JOEL BRYANT
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Sporadic Blog

Joel's head is a bit big, shape-wise. This is where he puts stuff down that fell out of it...
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(COMING SOON: More “The JOEL Wide World” where he puts into writing his travel experiences - from 5-star hotels on the Italian Coast to desert camping under the Joshua Tree stars, from dog-sledding in Montana, snorkeling in the Philippines or dancing til dawn at Burning Man, there isn’t an adventure he’d say “no” to!)

EMPTY AMERICA: Las Vegas

3/31/2020

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Seeing Los Angeles’ busiest areas emptying out (not fully deserted yet as the state had just come under a “shelter in place” mandate and there were still a number of people that hadn’t been online-shamed into staying home yet) I thought I’d check out an area in the States that surely wasn’t anywhere near apocalyptic. Even though there had been a few hotels and casinos voluntarily shutting down and the “close your restaurants and bars” edict had been announced, certainly Las Vegas wouldn’t be....closed. Right?


The drive up I-15 to Las Vegas on a Friday afternoon can be a nightmare. Those Angelenos that don’t opt for a cheap Southwest flight usually crowd that thoroughfare from 2pm to midnight and, since there’s really only one way to get from LA to LV, it’s generously packed from Friday to Sunday.


My first taste of Las Vegas suffering as great a fate as LA, maybe even greater considering the economics, was that, after getting on the 15N around 3pm, it was absolutely smooth sailing all the way into the city. Barely a slow-down. One theme that continued on my trip was that I was always only one of a handful of passenger vehicles I would see on the interstate. Any traffic, when you saw it, was interstate truckers delivering their “essential” goods.


I stopped into Henderson to say “hi” to Mom. I would say Henderson looked deserted but...it always looks deserted. It’s a slow suburb on the outskirts of Las Vegas that caters to a local and older crowd. I did think I would grab a cup of coffee and some wifi at Starbucks before seeing her then realized “Oh yeah. That’s not an option for a rubber tramp anymore.” So I sat in the parking lot outside of a drive-thru only Starbucks and syphoned off their wifi from the comfort of my tiny car.


When the sun finally went down I decided it was time to see if Las Vegas had truly done the unthinkable and shut down. A day-time drive probably would’ve answered that, but if this was as serious as it seemed, a lights-less Vegas Strip would be the tell-tale sign.


I started on the southern end of the Strip and was immediately answered that yes, this is serious. And unimaginable. And eerie.


The Mandalay Bay had it’s sign lights on but, as was the case with all of the enormous hotels that line the strip, the building itself was dark because there were no residents, no indoor lights, no one to click them on.


Luxor, Excalibur, MGM Grand...all dark buildings.


There were a few consistencies from hotel to hotel that led me to believe this was a joint hotel-owner decision:


If you had an outdoor neon sign on, the message didn’t advertise any upcoming shows or buffet specials but rather had a variation on the message: “Stay Safe. Stay Healthy. We’ll See You Soon.”


Every casino/hotel had metal gates in front with at least 2 cop cars if not more preventing entrance even into the driveways or parking structures.


Then there were the hotels that had completely shut everything off: Mirage. Caesar’s Palace. Tropicana. Those images were absolutely shocking to see a behemoth of a building on the flashiest most happening strip of road in the world to be absolutely dark. Someone just flicked a switch and indicated: “We’re closed.”


The Strip on a Friday at 9pm can be an absolute parking lot of taxis, Ubers and misguided tourist drivers. Tonight, unimpeded from stoplight to stoplight.


The streets that are usually packed with revelers, frat boys, bachelorette parties, Midwesterns, street performers and vendors were 100% cleared. I didn’t see a soul walking around. And why would you? Where are you going?


I never thought I’d see Las Vegas shut down.


I made my way to Fremont Street. It’s my preferred hangout in Las Vegas. It’s cheaper, packed closer together and a great walking area to bounce from casino to casino, hear mediocre cover bands and DJ’s, watch a mind-numbing ceiling light show and people watch all of the cheesier tourists, local homeless, hipsters, punks, train wrecks and ne’er-do-wells. To me, it’s always been more “Vegas.” It’s always hopping.


Now, it’s essentially been turned into one mass outdoor extinct mall lit up by floodlights and the occasional restaurant that’s trying to stay open (White Castle) but cater to who? The security?


The streets that run through and perpendicular to Fremont are still open to drive through, but there are crowd-control gates sectioning off the Street itself so you may not walk down it. Most of the grander lights are shut off. There were a few neon lights and casino billboards that were still on, obviously on some kind of timer.


However, it wasn’t the lack of lights on Fremont that unnerved me. It was the lack of sound. From noon until 2am it’s usually a cacophony of bass and rock covers and cheering and bucket banging and general casino sounds bouncing off it’s half-dome cover.


Tonight, I heard a security guy yell to another one from a block away, and the other answered.


I saw 2 other people taking pictures. How could you not? Las Vegas is shut down. 60% of the city is unemployed. It’s reason for being isn’t anymore. It truly felt like a shell of it’s former self, literally and figuratively.


Certainly the city’s properties have enough in their coffers to sweat out a shut-down, but these places employ thousands. The trickle down will be real in that city and you have to believe it won’t be able to manage a long shut-down. When it finally re-opens: Who’s going to have the funds to revitalize it? Is there anybody who is going to feel like gambling again? How long until we can let loose and have fun?

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EMPTY AMERICA: Los Angeles

3/27/2020

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We are living in unprecedented times. The worldwide pandemic has landed in the US. We’ve been told to self-quarantine, wash our hands, help stop the spread. None of this is earth-shattering news at this point. At least, I hope not. If it’s a shock to you as you read this, I would love to sleep in your guest bedroom under whichever rock you’ve carved out as a living space.


This hit me hard as I dwell in the freelance gig work force. 3 months of work, cancelled. The affect was two-fold as I’ve been living on the road for the past 18 months going gig to gig, so now not only was I jobless, but effectively homeless. I had to vacate the sweet little casita in Palm Springs that I had taken up residence in while working on a show out there.


I found myself in a unique situation: Where does one self-quarantine when they have been living on the road? How can you “shelter in place” if your place has been other places for the past year plus? And how does one stay creative if the creative opportunities just dried up?


So I took it to heart: The road became my self-quarantine. And creatively I decided to capture on camera what this unheard of experience is doing to America’s most busiest areas. Hopefully everybody is staying indoors safe and sound with their families. Since I got stuck on the road I decided to bring the road to those who are afraid to go outside to even check the mail.


(Safely. I’m taking all the precautions: Constantly washing my hands, not interacting with anybody, ordering food remotely, using a wipe when I get gas, gargling salt water, and, most importantly, spending 90% of my time in my car)


Since I was job-ousted in Palm Springs, my first self-assignment: How has coronavirus affected what I consider the most consistently busiest hubs in Los Angeles: Venice Beach and Santa Monica Pier (plus, the weather was beautiful).


I thought it would be a little more sparse. I’d heard most people weren’t taking it seriously so I thought it’d be interesting to see thinner crowds in usually crowded markets.


That idea was shattered quickly as I drove into Los Angeles during rush hour and made record time from Palm Springs. To see a city like LA have no traffic, to push cruise control once and not take it off until the freeway exit in Santa Monica, was astonishing. It’s hard to convey to anyone how surreal it is to drive the speed limit through Los Angeles on those freeways in the middle of the day. That was my first hint that the virus was real and, more importantly, that the fear was real.


I parked on the street in Santa Monica near the pier (once again: unheard of).


The Pier was closed off to foot traffic. All I was able to see was an amusement park at a standstill from a distance. No Ferris wheel spinning, no throngs of tourists, no cars. It almost seemed fake, like someone set up a replacement amusement park to stand in for the usual, joyful backdrop.


There were a few people on the running and bike path down to Venice Beach, a mile walk south, and all had some sort of protective gear on depending on which news source they’d watched: face masks, rubber gloves, hand towels. Even more intense than watching everyone walk around in home-fashioned Hazmat suits was the distance everyone kept. If you were heading towards someone, each of you would take a big banana curve away from that person to keep an estimated 6 feet. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t infected with the virus, however walking like that made me less sure. The lack of trust was humbling.


However, those kind of interactions were few and far between from the Pier down to Venice Boardwalk and even less so when I got there because it was shockingly empty. There were maybe a handful of people and most of those were the local denizens who most likely called it home day or night.


There was a gentleman dragging a cooler yelling “Monster drinks, one dollar” to no one. There were a few buskers with unfilled tip cups. There were maybe a handful of tourists who probably booked months in advance, didn’t get a refund, said “screw it, let’s go anyway” and now were ambling along in disappointment.


A few clothes shops were open, but there were no buyers. Most of the beachside cafes and bars were shuttered and those that were open were smaller food stands encouraging purchase but no hanging around.


4 people playing basketball. 3 people at the skate park. No one at Muscle Beach or on the pickleball courts.


The virus had definitely hit home and turned what is usually a churning, social hub of activity into a shell of it’s former self, almost like a lost neighborhood in a developing country that had long outlived it’s glory days.


I made my way back north towards the shopping epicenter of 3rd St. Promenade thinking surely there’d be something open there, some locals wandering around.


What I saw was a completely empty outdoor mall, fountains turned off, boarded up shops, busker free and security heavy. “Don’t Walk” signs didn’t matter because there were no cars. Luxury shops like Marc Jacobs and Louis Vuitton literally cleared out their stores in anticipation of the day the looting starts. I didn’t have to spend too much time there to realize that 3rd Street Promenade was absolutely, 100% empty.


This is a place I had spent so much time writing in sidewalk cafes, having my first drink at 21, bouncing between bars and movie theaters on a date or a friends night out, tipping very-good street musicians. It has been my haven in Los Angeles if there’s any place I wanted to wander and get distracted.


This time, there were no distractions. Just me, alone in my thoughts to take it all in.


The pandemic was real. It had begun shutting down America and emptying out her busiest thoroughfares. From friends’ social network feeds, I knew Los Angeles was complying, and now I saw the proof.


But certainly it wasn’t like this all over. Certainly Las Vegas still had a few lights on.


I exchanged some items in my storage facility and hit the deserted 10E to find out....
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Lessons Learned from a Year on the Road...

