New York City Pics + a Clip* (*Double-click on Images for Full-View):

5 Pointz (Long Island City):



Soho:



Soho* (*have to say I don't really approve of this sort of thing):



5 Pointz:



5 Pointz:



5 Pointz:



5 Pointz:



5 Pointz:



5 Pointz:



5 Pointz:



Cooling out at the Taste of The Upper West Side:



Soho:



Never get tired of this clip. CLASSIC baby!





* NOTE: All 5 Pointz murals completed by members of the 5 Pointz Art Collective in Long Island City, NY. Images may be copyrighted (not really sure). All rights reserved on my pics (for whatever that's worth!).



** ADDITIONAL NOTE: Big thanks to everyone that called over the weekend to see if I was okay--particularly Ilona, Marcia, and The Dallas Beauty Queen. Turned out to be no big deal--but thanks again y'all!!

My Man Jake--That was My Dog! Part 2* (*Scroll down for Part 1):

Jake (left); w/ Ms. Lulu (ctr.) in NYC:











Two Jindos:



Jake, Jake, Jake--what did go on in his mind? I’d slept on his couch countless times after nights of partying; and on occasion would leaf through his porn collection. Before the internet every guy had one under his bed; or in Jake’s case, just lying around anywhere. What’d he have to hide? He was fond of old, 1970’s Playboy’s where the girls still had those thick bushes; but he also had a penchant for a magazine called Over 50, which depicted women over 50 in highly graphic pictorials. Course if I felt I were breaking a confidentiality I’d never mention it here; but Jake was open ‘bout his fondness for the magazine within our social circle. What the hell it meant you’d have to ask a psychiatrist (neither of us was past our mid-30’s at the time). All I know is I opened one of ‘em, one time, and swore off pussy for a month.



In fairness, I have my own deviations. Not gonna try and hide that. In particular I’m kind of fond of massage parlors; which, say what you will, strike me as a relatively harmless bang for the buck. I’ve probably been to everyone of ‘em here in New York; and as such, can tell the difference between a respectable joint and a house of flat-out exploitation.



Back when Jake lived in Queens, there was a parlor right around his corner. We used to go all the time ‘til he began to date Ms. Lulu. Then it was just me, though Jake sometimes stopped by to chat-up the girls. As for myself, I frequented so often I could have had a room with my name on it; and once I even watched the place for an hour while two of the girls made a house-call (now there’s a future post for you!).



I recall a night--another fight night where I was going to meet Jake at his apartment. He was with Ms. Lulu by then, but of course I planned to visit the parlor before the telecast. Just a nice, civilized evening for Lodo.



“They’ve got a new girl over there,” Jake told me over the phone. “You should ask for her. Obviously I can’t, but..she’s real pretty.”



So when I went there later that evening, I was greeted by all the gals, and got to meet the new girl--Hana.



“Oh,” she said deferentially, “you are Mr. Lodo?”



“That’s me.”



“You are very special customer here! Everyone tells me about you,” she said as she gestured towards the other women with a smile. “Come, I give you very special massage.”



Hana led me to the room where I proceeded to disrobe. Normally the girls will leave the room as you get undressed, but Hana stayed where she was and even helped me remove my shirt.



She was a strange, exotic gal this Hana. Definitely pretty as Jake had said, though even my Asian girlfriends will tell you that there’s not much to differentiate one girl from the other. Or at least, not as much as other persuasions. She looked young enough to be under 30; and her long, black hair still had the sheen of youth. She was thin, but strong in a wiry way; and watched my movements with a deliberate, evaluative eye.



“You’re pretty,” I told her as I hung my jeans on a hook installed to the back of the room’s cheap door.



“Thank you,” she said with a shy smile as she patted the massage table to indicate I should lie down.



“Face down,” she said as she activated some soft mood music on a CD player and dimmed the lights.



“You wanna hard, medium, or soft?” she asked me.



Of course I wanted a hard massage.



