Lodo Grdzak's Status Report (Chauncey Billups, Jeremy Lin, Race and the Blues):

It feels good to have finished Buttons and Jules and to know I can write a longer post. Now I’m wondering if I should go back and finish Streams From My Russian Intermission. I think of it whenever I see Vladimir Putin, which seems to be a lot these days.

Course it took me over 2 months to write about Buttons and Jules; and theirs was only a 5 day visit, so how long is it gonna take me to write about 14 days in Russia and all the crazy shit that happened there?

Come to think of it, my carpal tunnel and herniated discs might need a break.

Speaking of injuries--like my favorite NBA baller Chauncey Billups, I’ve torn my achilles tendon. I’ve had the injury for months, though its gotten progressively worse. Unlike world champion Chauncey (who probably got his MRI performed and diagnosed within half an hour), I had to wait 3 months before my insurance company gave me authorization--then wait an additional 3 weeks to actually get the MRI done. All that time I just worked and ran around like my only problem was getting old and soft. Don’t punk out Lodo. Even my doctor initially doubted it was torn.

“Usually you know right away when you do it. The fact you can’t say for sure, tells me its probably just inflamed.”

But then we got the results back and he was like “Damn, you’ve got a 16 mm tear.” (That was just how he said it).


So now I wear the boot you see here (above). Or I’m supposed to. Except its hard to walk any real distance in it since the lopsided, imbalanced gait created by the boot really messes-up my hips and back. Christ fuck. Moral of the story--don’t get freaking old!

On a related matter, if you wanna buy a genuine Lodo Grdzak-owned Xootr scooter (as seen below), I’ll start the bidding at $45 dollars (plus shipping and handling).



But getting back to that NBA, I suppose Chauncey Billups and I wont live out our final years of high-level performance in New York. That was one of my biggest disappointments (aside from the strike-shortened season itself). The fact that the Knicks traded Chauncey. He’s played in all my cities--Detroit; Denver; New York and always elevated those teams to another level.

Then the trade.

Then the injury.

Yet its funny how life works. The Monday after The Giants won The Superbowl I had (2) appointments scheduled in Manhattan. I was smart enough to schedule them for late afternoon, but both still cancelled. The first guy didn’t even try to make an excuse,

“Oh wow Mr. Grdzak, wasn’t that incredible last night? God, my wife and I almost cried. And I’m so hungover! Can we re-schedule for tomorrow or maybe later in the week? We didn’t get to bed 'til after 3:00. Great, go Giants right?!!!!”

Whatever.

My 2nd appointment wasn’t much different, but I only bring it up ‘cause now I was in Manhattan with nothing to do. With this sudden intermission I decided to walk to the The Garden to investigate the cost of a Knick ticket. Knick star Amare Stoudemire wasn’t playing that night (his brother had just died in a car accident); and a lot of commuters had played hooky from work. Couple all that with an unpopular Utah Jazz opponent, and I was able to buy a scalped ticket for $15 dollars cash-money at game time.

That was Monday, February 6th.

Try to get that deal today.



Whether its scripted or real, I have to say I love the Jeremy Lin story. I do think its a little serendipitous the way his unexpected rise from nowhere coincided with the visit of China’s new President Xi Jinping; but that said, I think he’s a real deal player. He’s strong. Exciting. Different.

Course once you get race involved things get sticky (we know that!). In fairness to Floyd Mayweather Jr., I do think there’s a certain section of America that relishes the idea of the black ballplayers being bested at “their game.” These people will quickly embrace a white or (in this case) Asian player, but don’t have the capacity or willingness to root for a black player. Its true Floyd, I agree.

But that said, you can’t just dismiss Lin’s game. His numbers have been off the chart these past 3 weeks--particularly his scoring (the ref’s can’t put the ball in the basket for you). For a 24 year old who’s never been a starter, he’s got great leadership skills. And from what I’ve seen he’s handled the pressure of New York better than A-Rod, Rex Ryan, or a whole host of so-called stars. Hell, he single-handedly saved coach Mike D’Antoni’s job--at least for this season; and if coach gets an extension I’d say he owes Lin some money.