10/20/2019

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It’s another long birthday post...

Every year on my birthday, I get a little introspective, try to pass on any sort of wisdom that one is supposed to accrue through the years, and generally give you a social media break from partisanship, anger, negativity, verbal hate mongering and, well, videos of physical hate-mongering (shudder).

Usually I just put it in bullet points, sort of a “Everybody’s Free (To Wear Sunscreen)” without the fancy Baz Luhrman beat or gravel voice of R. Lee Ermy.

Stuff like:

- Hold a door, use a turn signal, push the “door open” button on the elevator. It’s the small things.
- Chipotle hack: Get 2 kinds of meat at Chipotle, add the fajita vegetables and get your tortilla on the side. Should feed you for 2 1/2 days.
- Look up, not always down.
- If someone doesn’t answer the phone, leave a message. Don’t be a mystery. And don’t leave cloudy messages like “Call me, I have something really super-duper life-changing important to tell you. I should be home after 3.” Don’t bury headlines.

So that’s what I usually do. Record it yourself with a fancy trap beat and you’ll have yourself the next novelty hit.

This year’s different. My one tip I almost always put on there is “Travel.” I’ve always been a fan and took that to heart last year. November 1, 2018. I left my apartment in Los Angeles ostensibly to go to NY. I only now just made it to the Big Apple. 11 1/2 months later. Oops. Well...I never said I was a planner...

The rest of the year has been on the road, air and sea going where the work and wind take me. Of course, if you’re reading this still it means you probably follow me on social media or know me in real life and all of this shouldn’t be a shock.

So in keeping with my “Birthday advice to you,” I’ll expound on that. Drop what I’ve learned. Espouse the main lesson(s) of this “travel year.” I get it: Doing that, dropping everything and becoming a nomad (I’m not homeless!) isn’t for everybody. It’s not feasible for some lifestyles and probably doesn’t interest others. That’s why I did it for you. It’s been an exciting, energizing, lonely, creative, romantic, surprising, sometimes quiet but never boring roller-coaster of a road trip. Chernobyl, Super Bowl LIII, Burning Man, Mt. Rushmore, sold out theatre in Palm Springs, sold out standup comedy in Paris, Belarus, Disneyland, cops in Kiev, dancers in Las Vegas, mai tais in Maui (don’t worry, it’s not as lascivious as it sounds...)... it’s been a year.

My gift to you on my Birthday:

- Everyone is generally good. Anywhere. Yes, there are a-holes out there. Avoid them. Don’t talk to them. Don’t engage. Don’t watch their show. Don’t friend them online. Don’t worry about them. And yes, there are evil people, either unrepentantly due to biology, neurology or up-bringing. But for the most part, everyone is good. Maybe misguided, or disagreeable, but good.
- English is spoken everywhere. Still, learn “please,” “thank you,” “hello” and “goodbye” in whatever language wherever you’re going.
- Avoid chain restaurants.
- A smile is international.
- Political leanings are not a person’s only characteristic, unless they make it so. But don’t foist it on someone. Have a logical discourse about politics if you must. If that’s impossible, either avoid the topic or avoid each other.
- The cheapest hotel/motel/AirBnB option is in the worst part of town. Always. But sometimes that can be really...interesting.
- The world isn’t as messy as the news would make you believe.
- There is some crazy good music in a language you can never hope to understand.
- Always pack a hoodie, flip-flops and a swimsuit.
- Truck stops have the best worst food.
- “Sometimes a rainbow is better than a pot of gold.” I’m not ashamed to say Bret Michaels wrote that line.
- I swear this is true: You can get along with people of different religions, sexualities, genders, classes, races or ideologies than you. Just don’t try to turn them into you. There’s already one of those.
- Nothing good happens after 2am, but nothing beats staying up til sunrise.
- Sunsets kick ass, no matter what part of the world you’re in. Take a minute to appreciate it.
- People love to laugh. That’s their default emotion.

This is already getting long. What can I say? I’ve had a lot of time to think this year, which can be a blessing and a curse. Maybe I’ll put it all in a book for you reader types.

If I could pass on one more plea, though: Although I think Ellen kinda flubbed it and, of course, the internet BLEW UP!, I do have to reflect her general message: “Be Kind.”

Honestly, we only spin around this world once (depending on what you believe anyway). I know “Be Kind” is kind of Pollyanna and trite and doesn’t address the wider concerns of the world (of which there are many), but it’s a good goal to strive for. It doesn’t take much. You can still be a raging Twitter news junkie and still do a little something to spread that kindness - say “thank you,” compliment a haircut, carry a grocery bag, make someone laugh.

It feels like we’re sitting on a powder keg out there. Let’s do our best to not light the fuse...

Happy Birthday to all of you.

(And if you leave angry comments on this, you’ve totally missed the point. Move on.)
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Thoughts from Another Year Around the Sun

10/17/2017

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Thank you for all your Birthday wishes! I’ve gotten another year older, taken another trip around the Sun. I may not necessarily get wiser, but certainly more experienced. I find I’m prone to drop more wisdom (for what it’s worth) and more advice (though no one may ask for it). That’s what we tend to do as the years click by. Maybe that’s the secret to immortality. Isn’t that why we constantly quote the dead? I have learned a few things, a lot in this past year, so indulge me (or yourself) while I divulge some sound words of advice, drop some learned knowledge and/or spread some thick b.s. (which is what it may all be, but that’s fine too). Feel free to cue up an instrumental version of Baz Luhrmann’s “Everybody’s Free (To Wear Sunscreen)” as I will dispense this advice...now:


Open your mind or your heart before you open your mouth.


Go to one music festival a year - 1 day, 3 days, 1 week, doesn’t matter - and go when the gates open to watch the opening bands you’ve never heard of. Don’t hang out at the Four Seasons pool until the sun goes down.


See the legends before they pass away (RIP Tom Petty).


If you’re in a Starbucks bathroom, let’s not go the #2 route. Coffee’s a diuretic and you’re being rude to coffee drinkers. Let’s work on the turnover rate when it’s busy.


Oreo keeps releasing exclusive flavors. They’re funky and worth trying. Except the Swedish Fish. If they bring back Swedish Fish flavored Oreos, we march on their headquarters.


If you like a street performer, give them some coin or cash. Encourage good art. It’s a subjective phrase, so I’ll leave that in your hands. Don’t tip someone just because they’re performing. Don’t encourage bad art...which is also subjective.


Don’t assume you’re being tipped. Tips are extra money given for exemplary service.


Farts are funny. Always have been, always will be. If you don’t think so, you have a stick in your butt...which would sound hilarious if you farted.


People may not seem to care - and they actually may not! - but I just think that people don’t think of others enough, that’s why they text in movie theaters, don’t use their turn signal and post negative comments online. If that’s you, don’t text in movie theaters, use your turn signal and don’t be too quick to post something negative online.


Dance like people are watching.


Sometimes jokes are jokes. They may not be good. They may be offensive. However, they come from a place that someone thought was funny. That’s why we have a variety of entertainment, and remote controls, preset radio stations and exit doors.


Changing the channel is easier than trying to change the system.


News channels, websites and blogs need views to get advertising dollars to survive. The bigger ones are multi-million dollar media outlets. They may have relevant information, but above all they are in the business of getting ratings to make money.


Don’t be so quick to Google. Try to figure it out first. The brain needs a workout every now and then.


Opinion has no place in a scientific debate.


Don’t default to staring at your phone if you’re in a room full of interesting people. At least find out if they’re interesting first. Be interesting.


Memorize important phone numbers.


If you have to get up early, smile at others you see who also had to get up early. Nobody wants to be up that early, so help each other out and make the most of it.


Go to a foreign country at least once. I’ll include Canada and Mexico on that list.


Go to a different state that’s the opposite political color of your own.


Go to a different city on the opposite end of your state and spend a weekend there.


Go to a new restaurant where the menu scares you.


Colonics are dreadful and over-rated.


Ease off the fast food.


Ignorance isn’t bliss, it’s an excuse.


Taylor Swift and Katy Perry may be beefing, but that shouldn’t stop you from enjoying their music at full volume and singing along. Unless you’re in heavy traffic or at a red light. In which case, roll up the windows. You never know who’s #TeamTaylor or #TeamKaty.


The only diet plan that has proven consistently effective in the history of the modern world is this: Eat well and be active.


Act like a child sometimes. Use your imagination, giggle uncontrollably, play with abandon, do dumb things and learn from them, and if you poop your pants, say “uh oh.”


Always have music playing. It’s easier to serve up a memory years down the line if you can associate it with a song.


Love is love is love is love is love. And consent is consent.


Everybody who changed the world before the internet didn’t have the internet to help them change the world.


Sports were developed purely for entertainment purposes. That’s worth remembering.


Don’t overdo it in Amsterdam, on your birthday, or at Burning Man. Also, don’t under-do it.


Sexism, fascism, misogyny, racism, homophobia, xenophobia...If you support any of these, statistically, in the US, you are in the minority. Don’t try to pretend you’re the majority. And don’t try to pretend you’re right and everybody else is wrong.


Vote.


Don’t talk about religion or politics. Try talking about the weather. The conversation may not be as stimulating but you’ll have fewer enemies.


Support your friends.


Whatever diet plan you’re on, incorporate a cheat day and stick to it.


Don’t overuse fml, worst day ever or #blessed.


Go see art. A lot of it sucks, and that’s okay. Some if it will literally change your world and that’s worth the risk.


You’re pretty, talented, worthwhile, beautiful and necessary.


It gets better. It also gets worse. Then it gets better again. Every uphill has a downhill and every downhill has an uphill. Life’s a roller-coaster. That’s what makes it interesting. Plateaus are boring. Hang in there.


Not every news item is a partisan issue.


Someone may say “Merry -“ or “Happy -“ whatever to you. Take it in the spirit it’s given. They weren’t trying to be mean or nasty. Respond how you want. Preferably with a “Merry -“ or “Happy -“ whatever of your own.


You have the power to not be offended.


Stop paying to see bad movies.


It’s OK that someone disagrees with you. You don’t have to be their friend in real life or maintain your even-more-important social media connection.


Take a road trip and focus on the journey, not the destination. Don’t pass up the best parts of the trip.