Hana proceeded to rub my shoulders and neck; then squeezed her strong hands down the length of my arm and forearm ‘til my fingers curled into a baby’s claw. Soon she was working the length of my ugly, hairy back with long powerful strokes that squeezed the day and the world out my muscles like water from a sponge.



“You like?” she asked with a gentle whisper in my ear.



“Oh yeah, that’s really nice.”



After a time Hana placed a cupped hand on my back, then used the other to smack down on the cup, so that each contact produced a loud pop! She did this all along the length of my back as the muzak of the CD player could be heard juxtaposed in the background.



Love lifts us up where we belong,

where the eagle flies,

on a mountain high,



Except that there were no words. Just the strange, distant sound of eastern-stringed instruments that twanged away at the melody. Very relaxing. Hana’s hands were warm and strong. The smell of baby-oil hypnotizing. The muscles in my back slowly turned to mush as I let out a huge sigh of submission. Just ease back,..relax,...and dreammmm...



But for some odd reason Hana suddenly became talkative.



“What you do for work?” she asked.



“...I’m an investigator,” I answered tentatively, still face-down and lazy, “for insurance.”



“Oh, insurance,” she said, “I see. ...Insurance.”



Exactly how good Hana’s English was I couldn’t say. She seemed to contemplate the concept of insurance for quite awhile before inspired to ask a follow-up.



“...You married?” she asked after a time. A common question at places like these and usually code for You just want a handjob or something more? I rarely get more than a handjob, but that's subject matter for another post.



“No, I’m not married,” I told her, “how ‘bout you?”



“No,” she answered, “I just move here.”



“Let me guess--Flushing, right?”



Hana laughed. “Yes!--that’s right. We all of us live in Flushing.”



Again time passed without a word, which was fine by me. Until,



“...You like being alone?” Hana suddenly asked.



“...I suppose,” I answered lazily, not really in the mood to think. “I always have been so I must. How ‘bout you?”



“I’d like to be married one day,” she answered with distant hope in her voice, “but for now I have my dogs, so I’m not so lonely.”



“Oh, you have dogs? What kind?”



“I have two Jindo’s--you know them?”



“Jindo’s? No, I’ve never heard of those.”



“They’re from my country--Korea. They’re very hard to get here, but I have two.”



Hana sounded very proud of her Jindo’s; and in truth I was somewhat jealous of her in that regard. Still, I would have preferred to have fallen back to my dreamy stupor; but Hana had more to say.



“Jindo’s very smart dogs. They never bark and I train them very easy. When I first move to Flushing, I put them in the yard before work; and when I come home, I find them on the porch. I ask myself ‘What? How they be there?’ I know I lock the gate, so how they get away? But they no run in the street or bother neighbors. Nothing. They just sit there on the porch waiting. For me. Jindo’s very smart that way. They watch the house.”



“Um hmm,” I answered, starting to wish Hana would shut up or maybe get to jerking me off. ‘Course if you’re Willie Y or just paying attention you probably already see where this is going. But I was half asleep amidst the dimmed lights, the soft muzak; anesthetized by the smell of baby oil and the brief relief from my herniated discs. So my mind was only so focused.



Hana seemed to recognize my mindset, and silently resumed to work my trigger-points. But after some time she couldn’t contain herself.



“...Yep, they no even run away. I just find them on the porch waiting after all day; even though I locked the gate. They very smart.”



“Um hmm.”



“...I wonder, how they end up there if I locked the gate?"



"Right.”



"...I mean..."



And then it hit me. Like a bolt of lightning right up my brain-stem. Immediately I grabbed Hana’s wrist as I whipped round on the massage table. I stood up to confront her, still squeezing her forearm, in response to which she held her other hand up defensively, as though afraid I was ‘bout to strike.



“Hey!” I said to her with what must have been an excited, almost disturbed confusion. “Are you asking me who let the dogs out?!”



At which point I heard nothing less than a primitive howl of hilarity from immediately outside the room. I quickly threw a towel ’round my waist, kicked the open the door, and there was Jake with two of the massage gals, along with a big shit-eating grin on his face. Oh man! you want to talk about laughing ‘til you almost cry. But I could do that ten million times when I think about my man Jake. That was my best dog there.



