Runnin' on Empty
My little Vegas jaunt this weekend is coming in the nick of time. For one, if I go more than three months without seeing The Strip, I begin to loose feeling in my extremities. I love that first step-thru into a casino, out of the oppresive heat into the filtered air, the clinking of coins and slot machines like an orchestral movement of the highest quality. It can't be re-created anywhere. Argentine striker Gabriel Batistuta once said, "Goals are like bread. I need them to live." I feel the same way about that sound.
But what I really need out of this weekend, besides a bump in the ol' PBR, is material. Bobby Bracelet's presence pretty much assures that. I've been in quite the fugue lately, devoid of ideas and more devoid of execution. Definite "ebb" time with the story tellin'.
Part of that, I suppose is playing considerably less poker. Also, I'm taking a trip with the family next week and have been doing a lot of preparation for that (unless the trip is to Vegas, there's no prose to be mined there). I see where that trip will also make me miss a blogger tourney on the 20th (details forthcoming from Iggy). I suppose I COULD play, the hotel having wireless access and all, but I don't think I'll mention it to the dear and patient wife. I also won't mention the Indian casino four miles from where we're staying for part of the trip. In fact, I don't think I'll mention poker at all over the 10 days for the express purpose of marital harmony. She's exceptionally tolerant, but infringing on the vacation might--no might about it--stretch her boundaries.
I will, however, probably blog from the road if I can manage to form a decent sentence or two.
So, I was where? Oh yeah, first up, Sin City. I love the smell of a raucous Sportsbook in the morning. I may be the world's worst sports bettor, but I'm gonna lay some wood nonetheless. Part of my problem is my dwindling interest in the NFL. Sue me. I'm bored by more than half the games I watch (plus it is the one sport the Mrs. hates). The Niners blow and it appears they will blow for the forseeable future. Hell, the entire NFC blows. It just seems to me the quality of play has fallen so much in the last few years and I scoff at the Patriots' claim of Dynasty because, really, what have they had to beat? You have ten bad teams, 15 mediocre ones and a handful that have their good days. Back when the Niners were habitual contenders, they had to contend with Ditka's Bears, Parcells' Giants, Gibbs' Redskins. You see any teams of that caliber in the game today? Me neither. Not even the Patriots.
So, where was I? Oh yeah, I didn't watch hardly any of the Pats/Rai-duhs game last night. It's not because I couldn't bear to hear the phrase "Tuck Rule," which sends me into a fetal positon every time I hear it since that officiating decision was not only The Worst Call in Modern Sports History, but also cost me a hundred bucks. No, it's because I got home well after it began, then ate, then watched the season premiere of The O.C. I think we all know now why I suck at football betting.
The premiere was disappointing. A decided lack of the things I love so much about the show: Marissa's comical over-wrought "acting", Seth's pithy one-liners, Kirsten in tight halter tops. Though it did include one scene of Sandy cementing his place as Greatest TV Parent of All-Time. Aside from that singular highlight, it was dull, predictable and totally lacking the charms it usually displays. This could be a harbinger of bad tidings.
Even worse was the new show which followed it, "Reunion." This would seem to be right up my alley as it's entirely age-appropriate (my own 20-year reunion is 6 weeks away). There's never been an effective entertainment retrospective on the '80s that has managed to capture that bizarre decade, not like "Dazed and Confused" nailed the '70s on the head (the John Hughes comedies are perfect microcosms of the Era, but view it in the present). So I gave this a shot.
Oh man. The '80s references are pretty much relegated to the soundtrack (and a hperbolic version of the clothing) and by the time they worked the 7th song into the first half-hour, I wanted Dennis Hopper to slice off my ears. Simplistic and contrived plot lacking in any surprise. Stilted dialogue to "mask the mystery," specifically in regard to the gender of the deceased. And worst, the incomprehensible casting of the "spoiled rich kid," played by a guy who couldn't act his way through a 7th grade production of "I Remember Mama." Ohmylord. He's so bad that it's not even funny, like our dear Mischa Barton. I actually wanted to injure him for the injustice he perpetuated on me for 60 minutes. Inconceivable.
Have a good weekend everybody. And some of you might wanna stock up on liquor and stay by your cell phones late Saturday night.