Live life like there are consequences for your actions. Because there are. At least, there should be. At some point, you’ll stop getting bailed out. Be thankful every time you are, but don’t expect it for every dumb thing you do.


Above all, laugh, smile, giggle, guffaw, or chortle. Make someone else do the same. It’s way more rewarding than filling someone with anger, fear, embarrassment or tears.


But trust me on the sunscreen...


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The Joel Wide World (Palm Springs)

5/30/2017

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PALM SPRINGS, CA

​For so long now, Palm Springs, CA has been cheekily referred to as "The Gay 90's," because, if you live there, you were either gay, 90, or both.

To say it'a changed and that is a dated reference would be doing a huge disservice to the seemingly bulk of the residents who are still, yes, most likely gay, close to 90 or reasonably both.
Yet, on a recent, long trip to the desert, I found out that you can expand the reference to: "The Gay 90's and a bunch of tourists, wacky artists just outside of town, hipster music festival kids and a solid handful or two of open-minded progressive straight folks looking for a good time." This isn't to say that Palm Springs has lost any of it's kitsch. It has, thankfully, done away with the street-cruising Bachannalia of it's pre-Sonny Bono Spring Break days, but don't think it's not a place where the dirtier, sexier side of the city isn't present, it's just hard to see under the always-constant sun or behind the closed doors of trendy hotels' day-drinking parties.
This is not to say it's a constant party, it's just that everybody you come across is simply having a good time. There's a persistent good mood, whether it's the buzz of the morning crowd at any Koffi location, the joy of the quiet mid-day crowd at Sunnylands Estate, the Living Desert zoo or some random colorful hotel pool party, or the slew of nighttime activities ranging from quirky throwback Showgirls Bingo, aged cover bands at Mexican restaurants, fancy martinis at throwback lounges or the strip of tank top-filled patios along Arenas in the gay district.
Everybody is just doing what they enjoy doing in the desert. Assuming they came there regardless of triple degree heat, a high chance of sunburns and with a few bucks to spare.
It's Bachannalian to be sure, it's just more subdued and classy Bachannalia.


I spent a good long time there, so I'd love to put forth some spots I hit. Maybe you have a few of your own to add to the list because, though it seems like a small desert town, it's actually pretty spread out.


The simplest recommendation is to hoof up and down the main downtown strip along Palm Canyon and Indian Canyon. If you like your city visits quick and easy, you can get all manner of Palm Springs just in a few square blocks. Hard Rock Hotel is right there, so you can have your trendy hotel (though you'd probably wanna hang out at the Ace Hotel & Swim Club or Saguaro). You can get your CA cuisine at LuLu's (the newest top hot spot, though I'd rather be at Trio). You can get solid Mexican cuisine at Las Casillas (though give me any smaller mom and pop joint in Cathedral City). You can have a good, though basic, dance crowd at Village Pub, if you don't mind the weirdly always-constant smell of dried upchuck (Though I'd much rather make the trek out to Pappy & Harriet's in Pioneertown for better food, live music and a trendier, maybe too-Hollywood crowd. It's a smallish rustic dive bar turned A-list stop-off haven that has hosted the likes of Paul McCartney, Elton John and the Pixies). You can pop in for Village Fest during the winter months, where downtown turns into booth after booth of food and local artists (though I had a much better time at the Indio Farmer's Market). You can have a burger at the universally praised former Greyhoud busstop-turned-#1 burger joint Tyler's (though my best burger in the Coachella Valley was had at Tony's, an unassuming burger spot in a strip mall in Cathedral City whose El Enfierno burger, with fried habanero, sliced Serrano and ghost pepper cheese blew my mind, and sinuses).
In short, you can do anything and everything you want, and get a feasibly authentic Palm Springs experience just by throwing on some khaki shorts and a Hawaiian shirt (don't worry, everybody wears them, even at the fancier spots) and hoofing it up and down the downtown streets. I don't think you'll miss the Palm Springs experience. However, you can always make it better by going just slightly out of your way. Some highlights:


-- The Aerial Tramway. This is an easy one. It's known for it's tramway. Could be the longest tram in the Western Hemisphere (or some other claim to fame that these structures usually boast, and which no one ever checks on). It's a thrilling ride up the San Jacinto mountains in a tram car that spins 360 degrees as you make you ascend and descend. This is a nice touch, guaranteeing that there are no bad window seats. Eventually you'll see all the way down, and all the way up. It's a beautiful ride to a nice, accommodating lodge with a stunning view of the valley below. Bring some hiking boots and a bottled water and take one of their many trails. I recommend heading off early (the tram opens at 10am) to avoid the heat and any other contact on the trails. What's the point of hiking in the wilderness if you're constantly having to say "hi" to passers-by? It's quiet, beautiful and about 30 degrees colder than the city below. You are removed from any mid-century Palm Springs kitsch and can really get lost up in the woods (don't worry, they have attentive rangers and well-marked paths).


-- Melvyn's. Classic Palm Springs restaurant formally owned by the recently passed-away Melvyn. This is a spot where Frankie and Sammy and virtually anybody else with a street named after them hung out in Palm Springs. Their martinis are crisp and smooth, the decor (though soon to be changed) is classic throw-back Palm Springs, and the dress code tends towards the nicer ("nice" in Palm Springs means pants. And maybe a collared shirt). It's worth a pop-in.


-- The Nest. Ok, this place is hilarious. It was described to me as a cheeky place to watch one-night May-December romances blossom on the dance floor in front of a pretty well-conditioned cover band. I thought: "It can't be that much of a caricature." I'm happy to report, it was undersold. It doesn't just have hints of how it was described, it's only that. The restaurant portion is expensive, expansive, and looked 5-star delicious with a classy seating area to match. Leave that and go to the bar and you'll see a dance floor full of sun-dappled 20-somethings hitting on, or being hit on, more likely, leathery golf-attired gentlemen and faux-tanned, surgery enhanced older women. Without shame. It's amazing to see it so brazen and accepted. No one's creeped out, no moves are out of line, and everybody who steps foot in the door knows the rules. Don't like it? Leave. I eventually did, but not after a solid people-watching session.


-- Art. I'm leaving that as it is. Palm Springs is surrounded by the artistically-minded, whether they're housed in Salton Sea or Pioneertown or Indio, there is art everywhere and it's colorful and thoughtful and well-curated. Sometimes sculptures just stick out when thrust in a city center commissioned by some well-intentioned city council. The art that's prevalent in galleries and on street corners in Palm Springs all just fits. Maybe it enhanced the mid-century architecture or gives you more of a sense of the "Gay 90's" label of the city or maybe it's there to distract from the saltier elements of the city. However you see it, it belongs, and it's rarely wasted or gratuitous. (Special shout-out to the curators and creators of the Desert X art exhibit who implemented large-scale pieces throughout the city. It was the most fun I've had on an art scavenger hunt, tracking down the various GPS coordinates and marveling at what I found).


-- Spurline. An artist friend of mine introduced to this spot on Arenas in the "gay district" and I damn well loved it. He described it as a video bar. I had no idea what that meant. Well, as a straight sports bar might have tons of TV's showing all manner of games, this bar, too, has a slew of flat-screen TV's. However, instead of football or golf, they blast musical numbers. Yes, musicals. I know, it sounded cliche to me, until you realize how much everybody's singing along...and how many you know and are enchanted by. Whether it was "The Sound of Music," a clip from the Tony's, "The Wiz," "EVITA" with Madonna, anything and everything. I'm not a huge fan of musicals, but a number of them were very familiar to me. Besides, the vibe was ecstatic as it's refreshing to see a whole bar watching TV and singing along full-throat to everything that came on the screen and, much like Palm Springs itself, it's hard to be unhappy when you're watching musicals. (No piece too dramatic came on the screen. Sorry "Phantom" lovers)


-- The People. That's what makes the city. Whether retired and living out their happy existence or partying the weekend away or off for a "girl's weekend" (or a "boy's weekend" for that matter), whether they're locals or tourists or any mix of demographics, as I said, everybody just seems happy. I'm guessing most come from or live part-time in Los Angeles, so to be able to have a conversation with an Angeleno that's coherent and non-industry-related is refreshing. Of course, Canadian "Snowbirds" make up a large portion of the population for the winter months, so that surely improves the nice factor. However, as I said, everybody there seems very happy. And why not? They spent their day golfing or napping or day-drinking and are wearing tank tops and shorts at night while they barhop. What's to be mad about?


Look, I've been a number of times for various reasons. This last time I was there I was on a gig for 6 weeks. That's a long time to be there, to be sure, especially when you're as pale as I am and you're just dipping into the triple degree summer weather. However, it was this time I was able to discover some more of the city's charms, delve beneath the facade and discover what seemed to really make the city tick. This was also the first time I felt like a resident and found myself thinking: "If I was only gay or 90...."
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The JOEL Wide World - Athens Marathon

3/12/2017

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The JOEL Wide World
Athens Authentic Marathon
Athens and Marathon, Greece

I still don't purport to be a runner, per se. I know people who are runners. They're lithe and dedicated and fast and have been doing it since their cross-country days of high school. Though I wouldn't call myself a runner, most others would. I have 6 pairs of running shoes (a little low for most runners I know), I get up at 6am 3 times per week and run between 4 and 10 miles. I clock around 8:30/mile. I know what terms like Fartlek and PR and negative splits and mid-foot strike mean, and I use them knowingly. I've also run 5 marathons.

OK, so I do run. But put me next to a fleet-footed Kenyan or someone who has the "must-run" sickness, and you'd be hard-pressed to find a lot of similarities.

Mostly I do it for the races. Mostly to prep for races I enjoy (mud runs, obstacle courses, that sort of thing). However, every once in a while, a running race challenge beckons and....why not?

I thought running through LA would be the ultimate rush...and it was. The first time. It's pretty amazing to run through a shut-down city and see it from a whole different perspective. I thought that was the apex. Then I foolishly entered the lottery for a spot in the New York Marathon. I should've bought a lottery ticket instead because, as luck (?) would have it, I got in on my first attempt. I trained for it and ran the New York Marathon and, what LA had in running-through-the-streets uniqueness and crowd support, New York out-did it by 1000%. Running through all 5 Burroughs with scores of people 10 deep for most of the course was a thrill. A brutal race, with the wind and cold and having to get up literally 7 hours before my start time to make it to Staten Island, but an amazing experience nonetheless.