* NOTE: None of the Asian girls depicted herein is named Hana; and none of the phone numbers listed will lead you to Lodo Grdzak. What they may lead to...I can't say; nor is it my responsibility.

My Man Jake--That Was My Dog!* (*Part 1):

Jake w/ Rules in NYC:



"...based on his headshots, you were left with the impression of Jon Hamm.."



"...but in person he was more like Robert Downey, Jr. or Mel Gibson. Before the rehabs."



Jake's all-time favorite fantasy gal, the legendary Candy Loving:





"Who let the dogs out?"



Really bad picture of Jake on the cover of Just for Men hair-coloring:



Ah Jake! Like Russia, I could write ten million posts ‘bout that guy. Ten million posts for the ten million laughs we had. The guy was a nut--figuratively and literally. What man of greatness isn’t?



But Jake was fun--a whacky nut; only rarely a dangerous one. Except maybe to himself. Because of his good looks the agents always tried to cast him as the hero cop. Or the straight man. This was based on his head-shots, which left you with the impression of a Jon Hamm crossed with a young Harvey Keitel. The Irish-dark hair and eyes. The thick brows. Chiseled jaw. But in person he was more like Robert Downey, Jr. or Mel Gibson. Before their rehabs. A tight, restless energy. Almost skittish, yet comfortable inside it. At home in his mania. “Oh, you’re quirky,” one casting agent told him after an audition. “I didn’t get that from your pictures.”



I’ll tell you something quirky ‘bout Jake--he loved a hairy pussy. Why I should know this is anyone’s guess, but if you had any kind of extended conversation with him the subject somehow came up.



“You don’t have one of those shaved clammers do you?” I heard Jake ask a drunken girl before he decided to take her home. “ ‘Cause I can’t stand that.”



“Uh, no,” the girl answered, more amused than you might expect, “I guess I’ve got more of...a landing strip.”



To which Jake would roll his eyes derisively and look in my direction.



“Man, none of these young gals has a real bush anymore!”



That was Jake. The sick fuck loved big tits and a thick bush. And he liked to shock your sensibilities or throw you off balance--perhaps cause that’s where his mind was. Readers may remember a song a decade or so back called Who Let the Dogs Out? A moronic pop tune (aren’t they all?) that asked the age old question referenced in the title. Well, for a long time after we re-connected in New York Jake got into the habit of telling me a story. It’d be a good one--usually sexual in nature to maintain my interest. An example might be something like:



“So anyway Lodo, I’m banging this chick in the bathroom with her panties off to the side. Normally I’d have her take ‘em off, but she’s got that shaved twat which I can’t look at!--so at least I can stare at those panties as I watch my junk going in and out. Anyway, I’ve got her bent over the sink and I’m going at it when she suddenly turns ‘round and you know what she says to me?”



“...What?” I’d ask, clueless, but now completely invested.



“She’s like, ‘Who let the dogs out!’”



At which point Jake would break into a sort-of Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch break-dance all over and around the sidewalk.



“...Wait? What?” I asked the first time he’d done this to me in my blunted confusion. “Why’d she ask you that?”



“She didn’t really ask that Lodo,” he’d respond with a sardonic grin. “I’m just fucking with you.”



There was a whole summer where Jake would do that. Spin some extraordinary tale, which only sounded plausible cause it was from him. ‘Course he was a real good actor too, so I’d follow along ‘til he got to the climax of the story, at which point he’d turn and say,



“...so then the manager walks right up to me. He’s really big and pissed and gets right in my face. We look at each other for a few seconds, neither of us backing down. Then he suddenly says to me ‘...Who let the dogs out!' ”



And then back to his God-awful break-dancing that amused him so much.



And I guess it amused me too. At least those first few times. It was funny. But after awhile it got so that we couldn’t carry on a conversation. He’d begin to detail one of his adventures and I’d have to stop him in mid-stream.



“Hey,” I’d say as I spun Jake ‘round on the sidewalk,” this isn’t gonna end with who let the dogs out, is it?”



