak’s book was published in 1957.

Course Henry Miller has all the Beats beat in terms of originality, freedom of expression, and prolific accomplishment. And On the Road only occasionally approaches the greatness of Ken Kesey’s Sometimes a Great Notion. But I like a lot of things Kerouack does in On the Road; particularly his jazz descriptions--both of the musicians and the music itself. And when he talks glowingly of Neal Cassady I can’t help but think of my old buddy Jake. The drunken Denver nights, the manic episodes of crazed genius, the boundless energy.

And of course the love of a great friend.

“You see, man, you get older and troubles pile up. Someday you and me’ll be coming down an alley together at sundown and looking in the cans to see.

“You mean we’ll end up old bums?”

Why not man? Of course we will if we want to, and all that. There’s no harm ending that way. You spend a whole life of non-interference with the wishes of others, including politicians and the rich, and nobody bothers you and you cut along and make it your own way.” I agreed with him. He was reaching his Tao decisions in the simplest direct way. “What’s your road, man?--holyboy road, madman road, rainbow road, guppy road, any road. Its an anywhere road for anybody anyhow. Where body how?...I’ll tell you Sal, straight, no matter where I live, my trunk’s always sticking out from under the bed, I’m ready to leave or get thrown out. I’ve decided to leave everything out of my hands. You’ve seen me try and break my ass to make it and you know it doesn’t matter and we know time--how to slow it up and walk and dig and just old-fashioned spade kicks, what other kicks are there? We know.”

That was Jake and me. In Denver. And New York. I realize now it literally killed him to have to go back to Denver with his tail between his legs. Scrounging through trashcans at dusk as time suddenly closed-in on him.

But I know he got his kicks.

After I finished On the Road, I started The Art of Racing in the Rain. My mom gave it to me last month when I was in Denver. She knows I like the talking-animal genre and that I’m a huge dog-lover; so the book seemed a perfect fit. But within the first few pages I knew it wasn’t for me.

Because the talking-animal genre is only funny when its animals that talk. Baloo in Jungle Book; Donkey in Shrek; Ferdinand in Babe. They’re hilarious ‘cause they’re animals with human qualities. But the dog in The Art of Racing isn’t a dog at all. He’s just a regular person.

“Gestures are all that I have; sometimes they must be grand in nature. And while I occasionally step over the line and into the world of the melodramatic, it is what I must do in order to communicate clearly and effectively. In order to make myself understood without question. I have no words I can rely on because, much to my dismay, my tongue was designed long and flat and loose, and therefore is a horribly ineffective tool for pushing food around my mouth while chewing, and even less effective tool for making clever and complicated polysyllabic sounds that can be linked together to form sentences...”

Polysyllabic? Melodramatic? Horribly ineffective? What dog talks like that? Stupid book. It’ll probably sell 10 million copies, but I chucked it within a hundred pages--and only read that far cause my mom gave it to me.

The Art of Racing in the Rain is written by Garth Stein. Based on the characters, as well as the little author description in back, I’d say he’s gay; but that’s just a guess. I don’t give a shit one way or another since I know a lot of very cool gay people. I only bring it up cause it ties into the only exciting part of my Thanksgiving weekend.

The holiday dinner was down in Atlantic City, which is kind of Detroit on the Atlantic Ocean. Real bad with no hope. But I’ve got relatives down there, so that’s where we met.

These are relatives I don’t see often. Due to the lack of familiarity--as well as the fact that most of my relatives are Jewish (and as such, don’t drink adequate amounts of alcohol), I had to bring a flask of my own. And it was a good thing I did since--as expected, when I got to the hotel there was no bar. Just a lot of overweight people noshing on cookies and other B-list, sugary treats.

“Anyone got any chocolate?” I asked.

“Sure,” my Aunt said as she dug into a plastic bag and handed me a bite-sized Three Musketeers. I accepted out of politeness, but didn’t bother to unwrap it.

“I thought you said you wanted chocolate?” she asked a short time later when she noticed it had gone untouched.

“That’s candy,” I told her with a dismissive wave of my hand, though I don’t think she got the distinction.

Nothing against my other relatives, but I only went down to AC to see my grandmother. She’s 95 now so I whenever she’s close, I take the time to see her. I love my grandma and share a lot of her qualities; but on this visit she kept haranguing me about the flask.

“What’s that?” she asked as I unscrewed the top and took a pull, “alcohol?”

“Yep--you want some?”

My grandmother curled her nose and frowned.

“You’re so much of an alcoholic that you need to bring that?” she asked. 95 years old and she’s still sharp as a tack.

“I don’t think a half-pint of scotch with three football games and Thanksgiving dinner is an alcoholic grandma.”