So Floyd, while I say this with great respect for your ability to kick the shit out my ass; please drop the racial bullshit.

And yet there’s another brand of racism out there that hasn’t been discussed. I know ‘cause I’ve seen it first-hand at The Garden. It’s the Asian racists, though exactly who their racist against is an open question. These fans seem to attribute Lin’s success to his Harvard education and because he’s “so smart.”

“Very intelligent,” these Asians will say to me as they tap their index finger against their temple. “He knows.”

Knows what reader? How to put the ball in the basket? How to find an open man? I’m not sure what’s being implied. Jeremy Lin’s no smarter on the court than Chris Paul, or Derron Williams, or Rajon Rondo, or Jason Kidd, or Derrick Fisher--or probably a whole host of others. Lin’s 6’ 2” tall, over 200 pounds. Deceptively quick and very driven. By his own admission he’s been studying Steve Nash since he was a kid and has been playing organized basketball for over half his life. He didn’t just walk on to the court after Geometry class. So I’m not sure where these Chinese and Taiwanese fans are coming from. The guy’s a seriously gifted athlete, end of story.

But the politics gets sticky on this stuff.

Anyway, on that final subject of politics, let me ask you a fairly easy question reader. You think Mitt Romney would have invited Jeff Beck or Mick Jagger to perform at The White House? How bout Newt Gingrich? Think Buddy Guy or Keb Mo are on Newt’s radar? How ‘bout Rick Santor--oh please, forget it!

Watch Red White and Blues on PBS. See more from In Performance at The White House.

Watch Brush with the Blues on PBS. See more from In Performance at The White House.

See you in a few days y’all.


* NOTE: All pics stolen off Google Images except for those in which I appear. All rights reserved on my stuff.

Epilogue to Up, Down, and All Over the Map (When Buttons Met Jules)--Conclusion* (*Scroll down for all Previous Installments):

"...I was dead for a minute and 52 seconds in that ambulance."

"You think they're gonna put my face on the cover of God-damn Fortune magazine?!"


Readers can take what they will from the respective stories of Buttons and Jules, but I think our bartender put it best. He’d listened as they told their tale (the bar still wasn’t too busy then); and when Jules left to answer a call and Buttons got up for the bathroom, we shared a moment.

“So today’s the last day?,” he said to me with his thick Irish accent.

“For them,” I answered, “I live here.”

“...Right. You know them from out west then?”

“Yeah--Buttons I know. A little bit. Jules I just met.”

The bartender smiled and nodded in a manner that suggested conspiracy.

“...They’re wild,” he finally said a bit hesitantly.

But he got no argument from me.

It was Jules who returned first. He plopped himself down on the stool beside me. Gave my back a slap.

“Lodo, what’s up motherfucka? Where’s Buttons?”

“She’s over there,” (I pointed toward the back), “lined up for the bathroom.”

“Oh good, good brother. This’ll give us a chance to talk.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah man, listen. I don’t know if you remember the other night--at dinner? You remember what you and I got to talking about?”

“...Maybe,” I answered grudgingly, hoping he wouldn’t go where I feared he was going.

“ ‘Cause listen buddy,” he said as he threw his arm round my shoulder and spoke into my ear, “Buttons tells me you ain’t got no job right now.”

“That’s not true Jules--I work for myself. I’m not tearing it up, but I’ve got a pair of clients. I’m alright.”

“Yeah, well, listen brother. One thing I’ve learned in this life is you’ve gotta live now. I was dead for a minute and 52 seconds in that ambulance--did I mention that? Shit like that makes you think. We’ve all got an expiration date. And you know what? I like it! Makes you get up and do shit. If you’ve got the balls! Know what I mean?”

“..I think so.”

“Ha! I think so. I know you do Lodo! I saw that right from the start. Let me ask you something else. ...You know where _____ is?”

“Yeah that’s probably five or six hours from here.”