“No Lodo,” he’d answer with a countenance that suggested otherwise.



“You sure?...’Cause really, I couldn’t take that. Not anymore of that--okay?”



You had to do that with Jake. Let him know your limits cause he didn’t have any.



I recall one time, a fight night so it must have been a Saturday. I’d gone to his house early; maybe 6:00 or so, where to my surprise he offered-up a couple lines to snort. I’ve never been a coke guy--it’s just not my drug; but if you’re gonna throw a line or two my way I won’t say no. Particularly at that time since I’d just injured my back.



So I snorted a couple meager lines and man did that rush feel good! Jake and I exchanged a conspiratorial smile of shared, altered experience, at which point he snorted half of the last line.



“Go ahead Lodo,” he said as he pointed toward the mirror, “finish that.”



So okay, in total I snorted just over two small lines. That was at about 6:00. Then we walked a full lap ‘round Central Park, smoked a few cigars, killed a fifth of Johnnie Walker and watched two championship fights. Suddenly it was past midnight, yet I felt exactly the same as at 6:00. I mean, I didn’t come down at all!



“Hey,” I said to Jake as we turned off the TV and prepared to leave for the night, “that wasn’t coke was it?”



“I never said it was Lodo” he responded with a Cheshire cat’s grin and a firm squeeze of my trapezoids. “But you like it, right?”



Actually reader, not so much. Freaking degenerate that guy could be.











* NOTE: Due to the length of this post, I'm gonna split it into another part. Part 2 should be in a few days.



** ADDITIONAL NOTE: All pics of famous people were stolen off Google Images. In fact, even the Just for Men box may be copyrighted. All rights reserved on my pics.

Happy Birthday Jake (Let's Go Rockies!):

Jake (toughest pound-for-pound): "...really dense linebacker's muscle as opposed to the fast-twitch, sprinter's musculature of my genetics."



I can’t talk about old friends and basketball without thinking of my buddy Jake, who would have had a birthday this week. By the time we met I was in slightly better physical condition than my Detroit days, though I hadn’t yet quit cigarettes. And of course any gains I’d made in endurance we’re offset by the thin, Denver air. The Colorado natives assured me I’d be acclimated after a few days; but in my case, simple tasks still left me gassed and gasping several weeks after my move.



Conversely, I don’t think Jake had ever smoked a cigarette in his life. He’d been an All-State wrestler at his Illinois high school; could easily roller-blade 20 miles or more of uneven Colorado terrain; and had been an avid mountain biker for the year he’d lived in Denver before I met him. So he was in top-notch condition, and had a real advantage in our 1-on-1 match-ups.



I can’t recall how we got started on those basketball games since neither of us was very good; but like all great rivalries, we were very evenly matched in ways that complimented the other. Jake probably had an inch or two of height on me, and about 40 pounds of muscular weight to throw around; but his shot was surprisingly bad--even worse than mine. His shooting percentage couldn’t have been more than 25%; but it was an odd 25% in that it was consistent from anywhere on the floor: the free-throw line; half-court line; simple lay-ups. It didn’t matter, Jake would hit about 25% of the time.



As for myself, my shot had greatly improved since my Detroit days. Couple that with my serious ups, erratic rhythm, and Rodman-inspired defense and I played bigger than my 145 pounds.



But the deciding factor was always Jake’s motor, which was off the charts. In fact, our games consistently played-out the same way. I’d jump out to a 5-0 or 6-0 lead, before I’d hit an inevitable wall of fatigue. Jake would then rattle off six or seven unchallenged lay-ups in a row ‘til I could finally rally my efforts. We’d battle like crazy ‘til we were tied at 10 (games were always to 11) at which time Jake was sure to announce, “gotta win by two!” Man, that always sapped my spirit. It took herculean efforts on my part to get to 10; then Jake would drop that win by two comment with a shit-eating grin and I’d suddenly feel all the lead in my legs and fire in my lungs.



Needless to say, I usually lost our wars by scores of 13-11 or 14-12; but we were both such bad shooters it could take a half-hour or more to get those last two points. Then I’d collapse to the floor with the giddiness of exhaustion.