I could swear I was done with Marathons.

Then I had the opportunity to run the Athens Marathon (and raise money for one of my favorite charities: AIDS Project Los Angeles). How do you say "no" to that? It's the original marathon! It's the reason we call them "marathons." The race would literally start in a stadium in, yep, Marathon, follow the course of the first Greek man who ran to Athens (and then promptly died...which we like to forget about...) and finish in the Panathenaic Stadium. Even if you hate running, hate Greek food, hate history, or all of the above, it's still a very tempting "bucket list" prospect.

As I've found with many races I've signed up for or been duped into running: It sounds way better on paper!

So I loaded up my travel backpack (I was going to spend 2 more weeks trolling around Europe in classic backpacker style), said good-bye to the wife and cats, and made my long trek to Athens.

One thing you tend to forget being American and a native English speaker and having mostly traveled around Europe, Mexico and Canada if you went to a foreign country: There are many places on this globe where English is very low on the priority list of "things to learn in school" and languages and letters of the alphabet vary greatly from our beloved 26. It hits you in Athens quickly. Though most people I came across had a working knowledge of English and some signs were bilingual, if you were in a situation where there was a language roadblock, you can't even fudge your way through. There aren't many words or letters or sounds that share the language base. You can't ask where the "toiletten" is or a "taxi" or sound out foreign-spelled words.
I know this seems very obvious, but you tend to forget about it. Especially when you're used to traveling in a bubble.

I made my way onto the the train from the airport, hit my stop at the main square near my hotel (which was arranged by APLA and my training group: Team 2 End AIDS). Immediately after I came out of the station, in front of the Parliament building, I was smack dab in the middle of a huge Syrian refugee protest. Welcome to Europe!

No one does upheaval, strikes, or unrest like they do in Europe. With such a melting pot and blurry borders and still-changing political systems, there is always some ado about something.

I kept my head down, wore my best "innocent backpacker" look and made my way to the boutique hotel a few blocks down. The bad thing about having a nice hotel booked for you, and you dressing and looking like a backpacker, and after flying 18 hours with little rest or shower, it's very hard to make your way into a fancy, small hotel during a riot and have security not try to kick you out. Twice.

Luckily my contact was there, I settled in, unpacked, and set to preparing for the big marathon.

We had a few days off before the race, so, yes, I hit the Parthenon and Theatre of Dionysus and a cool wine bar (not too much!) and the ancient Athens city. I did the tourist stuff and, unlike many places that have the classic tourist stops, I was very impressed. However, anybody can do those places. Go to Athens and it's literally unavoidable. This is about running the Authentic Athens Marathon!

A few things you should know about me personally before we get into the Marathon:
This was going to be my last marathon. Period. I never really dug them, they wreck your body, and, really, what could compete with running the OG of races?
My goal was to always do a marathon under 4 hours. The closest I've gotten was in my last LA marathon when I finished in 4:04 which, at the time, I convinced myself was "close enough."
I had trained for this, by myself, for 6 months, so I was as ready as I thought I'd be.

My wave time was 8am. Which meant that we had to catch a 5am bus from our hotel. It was only an hour or so outside of Athens by bus. This is always the toughest part of the marathon because you want to sleep on the ride, but you're already mostly awake, so you're really balancing tired and getting psyched for a race that's starting in 3 hours. It is a balancing act.

Also, probably the hardest part of the marathon, aside from not dying at the end, is the hours before-hand. Whether is 3 hours (pretty standard) or the 5 hours in NY, it's just time to kill. You want to eat, but can't eat too much, but have to eat something. And you want to stay loose and warm but not too loose and warm, but you don't want to be cold. And you are excited, but not super-excited, almost dreading it really, but you must stay excited and positive. And you'll go to the bathroom around 7 times, but you have to stay hydrated, almost overly hydrated, but not overly hydrated, and you want to make sure you go to the bathroom (I went to the bathroom on my first marathon in LA about halfway through the course and seriously contemplated just staying there for an hour to rest up). So there are all of these factors that happen immediately before the race that really will determine your success on the course. This is the part you hear so little about, but it should be in everyone's race training: How to kill 3 hours productively before the starting gun.

Now, a word about Marathon. We didn't get a tour of the whole city, or maybe we did. We were dropped off in a "stadium," and I use that term loosely, to get settled in before the race. I don't know if maybe Marathon itself was ever a bigger city or maybe it was just famous as the namesake of this particular style of race. Either way, if you happened onto any Greek high school soccer field, you could easily mistake it for the stadium in Marathon. It was so bland and small and un-Ancient Greek-like. I suppose my team (we were 10 in all) was all a bit disappointed. This was supposed to be the home of the marathon. It's called Marathon! I mean, there was a lit torch and a bit of a grand-stand and some marble seating but nothing that would make you think this was the epicenter of the long-distance race world.

Didn't matter, I told myself. We're just running from one small stadium to a huge one. Maybe that's why everybody runs from Marathon: There's not much too it. So a word to the wise: When in Greece, see Athens, see some famous ruins, see the Islands, don't go out of your way to visit Marathon.

This isn't to be ungrateful. Beginning a marathon in Marathon was still awesome. The rest of the race? Well.....

It was only after the course did I read an article stating that the Athens Marathon was one of the Top 10 Toughest Marathons in the World. Now there are others that run through Death Valley or across the Arctic or up to Macchu Pichu that also made the list, so this race was not in bad company. There are a few reasons that became readily apparent why this race would even be considered for such a high honor:

-- It was 75% uphill. In fact, it was the first 75% that was uphill. Most races will have ups and downs and you can always take solace in the fact that for every up, there is always a down. Except in Greece. We started up. And continued up. And up. And up. It was only the last 10 kilometers where there was any sort of down, and that was a very negligible down.

-- This may be due to the weak Greek economy, but support on the track was pretty slim. It was there. Enough to make sure nobody died on the course. However, that seemed to be the extent of it. Where most races will have water stops every mile and spectators handing out food and drink in the intervening gaps, Greece had water stops every 2.5 - 3 kilometers. As far as the spectators go, they were way more apt to offer "Bravo" then open up their cupboards and faucets to a bunch of casual runners.

-- The spectators. Look, the few that showed up were very nice. Yet as much as each thought their cheers of "Bravo!" would satiate an international crowd, when that becomes, quite literally, the only thing you hear on the race course, it can get maddening. Also, a few folks were probably pretty happy to have a race going through their neighborhoods, but it seemed like most did not. Or perhaps Athens and it's outskirts just aren't that heavily populated. There was plenty of alone-time.

-- When you hear about, then sign up for, the Athens Authentic Marathon, how do you not envision the Mediterranean in the distance, that wonderful sea breeze which bred and kept civilization in this area, and scores and scores of ruins and statues and history? I thought we'd be running through a Greek brochure. I was surprised to find out that, after Marathon and it's high school stadium, the course to Athens was very urban. Asphalt and buildings and asphalt and buildings and signs and some cars and some people and - wait! Is that a statue? Yes! - and one statue. It was more like running through a brochure of urban planning than a Greek paradise.

-- Here's the tricky thing: The finish line is actually 1 km in front of the "finish line" in the Panathenaic Stadium! Maybe they had to make up a distance, or they laid it all out and said the Greek equivalent of "Oops!" Or maybe there's some European reason unbeknownst to me. I remember running over the real finish line, not yet in the stadium, and thinking: "I think I just finished. But I think I still have to run." And so I did. To the other Finish Line. The only problem was: That last 1 km is where you dig deep, kick in whatever juice you have left, and try to trim seconds off of your time.

Now, once again, I am not ungrateful at all. Finishing a marathon in a humongous marble Greek stadium that's been there for thousands of years is epic! There were boisterous cheers for the runners and, though most were probably not for me, you imagined they were. It's an incredible feeling! You run in and finish 1/4 lap in. Then you get your medal and do the slow post-marathon amble the rest of the way completing a lap in an Ancient Greek stadium!

So though the previous 4-plus hours might have been dull or unfulfilling or, well, I'll call it like it is which sums up my thoughts on marathons, a physical Hell, the finish is worth the flight, the refugee riot, the training, the money, the stress, the hills - all of it! It didn't really even faze me that I finished in 4:06.

Yep, missed my personal goal by 6 minutes. At least, that's what the "finish line" said.

It was only later that I got an email from my brother. I was at the hotel, trying not to move from the lobby chair to go get some much-needed food and drink, when I checked my email. A huge "CONGRATS" from my brother. He told me I had broken 4 hours. What?

I went to the official timing site and there it was: 3 different listed times. Your halfway point time. Your official finish time. And the time you finished in the stadium.

I finished in 3:59:45. Only 15 seconds under 4 hours. But that was good enough for me to set the sun on the marathon career....

Next time I'm in Greece: I'm going to the Islands!
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The JOEL Wide World: Irwindale Motor Speedway

7/15/2016

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The JOEL Wide World:
Demolition Derby and Trailer Races
Irwindale Motor Speedway, Baldwin Park, CA

It was inadvertent that I went to my first "Night of Destruction" at the Irwindale Speedway on July 4th weekend, but, somehow, it made complete sense.
What is more American than racing cars and beer and fireworks and parking issues and chili fries and throngs of people and wrecking cars? It was almost too American.
It was so American that somebody tried to get by me, I responded "no worries," he thought I said, "no way," and his response was: "Dude. Whattaya mean. We're American bro!"

Frankly, I went as a lark. I'd never been to an auto race, much less one that was deemed the "Night of Destruction." Usually when you hear that, it's less destructive, and more kitschy.
I am happy to report the Night of Destruction did not slack on the destruction.

It also helped that I rolled there with my buddy Pete Giovine, a standup comic straight off the shores of Jersey - how American is that?! Of course, we went in my Ford Fiesta because: America.

Enough about our accidental over-patriotism. Let me open your eyes to the wonderful world of small race tracks and the sheer variety of races and destruction you can squeeze in to 3 hours.

Irwindale is what they call a "short track" in NASCAR. They have races there on the very amateur level. There is one solid grandstand, some food stands and a mile-long track. Pete told me it's a place where NASCAR wannabes cut their teeth.