“Five or six hours, eh? So that’s what--ten, eleven hours roundtrip? How’d you like to make ten grand for ten hours? How’s that sound? A thousand bucks an hour?...”

I began to shift on my stool and look ‘round for Buttons toward the bathrooms. She was laughing with a group of guys and hadn’t even gone in yet. Oh you betcha!...

“No, I mean it Lodo!” Jules insisted as he pulled me closer, “plus you’ll keep an ounce or two for yourself. Listen. Its just like I said. My problem’s distribution. I’ve got all the product you want--enough for half the east coast. Killer stuff! From the Pacific Northwest. You’ll see, I’ll get you some samples, but I need to find a way to move it. That’s my problem. I’ve got a good pilot--hell, the best. But I need a driver who can pick it up and bring it inland...”

I sent out all the non-verbal cues for Jules to stop, but all he saw was green lights.

“...I’ve gotta fly a certain number of pounds before I make money, but not so much that I draw attention. Gas is a bitch and my pilot’s top-notch. I don’t get any breaks there. You pay for that, but its worth it. Just like I’d pay for a good driver Lodo. Like you brother! Someone I could trust. Can’t be cheap on that shit. You see the business considerations that run thru my mind? I crunch all the numbers, but you think they’re gonna put my freaking face on the cover of God damn Fortune magazine?!”

Jules leaned back in his stool to allow his words to sink in, but now he’d grown excited. He clasped my bicep and drew me in close again.

“What I’m saying is you’ve got yourself a chance to get real rich here, so think about it. You could do a run every couple of months once we get this thing rolling. Even if you got busted you wouldn’t serve more than a hundred and twenty days. I know! Shit, by then you’d be so rich you wouldn’t care anyway. I’ll show you where to put your money. But you won’t get busted ‘cause even with the pounds I move I’m still not big enough for the Feds! I’m smart that way.”

Again Jules leaned back on his stool and took a dramatic sip of his whiskey and water. Like a born-again preacher he’d worked himself up, with beads of sweat visible near his temples as he rocked in his seat. To my amazement he still seemed to expect some kind of acknowledgment or even acceptance on my end. Despite all my mannerisms and gestures to suggest the contrary the guy had a zombie’s empathy.

We locked eyes.

“So what d’ya think Lodo? You wanna get rich?”

“..It’s a lot to think about Jules.”

We continued to lock eyes for several awkward seconds, ‘til Jules suddenly and unexpectedly dismissed me with a wave of his hand.

“...Ah! I should’ve known. Look at you. You don’t need it like I do.”

Jules let me off the hook with that last comment so I should have been relieved; yet it was said with such condescension and seeming disappointment I almost felt compelled to defend myself. We’d been together five days now, and suddenly all the fatigue brought on by Jules’ manic energy hit me at that moment. It was a force to contend with--tangibly felt, like the sour whiskey in my belly.

And of course now I saw what he’d been after. Or assumed I did. The fight. The dinners. The show. The compact discs. All business expenses for Jules I suppose. Marketing. If he were in another line of work he’d have kept the receipts.

“...Its a lot to think about Jules.”

With little else to say, we both looked for Buttons at the same time; but she was still laughing it up with the guys playing darts near the bathroom.

So we sat silently for awhile.

Jules removed his fedora and gently placed it on the bar. He wiped the sweat off his brow and ran his hand through his thin, grey hair. For the first time since the day we met I was struck by how old he was. He probably had 20 years on Buttons and me, yet he drank me under the table every night and was first one up in the morning. I never saw him sleep. The guy was animated. Or possessed. He’d broken almost every bone in his body, but was still infused with that wild spirit the bartender mentioned.

Only now, on this rare occasion where he sat quiet and alone--spent of ideas, he struck me as possibly tired. He didn’t approach Buttons, yet I could see that intermissions or alone time were not his friend. He was too restless for that. He had to keep moving. Engage. Go mano v. mano with someone, that’s what excited him. But with no outward thrust, his energies turned inward, where they bounced round the rubber-walled rooms of his mind.

I looked at my cellphone for the time.