“Come on Lodo,” Jake would say as he continued to throw the ball off the glass backboard, “lets play one more.”



Jake wasn’t the toughest guy I ever met; but he was definitely the toughest pound-for pound: 5’ 10”; 185 pounds in perfect, bricked-out condition. Really dense, linebacker’s muscle as opposed to the fast-twitch, sprinter’s musculature of my genetics. He had abnormal strength for his size--particularly in his legs; and combined with his wrestling skills was a force to be reckoned with. Especially if he was angry. I’d seen him take-down and really hurt guys that were 3" or 4” taller; and 20 or 30 pounds heavier.



But for all that, he had a giggly quality to him. At least around me. The guy was an easy laugh; and we we must have shared a million in the decade that we were friends. A million laughs and a hundred or so trips, and you know how tight that makes you.



One time--May 10, 1995 to be exact; we ate a bunch of mushrooms and went to a Rockies game at Coors Field. Not that either of us gave a shit about baseball; but Jake got a free pair of tickets from his work. So we went to the game with our heads full of booms, which I can assure you was about as stupid an idea as it sounds.



Course it took time for them to kick-in. We’d got thru the national anthem and even a Coors beer before the farcical moronity of a professional baseball game and human existence slowly began to reveal itself. The thousands of hairless monkeys gathered in their team colors to play one of 162 meaningless games as the waves of anxious energy flowed out my gut and morphed into a Jello-Pudding smile that remained fixed to my face for hours.



But still just warmth. A genuine feeling of controlled mirth. Until a fan in front of us stood-up and shouted “Let’s go Rockies!” seemingly out of nowhere, with invested emotion. Jake and I looked at each other and immediately fell into a laugh-attack that never ebbed. Soon Jake was screaming “Let’s go Rockies!” like a wild man--at completely inappropriate times, ‘til we began to draw confused, concerned stares.



“Boy, you guys must really be enjoying those Coors,” commented a man seated next to Jake.



“What?” Jake responded, surprised to be engaged, “the only thing worse than this swill is professional baseball.”



“Really?” the guy asked, “...then why’d you accept the tickets?”



“Accept the tickets?” Jake asked with piqued curiosity. “What d’ya mean by that?”



“Well don’t you work at _____?” the guy said as he handed Jake his card, “We comped you guys these tickets. I’m _____, your wine distributor.”



Oh man!--the look on Jake’s face. The sudden, rapid blinking of the eyes. The almost Parkinsonian shake of his head as he tried to process his next move. It sent me over the edge and I exploded into a deep-down belly laugh I couldn’t contain. My sides rocked with peals of hilarity as Jake stared silently at me with his confused countenance, which only elevated the comedic aspect.



But of course laughter’s contagious, and very soon not only Jake was laughing but even the wine distributor was forced to give-in to my mood. At least he was.



For 30 seconds.



...A minute.



But after three or four minutes it became apparent that Jake and I weren’t gonna stop. In fact, our laughter (which had already started at a pretty-high pitch) only escalated as our energy fueled itself to further heights. Each time we tried to catch ourselves the obvious struggle to do so sent us back into another fit. Until finally the wine distributor, in a rather dry, John Cleese delivery rolled his eyes saying “Oh come on!” which sent us both literally to the floor. With the discarded peanut shells, the empty plastic beer cups. Kicking the seats in front of us and pounding the concrete with our fists ‘til security came and led us out despite it being only the 2nd inning.



Ah well, still the best baseball game I’ve ever seen. Let’s go Rockies!



* NOTE: All pics stolen off Google Images except those of Jake and the Rockies ticket.

Lodo Grdzak's Sportin' Life: On Dennis Rodman; Tommy Hearns, and Playing Big:

6' 7" Dennis Rodman steals a rebound from 7'+ Kareem Abdul Jabbar:



Dennis Rodman: "I have a good heart, but I'm very emotional."