Indeed, amongst all of the destruction, we were treated to a short, 25-lap NASCAR-style car race. It probably meant something, the winner might've won cash, heck a career might've started. It was a unique race because there were no wrecks, but don't believe that it was any less exciting. NASCAR seems to be a lot like pro hockey: It's OK as a televised sport, but when you see it live, and the blood and adrenaline get working in conjunction because you're a part of what's happening, then you "get it." It was awesome!

To go back: This being a small-time track, and because they probably rarely have crowds out there, it only took us 1 hour to get in. In other words, we finally found some seats with a pair of beers in hand around 45 minutes after the festivities started. We might've missed something. I couldn't tell you what. It didn't matter.

From the first race we saw, I was enthralled! The adjustable track was shaped like a kidney bean, an oval with a dent in the top. The participants were probable recent junkyard finds or were pegged to end up there after the race. This means that the drivers sped along with abandon with very little respect for theirs or someone else's car. They had helmets and straps, sure, but essentially it was one beat-up Honda Accord chasing down and barreling into another Honda Civic. The cars were hand-painted, bumpers flew everywhere and the concrete barriers did their best to contain the action. Our tickets were only $10. I would've paid that for the first race. And this was the weakest of the whole lineup!

Next up is soccer. A 600-pound ball painted like a soccer ball (I still have no idea what it was made out of) and 2 teams of 3 cars squaring off against another. There were 2 concrete barriers adjusted on each side to form the parameters of a "goal." The rest is fairly obvious. However, when you see a 600-pound ball fly off of one car's bumper, careen into another car, rocking it, then have a third car sweep in and go Tony Stewart-meets-Lionel Messi on it, you realize what the sport of soccer is missing in the U.S.: Cars. And destruction.

The third race (that we saw) of the night was easily the most fun I've had at a sporting event this year. The track was reshaped again into a figure 8. Yes! Those same beat-up jalopies and scrapheap Corollas were now going to race in a figure 8. There were twice as many cars and the intersection was part of the track.
When I was a child, I had a motorized toy car track called "Criss Cross Crash." The point being you would race each other but at some point the tracks crossed, and, frankly, you never cared who won, you just wanted to see cars hit each other.
Multiply that by 20 cars. Add about 65 miles per hour of speed. Add a bit of skill. Now you have the most visceral racing experience you're bound to encounter.
You've seen the action films where a few cars race through the crowded streets of a major metropolis with little regard for red lights. Yet, somehow, through careful planning of the 2nd AD and stunt team, the drivers eke through intersections missing perpendicular traffic by inches. It's a nice thrill.
Now have that happen 35 to 40 times in a 15 minute time span, with a solid t-bone crash thrown in just to prove it's real.
My clammy hands could barely hold my beer!

Next up was the aforementioned short-track NASCAR-style race. Then there was a race with those same everyday cars (apparently built more solidly then their bodies would have you believe). However, they removed the back tires and put in skid plates. The track was the previously described kidney bean, and there were about 35 cars drifting around it because, you got it, they could only use their front tires. Maybe I had already gotten full of adrenaline, or maybe my tolerance for random destruction was met, because watching cars skid into each other for 20 minutes became ho-hum in comparison to what we'd seen.

How quickly we become adapted to thrills!

The last race of the evening was simply the cherry on top and was worth a $50 ticket all it's own. It was the famed Trailer Races! Take a bunch of beat-up SUV's or surly muscle cars, tag them each with trailers - some with RV's, some with boats, one with a wave-rider - and let them take the big oval. Here's the beauty of the Trailer Race: It's not for speed or time. The winner of the trailer race is the car that puts on the best show! This means that you're putting a bunch of adrenaline junkies in cars with trailers trying to thrill the audience. And what thrills an audience force-fed a balls-to-the-wall buffet of outrageous destruction? MORE DESTRUCTION! Without abandon, without consideration for safety, no-holds-barred, absolute mayhem. Lost your trailer? Plow through someone else's! Boat blocking your path? Gun it through the hull! Need to stop a car? Drive up on it's trailer to clip the wheels! It was absolute, pure, unbridled destructive passion. It was as close as we'll legally get to modern-day gladiatorial fighting mixed with that most of American traditions: The motorized vehicle.

In short: It was so American! Cars and RV's and boats used purely for disposable play and slapstick destruction. The ultimate in excess, in every way possible.

It was all followed with a fireworks show to Lee Greenwood's "God Bless America," because, well, frankly, it just had to be.....
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Donald Trump is the Presidential Candidate We Deserve

6/20/2016

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For the longest time, I was shocked. Donald Trump currently has a 50% chance of becoming the next leader of the United States of America? Seriously?!?
He's self-centered, full of faux outrage, willfully ignorant and wears arrogance proudly. Certainly he's not.....

Well, wait a second...The more I think about it: Doesn't that seem to describe where we're at as a nation?

I never want to paint over any mass citizenry with such a broad brush stroke but chances are we all fit under at least one of the top four descriptors. If not all four. You absolutely know somebody that fits all four. Just check your Facebook feed.  More importantly, check your latest Facebook rant and I'm sure you were railing against a person or group that fits under one of the four. They're out there. They're probably us. And we've created a monster....

Before I delve too deep, let me say this: I'm not a Trump supporter. Nor am I particularly fond of where the Democratic Party sits right now (re: This is written post-California primaries....You know the one, where everybody was incensed that the AP had given the nomination to Hillary Clinton, decrying that "California hasn't even voted yet!" And then California voted...and Hillary won handily). I'm not anti-Hillary either. If anything, I'm very middle, or middling, in that I'm fairly anti-political process at this point (yes...I voted).

If anything, I would say I'm anti-Trump, in that him in any leadership position in the free world makes it less "free." He's the best that the GOP could find to represent itself? Yes. Yes he is.  Frankly, most of the GOP is scary right now, their leaders are the epitome of contempt, derision and delusion, and they have effectively shot themselves in the foot over the past 20 years of essentially breaking down a democracy from the inside out. Cry foul enough, and foul is what you get.

However, the more I think about it, Trump is a great candidate for everybody across the spectrum. And I don't mean "great" as in "superb" or "Make America Great Again," I mean "great" as in a fine representative of the populace of the United States. He's almost too perfect.

He's the embodiment of self-centered, angry, ignorant and arrogant. As are his supporters. As is, sadly, most everyone...

He's self-centered.

Aren't we all? I mean, isn't that the very basis for social media? There was a time when we would cringe at a neighbor coming home from vacation because we'd have to sit through interminable slide shows of their trip. Now, that's all my Instagram feed is. We order meals, then let those meals get cold because we're too busy choosing the right filter to make our farm-to-table kale quinoa summer squash salad really pop in thumbnail pictures. Our celebrities - those bastions of success and dreams - are now 19-year-old kids who begin most of their vlog posts with "Let me tell you about my day and what I think of the world" to millions of viewers and millions of dollars.

There was a time when a sex tape would be a point of shame. Now it's the stepping-stone to a multi-billion dollar family franchise. Sex tapes are now passé.

Instead of social warriors or screen legends, we make celebrities and idols out of Honey Boo-Boo, the Duck Dynasty folks and innumerable flailing, screaming housewives. The networks pay them pennies on the dollar and, if and when they become too big for their britches and demand a bigger piece of the pie, the networks cast them aside to save a buck and launch the next series starring truckers or lumberjacks or fishermen or pranksters. Humans, and our humanity, it seems, are easily replaceable.

I don't blame reality shows or YouTube. Far from it. I blame those that watch them as a source of entertainment. Who's the bigger fool - the fool, or the ones that follow the fool? But here's the rub: It gives import and substance to people that never earned it and don't know how to use it. All they, and we, know is that I can be rich and famous for being me. And I deserve it.

We live in a culture now where a kid can bite his brother's finger, their parents can record it, and by sheer luck, that's a serviceable road to a six-figure income. More people on paper would probably recognize the "Charlie bit my finger" kid over Malala Yousafzai nine times out of ten, and she's a peace-mongering Nobel Prize winner who took a bullet in the face from the Taliban to stand up for her rights!

I believe that's really the main mindset of today's American: Where's mine? Why not me? How can I do less and get more? Why aren't I rich and famous and on every TV show and magazine cover? Because that's "success," right?

If I was in school now, I would probably drop out, move to a bigger city, become some kind of epic trouble-maker and be set for the rest of my life.  A college degree? Why would I waste my time getting that? So I can work for somebody else?

Better plan: Make millions off of having people watch videos of me playing video games. I'm not saying that wouldn't require work, but not the kind that's actually, y'know, work.  Heck, I'm writing this and hoping everybody reads it because it's me today.

I just wish there was a candidate that represented that. Someone who didn't have to work for their millions, it was just handed to them. Somebody that stays relevant by being a trouble-maker and loudmouth. Somebody who deems success as having their name writ large and in lights. Somebody that thinks the universe should rotate around them.

Oh....there he is!

He has faux outrage.

This is probably going to seem like some sort of paradox: Outrage about faux outrage. So I apologize.

However, at some point, we have to simmer down a bit and focus on real issues and how to really solve them.

Currently, there's an outrage movement about supposed feminist rights and gender equality because Jennifer Lawrence's character is getting choked by Oscar Isaac's character in the new billboards for "Xmen: Apocalypse." Apparently, this is appalling and is setting women back years and how dare Fox show two comic book characters in probably a very representative climactic scene from the newest overblown comic-book movie. Fox even apologized. Thank goodness!  I can almost hear a sigh of relief from the grave of Susan B. Anthony as everything she fought for has finally been redeemed by this new "take down those Xmen billboards!" movement.

Is the billboard in poor taste? Meh. Maybe. Is there anyone that actually drove by it and thought: "Wait! Poor Jennifer Lawrence's character! What about women's rights!?!" No. I'm pretty positive about that. And yet....

We need to relax. Real issues like gender equality and racism and abuse and a myriad of other issues get lost in the white noise of Facebook feeds and social media outrage and sensationalized news cycles and those issues still persist because the faux outrage over nonsensical non-arguments clouds the issues. It doesn't resolve them. It merely makes noise.