“Hey Jules, I’m gonna step outside for a second.”

He acknowledged me silently, with a lift of his hand.

Outside I’d planned to smoke a one-hit. Or two, but now it was close to rush hour and I had to deal with the hundreds of commuters en route to Herald Square. Still, I needed the air since we’d been in the bar for hours, so I took a few deep breaths as I watched the skirts pass. Listened as ghetto chicks screamed into their cellphones and felt the sidewalk shake as the subway cars passed below. There were car horns. The hissing air brakes of a city bus. Hotel doormen blew metal whistles at passing taxi’s. I stood out there awhile.

By the time I went back inside the place had filled up. Patrons stood packed along the length of the bar, and my old spot next to Jules was now taken by a pair of big construction workers. Union guys, with the hard hat and local # printed on their hoodies. I could have weaseled my way in; but instead I kept a disinterested, investigator’s distance. But I could hear Jules.

“Man that Margarito is one tough fucking Mexican!”

“Yeah, I know he’s tough as hell,” responded one of the construction guys. “But I heard Cotto whipped his ass.”

“Brother, Cotto never even hurt Margarito! Cotto’s got nothing (here Jules poked the construction guy lightly in the chest with his index finger). "If Margarito got two more rounds he'd have won.”

Maybe reader. But if Jules had any EQ at all he'd have picked up on the not so subtle gesture the construction worker made when he’d been touched. The drop of his eyes to the spot on his vest. The look back at Jules. The guy may have been Puerto Rican himself. Or black. Could have been about a half-dozen ethnicities really; but Jules didn’t care. For him it was nothing but green lights. Luckily the worker let it go.

“Yeah, I know those Mexicans are tough,” he said as he exchanged a tacit look with his fellow co-worker.

“Mexicans and Filipino’s” the other worker said, “they’re toughest pound for pound. But they ain’t real big!”

All agreed on that deep point and emphasized it with a hit from their drinks.

“...Yeah, now you see,” Jules chimed in. “Now we’re really talking. I appreciate this brothers." (here Jules jabbed with his index finger again) “Like last nigh...”

“Hey, watch that finger buddy,” one of the workers said.

“What?” Jules asked. “Yeah, alright. Anyway, I like how we’re really talking here. Now listen, let me ask you guys, as long as were on this subject. I want your opinion on something. Last night we went to this concert--Dave Douglas, you know who that is?”

Of course they didn’t.

“Well, we go to this concert and I wind up sitting next to this real corporate bitch and her..”

Oh my god Jules, you’ve gotta be kidding me.

“...husband and we get to talking about these debates on TV, right? One thing leads to the next and somehow we get on Obama. Now I don’t know how you feel ‘bout this guy. I mean, seems like he’s got a stick up his ass and all, but at the same time he certainly got handed a pile of shit from old silver sp...”

If there was a time for me to intervene, this was it. Not only was Jules moving at breakneck pace down a possibly very slippery slope, but he’d already begun to fling that index finger around again. Wouldn’t be long now, one way or another. I watched things play out with a sort of fascination as I considered what obligations I may have to this wild brother of mine.

And the answer wasn't exactly immediate.





* NOTE: All pics stolen off Google Images and are included simply to enhance the story. No relation to the writer. Copyrights may exist.

Not exactly on point, but not so far off either (particularly with oil over $100 a barrel):

Epilogue to Up, Down, and All Over the Map (When Buttons Met Jules)--Part 2* (*Scroll Down for Part 1):

"...'Cause all I see are green lights."


"Like Hannibal Lecter or Jesus for fuck's sake..."


I suppose it wasn’t a shock to learn that Jules and Buttons met in rehab; but like so many things over that five day week the story went in some unexpected directions.

"I can tell you the time was 4:05 PM on my watch when I left the house* (*here Jules swung his arm so I could see his wristwatch. Not that it was the same watch; nor was it 4:05--but whatever!).