Freak Dog (Probably around 1987):



3x champion B.J. Armstrong of Chicago Bulls:



Regular readers know that I really only follow two sports--professional boxing and NBA basketball. Back when I was young (by which I mean really young), my family used to go to all the Pistons games at Detroit’s Cobo Hall; and the only time I ever cried over a sporting event was when Sugar Ray Leonard knocked Tommy Hearns thru the ropes in the 13th round of their historic fight. I wasn’t really that young at the time; but I loved Tommy Hearns, and to this day he’s one of my three favorite athletes of all time.



Like most American kids, my initial heroes were local sports stars and international Olympians; but as I got older, and it became clear that I wouldn’t even be a mediocre athlete, my attention shifted towards music. As an early teenager searching for identity; I became more and more of a jazz-geek and less the sports fan. Soon I was smoking weed everyday, wearing my hair long, practicing guitar several hours a day, and speaking ‘bout the jocks (in private company of course) with condescending derision.



It wasn’t until my early 20’s (when it became abundantly clear that I wasn’t any better a musician than I was an athlete) that I re-discovered basketball. By that time I was delivering barbecued ribs in Detroit and had just met my friend Freak Dog.



I was drawn to Freak Dog right away since he was different. His own guy. Despite being a few years younger than I was, he was far thicker and taller than me. Probably six feet, which alone would have commanded my utmost respect (I’ve always wanted to be 6’ tall or taller).



But there were more substantial things as well; for example Freak Dog pretty-much lived alone and supported himself; whereas I still lived with my folks. And despite being a Republican (that’s a 1980’s Republican people--not a 2011 Republican!) he didn’t scoff at my liberal views like I’d initially done at his more conservative ones. Instead he listened to my arguments, nodded his head at times as we passed a joint between us. “Alright Lodo,...you’re wrong; but I guess I see where you’re coming from.” Freak Dog not only influenced my views on certain core issues; but demonstrated the calm confidence of a person unafraid to consider opposing viewpoints. It was a quality I co-opted from him and its made me bigger than I was.



Freak Dog had played baseball and basketball at a private Catholic high-school in Detroit. On at least one occasion he was matched-up against B.J. Armstrong, who eventually went on to play with the Chicago Bulls. Sure The Dog allowed 26 points, but it was B.J. Armstrong! The guy was a teammate of Michael Jordan and won 3 NBA rings* (*might want to fact-check that). The Dog can always say he competed against greatness.



But like I said, The Dog was his own guy. Despite being an active athlete and quasi-Republican, he was fond of Newport 100’s; smoked almost as much weed as I did; really liked hip-hop music (which wasn’t entirely embraced in those early years); and was a huge Prince fan. So we had some common interests.



And of course there was basketball.



At the time we worked together, the Bad Boy Detroit Pistons were just coming into their own. These were halcyon days in the life of Lodo. Buckets of our St. Louis-style ribs were close to $30.00, and once you added drinks and side orders the bills were often $50.00 or more. We’re not talking about Domino’s Pizza delivery--we made real tips. And once the Pistons got some help for Isiah Thomas and began winning, oh man! Every TV set in Detroit was tuned in:



"Hey--its the rib guy! Get in here I’m starving. You want a beer? Sit down, its overtime. Watch the end of the game."



"Uh,...okay. I guess for a minute."



"Ha!--that’s the spirit. Hey Jimmy, pass this guy a bong hit. You smoke weed don’t ya kid. Never met a delivery guy who didn’t smoke weed."



Uh,...okay.



Ha!--I like this guy even more. Knows how to party. Oh!!!!--what a shot by Dumars! You want a snort buddy? (passing me a tray of lines). ...Go ahead, it don’t cost me nothing.”



“Really?”



“Yeah, go for i--hey! Foul ref! Foul!"



As The Dog began to wield more influence on my somewhat lost soul, he tried to get me into basketball; by which I mean, play basketball as opposed to just watching it. Keep in mind, I’d been a weed and cigarette smoker since I was 12, and hadn’t run further than the kitchen to the bathroom in close to 2-3 years. I was out of shape, undersized, with no tangible basketball I.Q to speak of. Couple that with a uniquely ugly shot and you know we lost a lot of 2-on-2 games on my account.