Chris Rock nailed it with his monologue. Are there a lack of quality roles for black actors in Hollywood? Sure. (Just don't tell that to Asian, Native American or Indian actors...). Does Jada Pinkett-Smith not attending the Oscars create such a strong statement that it creates the beginning of the end of racism in America? Not even close.

Yes, ending racism is a marathon - one that's gone on way too long, of course - not a sprint, and every little bit counts. But sometimes it's just too little and it fuzzes up the narrative.

Want to really make a statement? Take those millions you and your husband have earned and self-finance a Harriet Tubman biopic. I would take that way more seriously than you saying you're not going to attend an Awards telecast in which you weren't even nominated.

All of this is to say: Choose your battles. Don't just rage to rage. Don't yell just to yell. Don't hurt a cause by taking up arms to fight a cause on a microscopic level. I know this would leave our Facebook and Twitter feeds almost entirely devoid of content...but that wouldn't be the worse thing.

If only there were somebody that flies off the handle like this. Somebody that just shoots from the hip. Somebody that muddies the waters of an issue by making mountains out of molehills.  Somebody that can incense a crowd with verbiage that really means nothing and preys on emotions rather than logic.

Oh wait...Hello, Mr. Trump!

He is willfully ignorant.

There was a great article I read recently about America's "willful ignorance." The being okay with not knowing. Or knowing, but being okay with appearing like you don't know. That's where we live now. We literally don't have to know something anymore. Don't know something? Pull out your phone and Google it. Your retention rate will be nil, but at least in the moment you will know something then and there. Then quickly forget it. You just don't need to know.

At the risk of sounding like a "get off my lawn" geezer, there's a pretty well-known law that you should use your turn signal when either changing lanes or, y'know, turning. I could make up a statistic here, but let's just say "most" people don't do that. Ever. Sure, there's an amount of "I only care what I'm doing in my car and F you because turn signals are meant to inform everybody else but me of my intentions." Ok, there's a huge amount of that self-centeredness.  There's also a hint, though, of "I know the law. But I'm not going to follow it." Of course, there's no consequence for that because I'm fairly certain that pulling people over for not using their turn signals is very low on the list of the local law enforcements, er, law enforcement list.

Living with no consequence falls squarely under "willfully ignorant" as well.  You may have read the first part of this post (and if you're still reading, thank you!) and thought:  "Well, Joel just hates Millenials." First of all, that's not true. ''Hate" is such a strong word, and not quite the right one. Maybe fear? Secondly, living sans consequence covers that generation, and the one after it, and the one after that, all the way square into the older Gen-X'ers among us.

I have what I call the Videogame Theory. To wit:
Years ago, we would have a few quarters in our pocket and we would take them to the arcade and make them last as long as we could. When the quarters ran out, our trip was over and our afternoon took a different turn. So you struggled and lost money but still worked to become great at certain games. Using this method, we could stretch our quarters out over a few hours and have an entertaining, competitive afternoon.

Then home videogame systems became prevalent in almost every household and there were no more consequences. Having trouble on world 1-2 on "Super Mario Bros.?" No big deal, just tap "continue" and you could keep playing. You didn't have to get much better, just good or lucky enough to pass in the time being. You always had an out. A way to replay every bad action or decision. And a reason to not have to get significantly better. In other words, you could play a game ad infinitum with no consequences. You didn't have to know how to pass the trial, you only had to know how to click "continue" every time you failed.

We enter into deals or sign contracts or buy houses or take out loans or take action and, if the end result isn't pleasing, it's somebody else's fault. There is no consequence because, surely, though I did something wrong, I couldn't have really done something wrong. And where's my bailout?!? We don't take laws and rules and warnings seriously. We act and worry about the consequences later. When they eventually rear their ugly head, we cry out for the government or the company or friends and family to bail us out. If they don't, certainly we can further clog up the legal system with our petty grievance or money grab. Even though, for the most part, we knew there was a 50/50 chance whatever action we took would blow up in our face.

Parents are quick to sue school systems if their kid gets injured because somebody socked him.  Instead of the child learning from getting socked, certainly the school must be at fault for...not raising every kid right? That's not their job! And maybe your kid's a dick and deserved it.

The point is: We know stuff. However, we go half-cocked into situations ignoring most warnings and expect to come out on top. And if we don't, what's the easiest way out? That's a willful ignorance that hasn't been seen in this country in ages. Or maybe we just never knew it was that prevalent.

Yes, there are people that get legitimately screwed by our convoluted systems of health care and justice and unions and big business. Absolutely. We're not always, entirely at fault when the chips don't fall our way.

However, how can we discern the serious from the very serious from the insipid anymore when all cases and stories are treated with such import or sensationalization?

If only there was a candidate who went off half-cocked. Somebody who blamed everybody else. Somebody who neglected facts and flaunted ignorance in exchange for howling rhetoric.  Somebody who was wrong most of the time but wouldn't admit it. If only there was somebody like that we could follow, who embodied that spirit....

He is arrogant.

Aren't we all? Through the above 3 characteristics, there is one common thread: We're always right. There's no debate anymore. No logical discussion. We spout out our truths, post our rants and forward our videos, and, though there is a "reply" button, we'd much rather just have you click "like" and thumbs up.

We're always in the right, our opinions are truths, and don't you dare disagree with us because we can block you or delete your comments.

Our logic is just that: Supremely ours. As I read in one comments section recently: "I don't care about the facts, I'll still believe what I believe." So there you have it. Whether we're referring to science, statistics or standards, it's our way or buh-bye.

We need someone in office who represents our arrogance. Someone who says they are the "greatest" without proper facts and figures to back it up. Someone that has the balls to say everyone else is wrong, I am right, just wait and see.

I think we definitely found that someone.

It says a lot about this amazing nation that we call Home that we can be this torn apart, this fractured, this broken, and still function as the leading nation of the free world, where dreams ostensibly still come true and foreigners are willing to break laws to get a piece of that American Pie. We're only functioning at a fraction of our potential, and we're still on a pedestal. A shaky pedestal, but a pedestal nonetheless.

Maybe we've taken all of that for granted recently. If you travel extensively, you can feel that America, or the perception of it, is on ever shakier ground.

We may have finally found a candidate that can knock us off our pedestal. Perhaps, by his nomination, he already has.

Let's be honest: It's not what we need, but don't we kind of deserve it?
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Legacy (for Write Club)

6/6/2016

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I was recently asked (blessed?) to present a piece for Write Club at the Bootleg Theatre in Los Angeles.  Write Club is an "underground" writing competition where 2 writers, with disparate subjects, present on stage, and ONLY ONE SURVIVES!!  I was given the topic of "Legacy" and I was matched up against the very talented Steve Serpas and his topic of "Obscurity."
I won't tell you who one (though neither of us finished lower than 2nd place)

However, I don't think art, or anything close to resembling it, should exist in a vacuum.  So here now I give my piece one more glimpse of the light of day.
(And congratulations to Steve on the win.....Next time, Serpas!  Next time!!!)
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LEGACY:

On the topic of Legacy, under the heading Mortality, sub-genre: I wish my heroes would stop fucking dying,

When you're given the topic of "Legacy" to write about, you better damn well aim to make that piece memorable. That's a lot of pressure, but it's right there in the name. We all strive to do just that - leave a legacy, or a piece written about legacy - that will stand the test of time, something so powerful that even the cockroaches that are the only survivors of the inevitable Donald Trumpian nuclear holocaust will click their antennae at each other as if to say: "Hey, remember that one shit...?" To me, cockroaches seem like they would cuss a lot.
Legacy carries burden. Expectations. Weight. It's not like writing about, say, obscurity. You could do something instantly forgettable or not note-worthy, and you will have 100% achieved your goal.
But legacy...We all want it. But, though you have a say in what kind of path you choose to pursue it, you can't control what your actual legacy is. It just...is. For better or worse, greatness or obscure, forgettable, forgotten or formidable.
No one's asking what Prince's legacy is. You just know that if you're in a band, you get up there, you cover "Purple Rain" and the audience better damn well join in. You don't contemplate what the legacy is. No one at one of those tribute shows was thinking: "You know, I really wish they would've done 'Sign o' the Times.'" You don't discuss legacy. It was just created and exists.
No one has said: "Well, you know Harper Lee's last novel was pretty weak and a bit of a bust sales-wise." No! She wrote one of the greatest American novels to ever be published.
There's a movement to get the Jack 'n' Coke renamed "The Lemmy." I know what's in a Jack 'n' Coke. I have no idea what all the lyrics are to "Ace of Spades."
You don't need to over-analyze legacy. It's already there.
And inevitably, because we're humans and flawed and nervous and imperfect and obsessed with Snapchat (this month), one gets to thinking about their legacy. Or, gasp, lack thereof....

I was going to write a piece about slowly but stoically succumbing to life's final curtain because I suffer from mesotheliomaI, but I don't. Truth is, when I call this life quits, I imagine it will be in a much more mundane fashion. "In his sleep" or "old age" or "I didn't even know he was still alive."
I don't foresee myself getting offed in some heroic fashion. I've faced down fight-or-flight situations and, despite my square-jaw and fairly solid physique, I chose "flight" every damn time. I don't think I'll have a long-suffering illness in which I'm able to parlay my Make-A-Wish into a Netflix-topping documentary or social media sensational blog. My life hasn't been a Bon Jovi song, so there's no way I go out in a "Blaze of Glory." Maybe a blaze on my futon after falling asleep with a lit American Spirit in my mouth.
But I'm not so much worried about my demise as I am about my legacy.
What did I do? What am I doing? Who doesn't ask this? Who doesn't love rhetorical questions?
Legacy is that thing you leave behind that lets everybody know: "Hey, this guy or girl was here and he or she contributed." It could be a statue - Best-case scenario. It could be a Memorial Highway or a public library or even a plaque on a rock in some national forest. Most folks in LA that I know aim for a star that rests just between David Hasselhoff and Fatty Arbuckle.