"...I did the same routine everyday and knew exactly how to time it. I had an old LeBaron back then. Piece of shit Chrysler with a bad transmission, which is probably what almost killed me. I don’t know what it was. I know I didn’t have more than 3 or 4 drinks--nothing that would have affected me. ‘Specially not back then. That was sober for me then! I might have been going a bit fast--I’ll give ‘em that; but it was more like those yokel-bumfucks where I lived didn’t know how to drive! I come down my hill like I always do and I can see down at the bottom that the light’s green. We had all these steep hills where I lived so you could see down towards the bottom even as you made your way....I don’t know. ..Maybe I saw that light and I thought I could go thru or the sunlight was in my eyes. I was sober--I know that, but that doesn’t mean you can’t space-out anyway. Assuming the bitch’s taillights in front of you are working--who even knows if they checked that cause she just drove away?! But I mean I saw that green light and...just thought I could go right through to the intersection. But then when I whipped ‘round this last blind turn there was a line of cars backed-up. I mean stopped! And here I’m going like a bat out of hell cause all I saw was that green light! So brother,..its over and I’ve just gotta react. I swerve off to what I’m thinking--or hoping! is shoulder; but there’s nothing there and my Lebaron just goes free-falling for something like..thirty feet I think they told me, ‘til I crashed nose-first like a fighter pilot. I’m out for a second or two but I remember thinking I had time. 'You’ve got time Jules,' I said that to myself, 'Get the fuck outta here and run before the police get here,' right? No problem. But so now I really take a good look around--cause I’m gonna run outta there, right?--and I realize I’m facing the God damn backseat! My head’s been turned 180 degrees like on a swivel. Not only that, but I can see my freaking feet dangling in front of me. In front of my eyes! My body’s been crunched like an accordion--get it? Like the letter ‘C’.’ My legs have flipped over my head and I’ve got my feet in front of my face! And you know what? I still tried to run! Broken neck and all. Ha! But by then my legs couldn’t listen so I had to sit there while they cut me out with the jaws of life--which meant the end of that piece of shit Chrysler! That’s one good thing."

"But oh man, Lodo. The judge knew me in that town and wasn’t gonna let me off the hook for breaking my pelvis and neck and totaling my own car. No way! That’d be letting me off too easy! So after I got out of surgery and before they even took me to a hospital bed they drove me to court and stood me up in front of the judge who’d hated my ass for fifteen years! Wouldn’t let me take any painkillers or anything ‘cause they wanted me fully conscious of my rights and wanted my plea while I was clear-headed. Are you kidding me? Clearheaded? I’d have said anything the pain was so damn bad and hell, I knew they’d done-up all the blood work anyway so I plead right then--while they had me stood-up on that gurney like Hannibal Lecter or Jesus for fuck’s sake the way that judge hung my ass out to dry when the only one I’d ever hurt was me. Schoolgirl diddlers get off easier than I did. And for what? But one thing first, they had to send me to physical therapy before I served my time and..."

“And that’s where we met!” Buttons interjected as she clinked highballs with Jules.

“That’s what you meant by rehab?” I asked.

“Yeah Lodo,” Buttons said with a laugh, “ We were at the same rehab center since we’d both broke our necks.”

“You broke your neck Buttons?”

“Oh you betcha Lodo--Rules never told you that?

"I was at a house party this one summer. I don’t remember much except dancing and barbecuing and having fun out on the deck which was like...elevated. You know? Like on the 2nd story; and we were hanging out like that drinking...I don’t know--just a few beers when somehow I leaned or fell or...I can’t remember exactly. I wasn’t even buzzed, but I’d somehow come-up against this railing that was too short or maybe...wobbly and they say I just (here Buttons made a motion with her hands) flipped right over and fell all the way to the ground. I really don’t remember it except that when I woke up I was in one of those halo’s ‘round my neck and I had to wear a body cast and had to go to rehab 4x a week. Oh I was so down Lodo! But then Jules showed up and I could hear him hollering the second he came in, saying he wanted some decent painkillers and not this low-dose shit pronto Senorita! and I knew he was gonna get out of there or die and that’s where I was at too. ‘Cause you can’t drink in those places Lodo--you really can’t!”