"Okay Lodo, remember. When I pass you the ball you hold it, then pass it back. The old give-and-go. Got it?"



"Got it."



At which point The Dog would pass me the ball, my defender would run-up on me, and I’d inevitably chuck a 20 foot shot at the slightly uneven playground rim.



"Lodo, what’re you doing?" The Dog would ask patiently after he’d scored off my rebound.



"My guy came up on me so fast!"



"Okay, okay. Calm down. Just try it again. Remember, I’m gonna pass it to you, you pass it back, and then run toward the rim in case my shot misses. Got it?--don’t panic! The old give and go."



"Got it."



At which point the scenario repeated itself all over again.



Have to say The Dog was really patient in those early games. On the court I always felt lost and uncertain. A liability, never really sure what to do with myself. The only time I had any success was in the larger games: 3-on-3 or even full teams. Not that I was good under those circumstances either, but..I could do different things. The Dog would have me concentrate on defense or rebounding; and as it turned out, I had pretty good ups. Really good actually. I liked to jump, block shots, go for the boards, play bigger than I was. Stuff that didn’t really require any knowledge or mind for the game. Just react, respond, and of course, smoke-up again.



My game still didn’t garner any respect; nor did I feel like I had a real role model on which to to pattern myself, but in 1986 all that changed. That was when the Pistons picked an unknown kid from Southeastern Oklahoma State University named Dennis Rodman, and I found my mentor.



If my mom weren’t in town I’d have written this yesterday. As things stand now, anyone interested in basketball has probably already seen Rodman’s Hall of Fame Acceptance speech; and those who haven’t probably aren’t going to bother. But I had to stay home this Saturday night and write something since Rodman’s not just my favorite NBA player of all time; he’s (to a certain extent) a spiritual brother. He represents more than basketball, but a time in my life. A great time, when I not only learned to play big but to be bigger. And I take that with me wherever I go.















* NOTE: All NBA-related pics stolen off Google Images.

Streams From My Russian Intermission (It's All About Perspective):

Ah Capitalism--don’t you just love it reader? Not like that Communism that fails every 70 years or so. No sir, with Capitalism you get a good 80 years or more before the shit hits the fan and you have to turn to Socialism or start a war to bail yourself out. Wave the flag! Yippee for money! See how free you feel as you chase those greenbacks? Run and run to catch up with the sun. You’re on the road to self-actualization. Or maybe just hoping for a few kicks and a laugh--something to make you feel like you’re actually living before you have to wake up and start all over again. Don’t want to make the boss mad you know. Tough times out there. You can be replaced with a college kid tomorrow. Or a Hindu. Or a computer. Gotta get those 8 or 9 hours in. Or 10. Important work you’re doing you know. Really getting ahead. Soon you can retire, right? Why else are your working? Then they’ll miss you when you’re gone. Well, maybe not miss you, but they’ll remember the good work you did. All those lasting accomplishments you can look to after you’ve thrown away the best, most vital years of your life in pursuit of...whatever you were pursuing. Or thought you were pursuing. Course you had no choice, right? Gotta work. That’s what they say. Earn your keep. Not enough just to live or be alive, you’ve got to be industrious. A go-getter. Work sets us free isn’t that right? Who said that? No matter. So much truth in the statement its probably from the bible.



At the time I visited Russia, it was just becoming clear to the American people that the war in Iraq was a complete debacle. By then George W. had already changed our public mission from locating weapons of mass destruction to creating Democracy in a country that had never known or asked for it. Dubya seemed to think that by sheer force of will we could alter tribal affiliations and overcome ancient religious animosities. Create a blueprint for a new society based on an ideology as opposed to past realities. Course he had to sell this nonsense to the American people since we’d already lost a couple thousand servicemen and tens of billions of dollars on what he and Cheney probably knew all along was just a goose-chase. A goose-chase that just happened to make Halliburton a billion or so dollars a month* (*might want to fact-check that).