Most folks have their legacy secured because, like every monarchy before them, they have the offspring that will make sure their name is not forgotten.
This is a problem with me as my wife and I have decided not to have kids. I'm so against passing on my DNA, that I still wear a condom. And pull out. After 8 years of marriage.
Of course, this worries my Mom as she asks: "Well, who's doing to take care of you in your old age." Truthfully, the debaucherous and destructive way I'm living for those 18 years where everybody else is pursuing responsible adulthood and good parenting will pretty much guarantee I don't need to worry about living to "old age." That's why parents tend to live 18 years longer than non-breeders, made-up-statistically speaking.
No kids. No legacy. Maybe accomplishments would do it. I don't know. Tonight, this, this might be the peak of my accomplishments. I very well may have an of-the-moment legacy. That basically means that any remembrance of my passing will come down to, and here is a major knock on wood moment, me biting it after the show. It's true.
My lasting legacy might come down to two of you having a chat 6 months down the road to the effect of:
"Hey, remember that one guy that did that story at the Bootleg Theatre a few months ago? The legacy guy?"
"Yeah...Steve Serpas?"
"No, the other guy. He might've won. Or lost."
"Oh yeah....kind of."
"Well, turns out not 20 minutes after the show, he rolled his Ford Fiesta over near the Urban Light installment at LACMA. Took his head right off."
Which, by the way, is way more impressive on 2 fronts:
  1. If you know anything about cars, it's virtually impossible to roll a Ford Fiesta because you have to be able to go over 60 miles per hour to do it and,
  2. My Fiesta has a spoiler, so it's supposed to hug the road. If it needs to.
But that would be an of-the-moment legacy: "That guy who did that one thing." It might result in a candlelight vigil. Maybe a mention in the LA Times for all 48 of it's readers.
I know my wife would mourn quite a bit. I would hope. Some close friends will probably have a drink in my honor (but not re-name one in my honor, sadly). My brother, Mom, family members I could count on one hand would bring a covered dish to my wake.
I would at least expect a fairly good-sized percentage of my Facebook friends to at least post an off-the-cuff obituary on my Facebook wall, and I would hope that I would be able to access and read it in the afterlife...although I would be logging in from a different computer and I'll be damned if I can remember my Facebook password!

A legacy is something you really can't control. It's the last true democracy, the people decide. It's like setting out to make a viral video. You can't control where and when it's seen or remembered, but if you get 45 likes then you should just feel damn grateful that you were able to crack through the white noise and make a contribution.

Legacy is fickle. I'm thinking of 2 men - both drugged women to have sex with them. One of them, insisting on his innocence, has shattered the hyperbolic image of being "America's Dad." The other, who admits his guilt, with an underage partner no less, received a standing ovation for winning an Oscar for Best Director in a still-flourishing film career.
Legacy is in the eye of the beholder.

Because when it's Ashes to Ashes, as Young Americans, Absolute Beginners fade into their Golden Years - which could take Five Years, could be Rock 'n' Roll Suicide or we could last until there's Life on Mars, the bottom line is: We all want to be Heroes. But maybe that's aiming too high. Maybe we worry too much, we're Under Pressure, we're stressing Ch-Ch-Changes, asking Where Are We Now? Oh, You Pretty Things...I Can't Give Everything Away, but As The World Falls Down Let's Dance. Let's see where Modern Love takes us. The Sound & the Vision of Dancing in the Street is more realistic than being a Starman living a Moonage Daydream. It won't really matter since one day we're all going to be owned by China, Girl.

Legacy just happens. You maybe don't know it during, but as any Bowie fan would agree, after hearing that last paragraph, it was kind of thrilling hearing all of the song titles that brought back a wave of nostalgia. Not everybody caught every one. Not everyone is going to.

Legacy is different things to different people.

So no pressure on you guys: This might be the pinnacle of my life, the peak of my existence, my crowning achievement, the legacy Cool Whip on top of the Neapolitan life that I have led. I only controlled jotting some stuff down on paper, getting here safely, and submitting my life's work, art and passion to being judged by drinking strangers. The rest, like much of most in life, is up to the viewing audience. You determine mine, and everybody else's, legacy. Worst-case scenario: I finish top 6.

All you can do is try your best while you're here, and let everyone else sort it out when you're not.
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Good Night, Sweet Prince

4/27/2016

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There will ever be only one....

It's many days after his death.  A whole weekend of watching the musical tributes, hearing his hits blare out of speakers from passing cars and local bars, and reading about his quirks, his talents, his Prince-ness ad infinitum.

But his passing still resonates.


Which is weird because  A) I didn't know him, or ever meet him and B) I didn't give him much thought or listen in the past 10 years.
And yet it's inescapable:  This loss hurt.  This loss was affecting.  This loss leaves everyone, especially the world of created art, a little emptier.

Instead of dwelling on his legacy or trying to encapsulate how his music soundtracked my life, I'm left to ponder the reasons why his death still resonates...and will for a long time.

We've lost a few musical icons this year.  Lemmy and Merle Haggard were huge losses, but noted for their specific genre.  They shut down Sunset Blvd. to drink Jack 'n' Cokes for Lemmy.  I can't imagine many other major boulevards were shut down across America.  I was overseas for Merle's passing, but I imagine there was a moment of silence in a few Southern honky-tonks, an obligatory "Okie from Muskogee" cover, and life went on.  David Bowie's passing seemed to send shockwaves, but maybe he was too niche to really reverberate across America.  I knew a few folks that were gob smacked by his passing, but with the release of his beautiful "Dark Star" album and accompanying "good-bye world" video, he kind of ushered his way out of this world and gave mourners a sweet "good night" lullaby.  He knew he was dying, he prepared for it, and, somehow, that made it all seem a bit better.  Plus, Bowie was niche as well.  A wider niche to be sure, but he didn't play in dive bars or hip-hop clubs. 

Prince did.  He was every genre.  He was music.  He was black and Italian, raised in white Minnesota, slayed the guitar with rock and soul and whammy bars and pedals and sang funk and R&B and pop all over hip-hop and Motown and Caribbean drumbeats.  He even did country (OK, it was an episode of "The Muppet Show," but still...).
To wit:  If you were at any dance club, any music festival, any backyard barbecue, and you put on "Let's Go Crazy."  Or "Purple Rain."  Or "1999."  Or "Kiss" or "Gett Off" or probably even "Batdance," the party would be officially on.  You can't say that about anybody.  The recent passings I mentioned, or even the Stones or Springsteen or Eminem or Beatles (try throwing "Twist & Shout" on hip-hop/soul night at your club and see the response....).

Prince was more than just the music, though.  Prince was personality.  We're just assuming that what Prince gave us on-stage and in public was how Prince was behind closed doors.  He most likely was.  Sure, you hear stories of how funny he was or how great at basketball he was, but that's on display.  He didn't seem to hide who he was.  He was just him as he was in life:  Quirky, cocky, talented, quiet, impish, bad-ass and shy.  There's no telling if he adopted his stage persona and slowly became that 24 hours a day, or if he was just born that way.  Regardless, there was no questioning who he was, as mysterious as he tried to remain.  We always tried to figure him out, but there was no need to figure him out.  You just accepted what you saw as "Prince."  That was it.  He appeared to be 100% himself and a anomalous entity from another planet at the same time.  He was larger than life and a shrinking violet.  He seemed to shun the spotlight but couldn't resist lighting a stage on fire if a guitar was available.  You wished you were like that.  But you could never be.

This also marks the passing of the last great multi-instrumentalist musician.  Period.  He did it all and controlled his artistic output and creative mass production with an iron fist.  You couldn't do that now!  There's too much at stake.  Too much money involved.  Fame and grabbing that brass ring is too fleeting.  There are some fantastic multi-instrumentalists on YouTube, but as soon as you're done skimming their video, you're immediately distracted by "Girls in Bikinis Crash ATV's" and "My Cat Fell Asleep in my TV Dinner!"  They're never given a chance to shine.  If someone's mass-distributed, that also means they're more-than-likely mass-pigeonholed.  Are you a singer?  Then sing.  Maybe with a guitar.  Drummer?  Then drum.  DJ?  Then DJ and don't say a thing.  That's how we're spoon-fed our music.  Anyone too talented probably won't have a chance to shine unless they simplify.  Or they will be relegated to their own independent record label and a 1:45pm slot on the side stage at your local, over-blown music festival.

In short, Prince was just Prince.  He was the same thing to everybody.  His music wasn't indecipherable, but it was deep.  It was also sexy and danceable and memorable and eternal and flat-out amazing. 

He didn't need another moniker.  He didn't need a handle like the King of Pop.  Or the Queen of Soul.  Or the Godfather of Soul.  Or the King of Rock.  He was pure royalty.  He was just Prince.  Of Everything.

He will be missed.  Mostly because we will never see an artist(e) like him ever again...
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Heart (Attack) of a Champion!

3/14/2016

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PIE EATING AND PARTICIPANT RIBBONS


I know there's a movement now that's anti-Millenial, or anti-No Child Left Behind, or anti-”Everybody Wins.”  And in theory, I agree with that.
Look, there are times you're going to win some stuff, and there's times you're not going to win.  Everybody doesn't always win.  That's why sports are so popular.  And televised singing competitions.  OK, not everything is going to be a good example...


When I was growing up, it seemed like Dennis Chavez Elementary School was constantly toeing that line.  Back in school, we had competitions for everything – science fair, lip sync contests, President's fitness award, school awards for fitness, break-dancing, spelling bee – I seriously can't remember a time when I was in a class and not out on the playground competing for ribbons.
And that's what you got:  Ribbons.  The thing is...If you participated, you got a ribbon.
Yes, there was a 1st place ribbon – usually a ribbon WITH a 1st place button on it.  Yeah, that was next level.
Then there was 2nd place – usually a different colored ribbon with a slightly smaller button.
3rd place, just a ribbon.  Same as 4th and 5th.
Then, everybody else got bland, basic dark purple “Participant” ribbons.
Meaning...You were there.  You showed up and did something that denoted participating.  Essentially you got rewarded for skipping out on class for any reason that the school would offer.


But here's the thing about those ribbons that everybody got:  We hated them!!!
I think I had a converted photo album that turned into my ribbon scrapbook.  There was 1 solid 1st place ribbon, maybe 2 or 3 2nd placers, a handful of thirds, fourths and fifths.  And a crap-ton of that mocking dark purple.  “Good job!  We saw that you accomplished as much as checking your name off of the attendance list for a particular event.”


So now, if I do any kind of competition, I do try harder.  I compete.  I don't just show up.  Because if you give everybody the same metal, it's just as bad as handing out those damn grape ribbons to everybody.  And I don't want to participate.  If I show up, I'm competing.