But she wouldn’t leave it alone. My cousin Mark (from Detroit) was kind enough to ask for a taste so I wouldn’t have to drink alone, yet this still wasn’t good enough for Grandma.

“There he goes again with another shot of that...stuff. Terrible. Terrible!”

Eventually I had to leave to sit at a different table and that’s when the real trouble started.

At this new table were Tango and Cash. Two guys who always come to these parties together, live together, and who are obviously...well, together; though apparently this is a fact that has always gone unacknowledged by the rest of the family. They’re in the closet as the saying goes, which is fine by me. No need for the world to get in their business.

Only like Roy Cohn or Herman Cain, these guys seem to hide their homosexuality or self-hatred behind a veil of ultra-conservatism. They openly espouse their Republican leanings and color every conversation with political overtones. Not that I’ve ever cared--I’m not political. And everything was fine ‘til we somehow got on the topic of Occupy Wall Street.

“What I don’t get is what these people want,” said Cash, who appears to be the pitcher of the pair. “From what I see they’re just homeless trash.”

“You’ve been down there?” I asked, as I neared the bottom of my flask.

“No, but I’ve seen it on TV. And from what I’ve see...”

“Well maybe you should go down there before you draw your conclusions,” I responded.

Cash smiled one of his Newt Gingrich, professorial smiles to Tango.

“Uh oh, I think we’ve got a liberal here,” he said.

“I don’t buy into liberal or conservative. And I can care less about politics Cash. I’ve got no wife, no kids, no house, no car payments. I have no stake in anything. But when you call people ‘homeless trash’ you might want to check yourself. Especially when you admit you haven’t been down there.”

“Okay Lodo, then what do they want?”

“First of all, if you’d been down there, you’d see there is no ‘they,’ since there’s all kinds of different voices down there. Half of ‘em probably are just homeless anarchy types; but then there’s a whole separate section made-up of environmental activists. Then there’s a group of old-school hippies and religious types concerned with social justice issues; and another group of union organizers. There’s a lot of old people concerned about cuts to Medicare and Social Security; and lots of young people concerned about their college debt and lack of job prospects. There’s all kinds of different interests. Its not like the Tea Party that’s just about low taxes and less government.”

“Well they’re gonna have to decide what they stand for soon.”

“Why?”

“What d’ya mean why?” Cash asked.

“I mean why?” I answered. “Why can’t they just say 'we’re not happy, we don’t like things, and we want things to change?' As long as they’re peaceful aren’t they entitled to freedom of speech?”

Here Cash gave another one of his smug, didactic grins for the table.

“Well if you study your history Lodo you’d see that this is how revolutions actually get started. You can’t just let these people huddle and plan and agitate with no purpose or you could have real social upheaval.”

I had to laugh at that.

“No offense Cash, but if enough people identified with the movement to risk social upheaval then that’d serve Democracy wouldn’t it?”

“Not rea...”

“The cops oughta go in there and bust a few heads. That’d put ‘em in their place and end this nonsense,” Tango suddenly interjected as he stroked his closely-cropped red beard.

Now I began to get angry.

“You just said you haven’t been down there Tango. There’s a lot of old people there. And real young one’s too. There’s a whole mixture of people and agendas. You can’t just categorize them as one thing. You wouldn’t like it if someone said gay people were all pedophiles and whatnot just because of that Penn State guy.”

“Why would that bother me?” Tango asked.

“Oh come on,” I said as I addressed both him and Cash, “you and Cash are obviously together. You don’t need to be an investigator to see that.”

All side-talk at the table suddenly stopped. Forks fell on plates. Tango became beet red as his eyes darted from side-to-side; while Cash let out one of his stifled, smug laughs which I now know is a defense mechanism. That was no issue, but then he suddenly and most purposefully knocked over my flask, spilling my last shot of Johnnie Walker Black to the floor and on my best suit, at which point I immediately and instinctually crammed the bite sized Three Musketeers bar I still (for some reason) had into his forehead. That set-off a whole series of events too numerous to mention, except to say that I ultimately found myself eating turkey with my grandma in my hotel room as we watched a re-run of Kung Fu Panda on HBO.

“I didn’t like that flask of yours the moment I saw it.”

“Just leave it alone grandma. ...And pass the sweet potatoes.”






* NOTE: All pics stolen off Google Images except for # 2, # 3, # 7, # 8, # 9, # 10, and # 12. All rights reserved on my pics.

** ADDITIONAL NOTE: Excerpts from On the Road and The Art of Racing in The Rain were used w/out the permission of the Kerouak Estate or Garth Stein. I'm sure all rights are reserved on their stuff.