Yet believe it or not, there were actually Americans who believed Dubya. Even after he’d stolen the election. Even after 9/11 and Condoleeza Rice’s admission to the Congressional Committee that she’d received prior (and recent) intelligence about possible terrorist-plane attacks. Even after no weapons were found in Iraq, they still believed. Or wanted to believe. And in America, if you want to close yourself off in a gated community, watch Fox News, and live in a dream world no one’s gonna stop you.



But Russia’s another story. The Russia I saw had a lot of problems, but one problem the people don’t seem to have is speaking their minds. They live in a harsh reality and call things how they see ‘em. Damn the standard niceties of social settings.



I can’t recall how it came up, but shortly before we visited The Hermitage our tour guide Galina got involved in a conversation with a middle-aged couple on our bus. They were from Atlanta and were so rich that they paid for their 15 year-old daughter’s boyfriend to accompany her on the trip. The kids had their own room. Took their own excursions, and always returned to the bus loaded-down with souvenirs.



Somehow or another Galina and this couple got involved in a conversation about Iraq. I stumbled on to it late, just as Galina was making her point. She was very polite and absent of emotion.



“...but surely you see that this is simply an attempt to secure the oil fields for your country--no? There’s no shame in it. We’d do the same thing.”



The Atlanta businessman stroked his salt-and-pepper beard anxiously as he listened, his southern manners forcing him to let her finish. Until finally he responded.



“Well we’re not like your country,” he finally responded as tactfully as he could. “We’re different. We’re only there because we were attacked. We didn’t want this. We were forced to go over there.”



Galina couldn’t help but break into a smile as she and our bus driver shared a laugh.



“Forced to go over where?--to Saudi Arabia? Isn’t that who attacked you? What did Iraq do besides have oil?”



“What did Iraq do?” the man asked as though trying to reason with a schizophrenic. “What did Iraq do? I mean...Iraq, they...they didn’t let us search for weapons. That’s what for one thing. And...”



“They’re a sovereign country,” Galina suddenly interjected. “Why do they have to let you do anything? Can they demand to inspect your weapons facilities?”



“Well of course not,” the man replied as he shared a look of consternation with his wife. “..But they murdered their own people. They...”



“So did America,” Galina stated flatly. “You committed genocide against your own people.”



“What?” the man asked, seemingly shocked by her audacious claim. “No we....”



“You didn’t?” Galina asked again with that same dry, non-emotion. “Weren’t there people in America before you? Indigenous peoples? What happened to them? And what about in the 1960’s--at your universities? I’m not so very young you know.”



Now the man began to look frustrated. He looked to me for support; and while I promise you I never dissed my country on foreign soil, I saw Galina's point. So I simply took a pull from my vodka-flask and kept quiet.



“...Well that was a long time ago,” the man’s wife finally responded.



“There is no ancient history,” Galina replied coldly, “only history. Don’t be so naive Mr. _____. You Americans, everything has to be for God or some great moral authority. Iraq has oil. You want it, so you take it.” And then in an effort to smooth things over she stroked his arm and repeated, “Trust me, we’d do the same thing.”



Our time in The Hermitage (the Tsar’s old Winter Palace) will have to be covered in another post; but I should mention that at the end of the tour Galina led us into a room where all the Russian Duma members were allegedly seated as they waited for the Communist’s inevitable storming of the palace. As she described the scene of that violent October day back in 1917, Galina turned our attention towards a seemingly innocuous clock that sat on the mantle, hands stuck at 2:11.



“And it was at this moment,” she told us with dramatic flair, “that the Communists stormed into the room, stopped this clock, and declared ‘History starts now!’ Never mind that there was no Communism before. That this was all just an idea never before practiced. This was now our country’s reality. A new world order you might say,” (and here she flashed a sardonic wink at the couple from Atlanta), “which is something I’m sure we can all relate to, in one form or another.”

Galina:







(Double-click on Pic for Full-view):



* NOTE: All pics stolen off Google Images except for this last one depicting the Bush/Cheney War machine; the photo of the clock that started history; and the photo of Galina. All rights reserved on my pics. Thanks for reading!