Dukes of Hazzard Memoirs

(picture courtesy of: http://www.fanpop.com/clubs/memorable-tv/images/34589143/title/dukes-hazzard-photo )

It's a tough world out there. A boy needs healthy examples of family and friends (those who got your back) and heroes (courage and ethics). Any self respecting American boy should also be brought up with a distrust of law enforcement and government power (truth to power). I got all of these through the Dukes of Hazzard as it aired roughly around the time I was about age three to age eight.

(for those looking for a detailed description of this great programme, check here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Dukes_of_Hazzard )

The tail end of that period (not that it was a perfect age - no age is perfect) where men could unapologetically be men, fast well made American cars dominated the markets and roads, and it was understood that it was one's duty to stand up for their own honor. Only the bad guys whined. (Now we all whine).

The Dukes made my first memorable television moments along with Waylon Jennings doing much of the side commentary, keeping us in suspense over commercial breaks (commercials were better than too). A good show will make you want to be part of it, and its conflicts, and I wanted to be a Duke.

And while I couldn't be a Duke, (if they did exist in real life, they would've hated me for being a Yankee Catholic) we did, (my brother and sister and mother) come up with a fun Dukes of Hazzard ritual I remember to this day very fondly during the hot summer nights in Shadyside.

We had cardboard boxes. We each sat in our own. We could decorate these boxes to look like the cars in the car chases. I was probably three years old, so I'm sure mine looked like shit. Regardless, it made us feel as though we were participating in the chases along with an element of creativity. Consider early 1980s virtual reality. A couple other neighborhood kids would come over too. Nobody was too cool for this shit. This was the shit.

Mother would make Chef Boyardee from those pizza "kits" and it was the bomb. (While I make my own well-crafted pizzas these days, I often think about buying one of those pizza kits to bring me back to those times).

All of this was watched on a black and white television. We had decent reception.

Life wasn't hard then.

Beheaded and Quartered

So, a dispute happens in a soccer match in Brazil. A player gets a penalty (if that's the correct term), refuses to leave, then gets stabbed by the referee. Stabbed to death, that is. Okay, that's weird and uncalled for, but I'm sure it's happened before.

The fans and family members of the stabbed player rush the field, stone the referee to death (biblical style), then proceed to behead the gentleman and cut off his arms and legs. That's not enough, they put his head on a fence post.

(You can't dream this stuff up)

To put this in context, the match did not occur in a large arena, it looked more like a park. As I'm thinking about this story, I'm trying to match it with a setting in my own location. Possibly a softball game, or a men's basketball game, or an adult baseball league. I'm thinking of the parks around here and games that I've gone to, or walked by, and thinking about how messed up it would be to see an umpire or referee's head placed on the foul poll or post on a baseball field, or seeing separated bloody limbs on a grassy field, or basketball court.

((From a moral/ethical standpoint, the fans were obligated to go after the referee and stop the stabbing. That was an act of defending the innocent. The referee is not an innocent victim. Let's be clear. What they did afterwards is the part most of us can't understand. Most of us seem to, or were born with, respect for a dead corpse.))

Of all the bullshit people post on facebook, nobody seems to be mentioning this, maybe the most craziest story of our lifetime (definitely Top 5). Or, at least crazy to me, maybe I'm an ignorant American who has no understanding of the intensity of South American soccer culture.

Since the Nick Berg beheading (2004 or 5 ~ Iraq War) I've had a strange interest in that whole process and what drives people do to it. In a wartime situation, people will do anything for propaganda (though I believe the government was behind Berg's death ~ and used it for propaganda, quite well).

Beheading someone during a soccer match I just can't comprehend, even if it was in retaliation for a stabbing.

For those of you who haven't heard this story, or think I'm making it up, check the link below:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/football/2013/jul/07/brazilian-referee-decapitated-stabs-player

Greatest Fear in Life.

Babies.
(thank the heavens for low testosterone)~

sharing.

I never liked sharing. I've always wanted my stuff, and it had to mine.

Ownership!

You need to get your goddamn hands off of it. No you can't have my popcorn. It's mine. I possess it.

You can't have MY beer either. If I have extra cash, I'd be more than happy to buy a beer and give it to you. Then it's yours, and it's not mine anymore. I don't want anything to do with it at that point. Like I said, if I have the cash, I'm glad I can buy it for you.

What's with these people that share drinks. My father wouldn't even drink out of the same cup I drank from and I don't blame him, I felt the same way about his. But some people are so caught up in their own "selflessness" that they have no clue how they impose on someone if they ask for a sip of their cola.

"Can I have a sip of your drink?"...Probably the worst question to be asked. Ever!

Exceptions...
Yeah, I'll let you borrow something if you ask, as I've been helped out by people letting me borrow something (I'm not completely oblivious to that). I don't see that as sharing. Do you? Is it just a matter of words?

In the end, I'd rather just give you something, and let it be yours. If I can afford it. At this point it might only be beers or a meal. But go f### yourself if you dare ask me to share something with you.

Craft Beers.

I don't consider myself a heavy beer drinker, or even a connoisseur, or anything of the like. I'm nothing close to an authority on the matter. Having said this, I'm going to go against a lot that is sacred and holy and held in high esteem.

I haven't found a craft beer that really excites me. That I care for in any strong way. That makes me want to get it on a regular basis. More than that, I find a lot of their labeling to be over the top, if not annoying. Beer labels need to be simple and strong. There's no need to put extravagant illustrations on the goddamn bottle. Keep it f#cking simple.

There, I said it.