* NOTE: Due to the length of this post, I'm gonna split it into one final part. Next installment in a few days.

** ADDITIONAL NOTE: All pics stolen off Google Images and are used simply to enhance the story. Copyrights may exist, and I have no relation to (or knowledge of) those depicted.

Epilogue to Up, Down, and All Over the Map (When Buttons Met Jules)--Part 1

It’d been five days with Buttons and Jules, so by now my liver knew what to do. Buttons was on her 2nd Cosmopolitan before noon and the only thing that kept Jules off-pace was the number of times he had to step outside to field a call. He bought us outrageously rich meals; so we got drunk, sober, and drunk again several times that slow afternoon. The tension of spent energies and frayed nerves imbibed our mood and spirited our purposeless conversations, while the impending flight next morning lingered in the back of our minds. The more we recalled of the past week the more pitched towards the future and its obligations we became. ‘Til we were neither here nor there, but in a kind of intermission.

For reasons unknown, Buttons and Jules stayed at (3) hotels in the (5) days they were here; but their one and only bar was O’Reilly’s. We met there at some point everyday, so by now Buttons knew every regular’s name and they knew her as well. Buttons and Jules. From out west.

We’d met-up around 11:00, but my story here doesn’t begin (or end) ‘til about 3:30 or so. That hour where you’ll note those first few workers slowly trickle-in from the job to anesthetize themselves before the crowded train ride home. Before their arrival, time had passed in purposeless, languid fashion. We’d been on tourist time. Leisure time. Or what you might call real drinker’s time, but the on-set of these commuters and their defined goals, placed us in harsh juxtaposition to their mechanized routine and worldly forces larger than ourselves.

We’d been talking about Dave Douglas--actually, that’s not really right. We were talking about bitches.

“I know what you’re saying Lodo. You don’t like a real uppity bitch. Like that one last night--am I right? Like her shit doesn’t even stink. Well you know what? It does!! Right? Putting on airs with us...”

“With you Jules.”

“With everybody!” he responded with that jab of his index finger into my chest. “You saw it.”

“Well now sweetie you did say ni__er about ten times in 20 seconds,” Buttons interjected with a laugh into her highball.

“I was saying they call him ni__er! Those military establishment assholes. They were saying let’s freeze this ni__er out! Not give him a chance. Listen...”

“Not so loud Jules,” I interjected. “Let’s not re-hash it again.”

“Its them bitches that start everything,” he said only slightly softer as he pinched at Buttons who swatted him away. “Her man and I got on just fine. You saw it Lodo. He said I was right.”

“Oh really!” Buttons responded incredulously. “Are you kidding me? When was that? Did you hear that Lodo?”

“I don’t remember him saying anything to you Jules.”

“He said 'it was the way you said it!' You don’t remember that Lodo? He knew what I meant.”

“No, I remember that. Okay. He knew what you meant Jules. So what? That chick knew what you meant too. That’s not what got them upset. ...I think you just made them nervous really.”

“Oh you betcha Lodo!” agreed Buttons. “That’s exactly what it was. You dropped the F-bomb a bunch of times too sweetie.”

“Not them. Her,” answered Jules. “He was fine. We shook hands.”

“Yeah Jules, I remember,” I told him, “but he didn’t say anything to you. He just stared.”

“We shook hands Lodo! What else is there to say?”

I had no response to that.

“...Whatever,” Buttons eventually said as she gestured for another round.

“No--not whatever,” Jules answered back. “You can tell.”

Jules took Button's hands in dramatic fashion as though to demonstrate his point before he turned back to me.

“...Hey Lodo, you know how me and this girl met?”

“No,” I answered as the bartender placed our drinks before us and cleared our empties, “but I’ve got time.”

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

** ADDITIONAL NOTE: All pics contained herein were stolen off Google Images and are used simply to enhance the story.

Up, Down, and All Over the Map w/ Buttons and Jules--CONCLUSION* (*Scroll Down For All Previous Installments):

"We were wrong? When were we wrong?"