I only preface this story with that so you know why I did what I did.  Why I was so cut-throat, determined.  Why I would bend the rules in a seemingly innocuous challenge.  When there was no viable prize on the line, you will know the killer instinct that caused me to “fuck it.  It's go time!”  This wasn't just a pie-eating contest at the Orange County State Fair.  This was the goddamn Olympic games!  And I was going to win...


I don't frequent fairs.  I don't need to eat deep-fried bacon-wrapped pop tarts with mayonnaise on a Dunkin Donuts jelly-roll with Hershey's syrup dipping sauce.  I don't need to spend $50 dollars in tickets to ride 3 basic rides and one urine-stained funhouse in what amounts to about $12 per admission.  I'm not interested in spending last month's rent to toss a rigged ball into a rigged moving bucket on a rigged lazy river in an attempt to get a giant, stuffed Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim baseball.  I'm not interested in seeing ZZ Top, Foreigner, Sisqo, the Spin Doctors, the remaining members of Bozy 2 Men or a Styx cover band.
So fairs:  Not my scene.


But was at the Orange County State Fair because a buddy said: “Hey, wanna go.”  And I said: “Yes.”  I have that disease.
He also said we were going to be on the pig races.
NOW you have my attention!


As we're wandering through the dust and kids and heat and smells and lines – sounds awesome, doesn't it? - My buddy Joey said, with some authority: “There's a thing called Milk Demon at 1:30pm in the barn.  I've heard of that.  It's supposed to be awesome!”


Now, Joey Soft-Hands is the kind of guy you listen to intently.  Mostly because he's so soft-spoken, you have to listen to him intently or you literally won't hear him.  Also, he's the kind of guy that could wear Speedo's, a fishing vest and Ugg boots in public and you would say to yourself: “That works.”  It's true...He actually wandered the streets of Ensenada in that same ensemble, unironically, and nobody blinked an eye.  You listen to a guy like that.  We called him Soft-Hands for 2 reasons: He had ridiculously soft hands, and he liked to make sure any females shoulders and arms knew that throught the art of improvised massage.  You listen to a guy like that.


So we made our way over to the “Milk Demon” barn.


Along the way, we passed sign-ups for the Orange County Fair pie-eating contest.  It caught my attention...mostly because the guys barking people to sign up were of such the off-putting variety, that you wanted to sign up quickly just to make them stop for 10 seconds and do some paperwork.


None of our group wanted to sign up.  However, I hadn't had my fill of heart-stopping fair food, and I do love me some pie, and free shit, so I signed up.  Why not?  I'm usually pretty good at getting blindly hauled into something if it's by pure luck.  I win raffles, occasionally win Bingo and can more-often-than-not secure a window seat with no middle passenger on a Southwest flight.  This streak has never extended into the lottery or high stakes blackjack, but you take your victories where you can get 'em.  I signed up.


And as soon as I did, I started formulating my plan for when my name was eventually called....It was about to be on.


The only reason I mention the “Milk Demon” demonstration is because that's what brought us near the sign-up table for the pie-eating contest.  We took our seats, excited for the “Milk Demon.”  A very friendly, older farmer came out and told us a bit about irrigation.  OK, it wasn't Chris Rock Live from DC, but he was giving it his best.  Then his wife came out and told us about animals on the farm and the technology of how we get milk, how it's shipped and how it's pasteurized.  It was as exciting as I just made it sound.
Then, the capper!  They proceeded to...milk the cows.  Live.  For us.
Yes, that's what we waited more than 45 minutes to see.
Turns out, Joey was wrong.  Turns out, the flier that listed all of this particular barn's events wasn't as wide as they had hoped.  Turns out, “Milk Demon” is what you get when you cut off the end of “Milk Demonstration.”
We had to laugh at that.  And I'll be damned if I didn't learn something about milk.


I can't get into that now, because the pie-eating contest was nigh!  And I was sure I was going to get pulled from the random drawing!  I mean, we're in Orange County signing up for a pie-eating contest.  How many people in the OC can't eat carbs, gluten, sugar, corn syrup, or anything non-Vegan, right?  My odds of getting pulled were great, as opposed to signing up for a pie-eating contest in, say, Wisconsin.  Or Alabama.


There were 10 contestant slots.  And when my name wasn't called amongst the first 9, I did start to panic.  I didn't sit through a bovine-milking demonstration just to have that be the day's topper.  But this wasn't the lottery, so the very next name called: “Joel Bryant.”


My handful of friends went crazy.  Maybe too crazy.  They had to settle down.  If there was a tie at the end, this was going to come to an audience vote.  I didn't want to be John McCain to their Palin.  Their rowdiness couldn't sink me.  I was already in a hole.


We donned our garbage bag smocks.  I shook hands with the guy next to me...Sizing him up.  OK, normal size.  5' 11”, probably 175, nice guy, didn't have the killer glint in his eye.  I peeked down the line.  OK...no Joey Chestnutt ringers, nobody bringing a John Candy-esque physique.  Also, no sneaky skinny Japanese kids that always seem to astoundingly win these things.  I measured up pretty good.


The MC went down the line, introducing the contestants to the audience and asking them a few questions: Name, where they're from, and occupation.  Most amateurs would think nothing of this.  Us pros know:  The competition has officially begun!


Most contestants answered with “Orange County” or “LA” when asked where they were from.  It was an obvious response because I don't think anybody travels all that far to hit the same county fair that will be in their county next month.  That answer started to get old...and I could sense it.  Noted.


The occupations seemed to resonate with the audience as well.  Got to remember:  If there's a tie, the audience is the deciding vote.  Noted.


They got to me.


“What's your name?”


“Joel Bryant.  Happy to be here.”  Nice addition.


“Where are you from?”  The audience had their fill of OC and LA.  I gotta stand out, maybe throw out a curveball and see if someone doesn't take a swing at it.


“Seattle, Washington!”  A group of 10 ladies, presumable from Seattle, went nuts.  I shot blindly for a city that may have a fan or two in the crowd and I hit the bullseye.  Perfect.


“And what do you do for a living?”


“I teach 2nd grade!”  I've never taught second grade, I barely remember my own second grade, I couldn't tell you what you learn in that particular grade, but I know people love 2 things: Teachers and kids.  Just to drive the point home, I added: “This one's for my students back home.”


The crowd went nuts.  I guess nobody realized this wasn't being televised live and there's no way my students were even aware I was about to eat a boysenberry pie in Orange County in their honor.  Didn't matter.  People love teachers and kids.


I had the tie-breaker, I figured.  The least I had to do was eat enough pie to at least end in a tie, if not an out-right win.


Beautiful thing about this pie-eating contest – of course, I combed through the rules with a microscope when I signed up: It wasn't about how much pie you ate.  It was about how much of the bottom of the pan you could see when the buzzer goes off.


That's how I took it.  I literally didn't have to eat any pie.  As long as I could clear a space at the bottom!


Here's the technique: 
At the whistle, stand straight up and bend 90 degrees from the waist, full face into the pie.  This allows you to avoid the harder and belly-filling crust and gets your gob right into the gooey, malleable middle.  It's coming in straight versus trying to attack it from an angle.  The bonus to this maneuver is that it also keeps the pie tin from sliding away from you since you couldn't use your hands to secure it.


You're going to get dirty, so know that.  Thrust your face into the pie and see if you can't get your nose to touch the bottom.  Yes, you should take in a mouthful of pie.  Why not?  Free pie.  But this move is pure physics.  What it does is displace the pie from the center out, meaning upon your first thrust, you've already knocked most of the crust, the part that holds the pie in the tin, out of the tin and onto the table.  Virtually all you have left is the center sweetness of the pie – the moving, almost liquid, easy-to-chew jelly of the pie filling.


As I said: Eating a bit of pie is unavoidable.  Suppose you shouldn't sign up for a pie-eating contest if you're allergic to pie.  But the key move is keeping a full mouth with full cheeks....once again, going for area displacement.  Then, instead of futilely trying to chew and ingest pie, keep the rules in mind:  They're just looking for the most exposed area on the bottom of the tin.  Instead of eating, move your fattened jowels back and forth and up and down.  Instead of swallowing the pie, you simply move it around like a pig excavating mud when he's truffle-shopping.  You literally use your face to knock the pie out of the tin.  Rub your dirty face on the bottom of the tin back and forth and the pie will make it's way to the table without you even having to eat it!


Well, I was pretty damn proud of myself.  I know, I sound like I've been on the pie-eating pro circuit for years, but this was all just seconds of consistent improvisation and inspiration as the game went on.


When the buzzer sounded, the crowd went wild.  I had honestly forgotten they were there, I was so in my head.  Totally understood how Michael Phelps felt on his tremendous Beijing Olympics run.


We all pulled our heads up from our desserts and, with boysenberry smeared from eyebrow to chin-scruff, we honestly looked like an extras casting call for “The Walking Dead.'' Just reddish-bluish smears, wide-open huffing mouths and dead eyes.


The judges came around.  I had already sussed out the competition and declared myself the winner.  They weren't as friendly.  It was between me and a guy 2 seats to my right.  No way, I thought to myself, I have more pan showing than he does!
It's amazing how you can get so indignant in a competition when you knowingly bent the rules...


Nevertheless, this played right into my plan.  It came down to the audience vote.  Bring the noise, fan of teachers from Seattle!
They had an informal ranking.  The guy's family went wild, as did a couple of casual fair-goers.  When they announced my name, I kicked off the cheering with my battle cry just to inspire more noise: “This one's for my students!!”
Of course, I won the applause-o-meter.  I mean, I'm fake shaping the fake future of my fake students.  Throw the fake teacher a bone!


What did I get for all of my pie eating and shoveling, and for the hour I spent in the bathroom pulling boysenberry filling out of my nostrils, and for using the beleagured plight of teachers to serve my own purpose, and shouting out love to kids I'll never have, and bending, twisting and breaking every rule in this friendly fair's pie contest?
I got a ribbon.
But a big-fat 1st place blue ribbon with a double tail and a big-ass button.  This thing won't even fit in my scrapbook!


Oh, and the boysenberry filling left a huge dark purple stain on my face...just for participating.




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