The only things I find delicious these days are anything in cans with widgets, most likely originating from the UK (I'll drink some snobby German stuff from time to time too). I don't consider Boddingtons, Guinness, or Young's Double Chocolate Stout to fit in the category of craft brewing. Haven't they all sold out to big corporations?

I like and fully understand the idea of supporting the little guy. But if it's not what I want, I'm not going to pay for it. It's about what I want and what makes me happy. There is nothing wrong with that.

So, I would like to find something that is made by the little guy, created on a small local scale, that satisfies my beer drinking needs, and equals or surpasses the quality and smoothness of those British creations. Instead I usually get poor labeling, mediocre taste, and a bit of acid reflux. With a voice in my head saying, "fVck me" ...for ordering it.

As much as I'm really not into the whole craft beer thing, I think it's great it's going on, and I hope more and different beers get made, and maybe one day I fall in love with one. As for now, I'm
sticking with dirty big business.

(this is a rather fragmented blog sort of)

I Was a Telemarketer.

One of the many reasons for me to really hate the decade of the 90s was the five to six months I spent as a telemarketer. I had a term of college in the fall of 1995, and needless to say, f#cked around (figuratively of course), and had to return home temporarily with my tail (and ego) between my legs. I couldn't just do what I've always aspired to do, sleep in, watch 80s sitcoms, and sleep a bit more. I had to get a job.

There was an ad in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette for this place called the IRL, or International Reader's League. The woman that interviewed me was an old hag, who was a chain smoker, which you could clearly hear in her voice, and wore press on nails. They had me recite a script, and then hired me.

The offices were located in a little strip mall on the second floor, on one of the trolley stops. I would ride the bus into town, and then take the trolley to work. It made me feel as though I had a sort of legit job. I was living at home.

The deal was to lock people into magazine subscriptions for a five year period. The script would start out by saying they've been selected to receive this "special" offer. It needed to be said with enthusiasm. If they didn't hang up, or completely reject us from the start, the next step was to ask them their interests, and this is how we would select and suggest magazines for them. We would also start small talk and become their "friends." I had many interesting conversations. One time I had called the wife of a Pro-Wrestler [assuming she was being truthful(we called the south a lot)].

Imagine a smoke filled room with computers and cigarettes and people with headsets. My confidence was at an all time low, and I was thrown (or I threw myself) into this telemarketing hell, though I only worked 9am to 1pm. I have no idea how people could spend a whole eight hours there.

There were a couple trashy Pittsburgh broads I really wanted nail who would work the phones with me. One of them had enormous breasts and a thick Pittsburgh dialect to go with it. When your confidence is at an all time low and you don't know your ass from a whole in a ground, the last thing you feel up to doing is running game. And, it's probably good I didn't as I probably would've been the asshole to knock one of them up knowing my luck and how things were going for me at that time.

It's quite reasonable to hate the telemarketer, but put yourself in their shoes for a bit. Imagine going through day after day of rejections. Hearing NO!, and much worse and on a regular basis, when you literally mean no harm, and your hands are tied and you can't fight back (verbally, over the phone). I could sit there a whole morning, and never hear a yes, or even a polite word. It's brutal, and that part alone f#cks with your head. Forget about the fact that your number of sales gets put on the board for all to see, and your calls are sometimes being monitored by your boss. A man could go insane.

To ease the pain, I took up occasional cigar smoking (a 90s trend) and played pool by myself at a rather nice pool hall, which was a couple blocks away from the office. I'd do this sometime after work. I became quite good on the regulation sized table. I'd take my aggression out on the cue ball. It seemed to work. I kept to myself.

Eventually, a family member got sick and I had to take a job as a caretaker for them. And soon after I took a year at a community college, before going back to a state university. I lasted at the telemarketing job from February until about May. It was a weird period of time that I never want to go back to.

Guy LaFleur

It's playoff  hockey time. Next to the NFL playoffs, pro sports doesn't get any better than that. A fellow by the name of Guy LaFleur (the Flower) comes to mind. So let's talk about him.

I became a hockey fan in about fifth grade. I remember buying a hockey sticker book at the local grocery store. I think it was for the 1987-88 hockey season. I could be off by a year. This helped me learn the rosters and remember all the logos and uniforms. I was always fond of the old Vancouver Canucks and Quebec Nordiques sweaters (as they call them).

Of course I was/am a Penguins fan, but occasionally WWOR would broadcast NY Rangers games on the MSG Network. At that time, Marv Albert was calling the games. He still may be doing that, I don't know.

While watching some of the Rangers games I noticed a right winger skating around, a little different from the rest, greeted by fans cheering "GHEEE!", not wearing a helmet, at a time when everyone else was (a rule that was mandatory, but "grandfathered" in, if you will). Quite graceful, there was something beautiful and at the same time comical about his presence on the ice, with the blond receeding hair flowing as he would skate back and forth and up down the rink, crossing over here and there. I can respect a man who doesn't wear a helmut, that's old school style.

This guy was clearly a bit more mature than the others and I've always been a fan of the old guys going up against the young (Jimmy Connors was another hero of mine). You know, those who have already proven themselves and come back strictly for the love of the game, not as fast and as strong as they once were, but still hauling ass. That's admirable. On some level, most of us can relate to that.

I probably only saw a few games in which he played but I do distinctly remember seeing him score on a slapshot from the blue line. I knew very little about his career and comeback, but his name was often referenced around me and my friends during intense street hockey games. I tried to model my game around the little I knew about his approach. It always brought laughs.

I had a poster of him which hung in my bedroom for quite sometime.

Thanks Guy.

(forgive the cheesiness of this post, but it's truth)

***sidenote: I believe you can youtube a disco album he put out in the 1970s. It's worth checking out.