"Well, not wrong. Just..."

Kief:


Tarballs:

“You probably need to sign something.” Certainly not an outrageous response to the hypothetical question of who might unexpectedly buzz my downstairs door?; though several others such as:

"Maybe one of your neighbor’s is locked out."

or perhaps

"Someone’s probably got the wrong apartment," seem at least equally plausible (to name a few).

But no, Jules said “If its the postman, you’ll probably need to sign,” and now here I was moments later confronted with a young postman and his e-pad signature system strapped over his shoulder. So it didn’t take a great investigator to make the connection. Or a connection.

What was more difficult to decide was whether to accept the envelope. Sign for it. Think about it reader--an unknown, unexpected package, most likely from Jules, sent via U.S. mail, that required your signature. Would you accept it? Especially after you finally got rid of him?

Hmmmm.

But I have to admit my investigator’s curiosity was piqued. And God damn-it, my hungover mind was locked! I couldn’t think fast enough and wasn’t up for even minor confrontation so early in my day.

“Listen, are you Lodo Grdzak or not? Otherwise I’ll ring the right apartment. I’m not sure what the confusion is here.”

“Its not about confusion...”

“...Whatever,” the kid said as I eventually accepted the envelope and scribbled a purposefully distorted signature on his e-pad. As he turned and left, I stood in the doorway in expectation of...I’m not really sure.

Yet even after I returned to my apartment I didn’t open the envelope. Not right away. Instead I placed it on my table and stared at the shipping label. From Aaron Rodgers of Seattle, Washington.

Course eventually I had to see what was behind door # 1, so I tore open the adhesive strip, reached inside the envelope, and pulled-out two, vacuum-sealed bags full of a brown/tannish powder. Due to the sealed-packaging it was impossible to smell what was inside, and even after I retrieved my scissors and opened it I still wasn’t entirely sure what I had. The fragrant contents smelled like weed, but it was brown and all ground-up. I couldn’t locate even a single green bud or THC crystal; and the consistency was heavy; not light-shake as crushed weed would have been.

Still, that’s what I thought I had. Kief as the kids call it. To vape in my vaporizer. And now I had a lot of it.

In fact, as I stared at the two completely-filled, 8” x 10” bags my eyes blinked incredulously, and my emotions went up. Then down. Then sort of all over the place. As though Jules never left.

There’s gotta be over an ounce of this shit between the two of these bags.

Its enough to last months!

And he sent it all in the mail.

This’ll save you 500 bucks. Maybe more.

That pays for your health insurance right there.

Plus we’ve got weed for months!

And he just used regular old mail.

Its weird, what is it?

Its weed. ...Gotta be weed. What else would it be?

Its that kief for the vaporizer.

Man, he sent a lot of it.

I know!

I wonder what we mailed.

Its weed, what else can it be?

But I mean, did we mail weed?

When?

When we mailed that envelope for Jules. What’d we mail?

...I don’t know.

Cause I might have to beat his ass if we did that.

You would?

Yeah man. If Jules used us to put weed in a mailbox? We could lose our investigator’s license. We’d never get bonded. It’d be a big deal.

...Well, lets not rush to judgment.

Why shouldn’t we?

‘Cause we’ve been wrong ‘bout Jules every time we did that.

We were? When were we wrong?

Well, not wrong. Just...I don’t know. We don’t even know what this is!

That’s true. ...Maybe we need to vape some.

Now that’s a great idea!

So I fired-up my expensive new vaporizer that I bought to save my 9/11 ravaged lungs; dropped a bit of the kief in there to vape.

Got the momentum going...

Took a deep pull...

And oh...wow! The light, flowery taste. The perfumed smell. The leaden buzz that quickly seeped into my muscles and gave me heavy limbs.

HASH! Are you kidding me? Hash?! Oh man, I haven’t seen that in the States in forever. I mean, maybe you can get some out in Colorado--at one of those clinics; but never in my 10 years of New York have I encountered it.

Yet the taste was undeniable.

I eased back into my leather office chair and proceeded to vape the rest of what I’d put in the machine, when:

Ring, ring.

Ring, ring.

Ring, ring.

Ring, ring.

“Hey Buttons.”

“Lodo!--sweetheart. Did you get those documents from my boyfriend Aaron Rodgers?” (laughs)

“Uh,...yeah. I think I did. Didn’t expect that.

“I know, right? Don’t you just love it?”

“Well,..sort of. Yeah, I suppose. Though I have to say, I’m a little surprised by the amount of docs you sent, if you get my mea...”

“Lodo! Did I hear Buttons say you got those papers we sent you?!”

(heavy sigh) “Uh, yeah. Hey Jules, I got ‘em. Thanks,..I guess. But listen, do you really think its smart to...”

“No need to thank me brother. You’re family now.”

“Wow Jules. Okay. But again, I mean, I was surprised when I saw the amount of...”

“There’s more where that came from brother. You want more? I can call my guy and have him send anoth..”

“No Jules, that’s not what I’m saying at all. In fact, just the oppos...”

“No worries brother. I’ll call my guy when our flight lands. We’re just getting ready to boar...”

“No Jules, shut up and listen to what I’m sayi...”

“What? I can’t hear you Lodo--they’re boarding our plane right now. Glad you got that and I’ll call my guy after we land!”

“No Jules! Would you listen for a sec...”

But he’d already hung-up the phone.

...Freaking guy. Things certainly weren’t gonna be the same without him, and you can bet I was rather thankful for that.

Still, as I sat in my ergonomic, leather chair and vaped the last of what I ‘d thrown in my machine, my mellow high made it hard to keep the anger up.

How much fun was that Cotto fight?

Which he paid for with that credit card.

So what? Has anyone tried to contact us about that? Its over.

There’s still time.

How ‘bout that crab meat and the pheasant under glass? When’s the next time we’ll eat that?

I’m not sure we ever had it before.

True, true. And what about that Dave Douglas show? Will you ever forget that in a billion years?

How could I? We’ve got all those discs Jules bought us.

I doubt Dave Douglas will forget it either.

That’s a shared story we have for sure.

But what about that envelope we mailed?

What about it? It was already a week ago. Wherever it was going, it got there. Besides, who knows what was in it? We’re just assuming.

Cause we got all this hash!

Indeed we do.

By now my mood had flipped. I inspected the two large bags of hash and couldn’t contain the big smile that came across my face.

This will last months.

And its so freaking good! I guess that Jules was alright after all. For a week anyway.

I shared a laugh with myself as I slowly continued to draw on my vaporizer and again reviewed the events of the last week. Each memory instigated a chuckle or light-hearted groan as I pulled hit after hit off my machine.

But suddenly it became hard to get a draw out of it. Each pull yielded less and less vape; and soon I couldn’t even get any air through the tube. Like it was stopped up.

I turned off the machine, let the stem cool down, then inspected the specially made, ceramic screen.

What the...?

Unlike weed, the hash inside my machine had become all sticky and gummy when heated. Like a tar-ball. It literally fused itself to the glass stem and plastic tube; and it gummed-up the specially made ceramic screen.

I tried to clean the screen, but it was hopeless; nor would it have mattered anyway since the glass stem that draws the vape was now ensconced in a thick layer of impenetrable, hardened black goo, which now rendered the whole $300 dollar machine useless.

I stared at the gummed-up works of my vaporizer still not grasping that it was ruined. That took time.

But eventually I found myself at the sink where I fruitlessly scrubbed at the damaged equipment. As I did so my focus shifted back to those two big bags of hash that now lay on my kitchen counter, and I was left with the sense that Jules hadn't gone anywhere at all.


"Margarito!"

Cotto!










* WRITER'S NOTE: The fact-to-fiction ratio of this blog is not one I wish to discuss. That said, there is one. Don't believe everything you read.

**ADDITIONAL NOTE: All pics (with the exception of those in which I appear) were stolen off Google Images and are included simply to enhance the story. Copyrights may exist.