The Final Four… in terms of Free Press Summer Fest

by Mills-McCoin

The NCAA College Basketball Tournament means absolutely nothing to you if you’re unaware of who is playing.  So, I’m going to attempt to explain the personality of the teams playing their hearts out in Houston this weekend but… in terms of the musical acts playing Free Press Summer Fest.

The first game on Saturday pits two Cinderella stories (not the 80’s hair band, nor a band playing FPSF) against each other: Butler vs. Virginia Commonwealth University.  Now considering that they made it all the way to the Big Dance last year (but loss to Duke in the national title game), Butler has come on quite strong in the last two years, which is why I equate them with the band Cut//Copy.  Cut//Copy has released only two albums in the last three years and both are bad ass records.  Additionally, Butler is a mid-major team similar to Cut//Copy being a mid-major band.  Now the Virginia Commonwealth University Men’s college basketball team is… not known for shit.  So, I equate them to Black Dahlia Murder: fairly unknown but obviously talented enough to play on the big stage.

The second game on Saturday is a great deal more mainstream and expected: Kentucky vs. UConn.  Both of these teams have a rich college basketball history and have won the national title in the past fifteen years.  So naturally, the University of Kentucky Men’s basketball team is most similar to Weezer because both experienced great success in the 90’s and neither is unfamiliar with the big stage.  The University of Connecticut Men’s basketball team, while very established by their own accomplishments, is not as impressive a program without it’s other half- the UConn Women’s basketball team, current holder of college athletics longest winning streak (90 games).  Clearly, Big Boi of OutKast reflects the UConn situation.  Lucious Left Foot’s record is another amazing installment of the Atlanta R&B scene; but when Big Boi is paired with Andre 3000… something special happens.

Here’s my prediction: I believe Cut//Copy will top Black Dahlia Murder; then Weezer will defeat Big Boi.  On Monday night, Cut//Copy will walk away the national champion after beating Weezer by seven points.  Cheers.

The Sportsdesk Vociferates: Houston, Why Do Our Franchises Suck?

The Luv’ Ya Blue era was many decades ago.  Clutch City seems to be going nowhere.  And the Houston Astros are still peddling more Second Baptist Ed Young propaganda than proper baseball.  The Houston Comets are defunct and the Houston Dynamo… well, I don’t know much about them.  Anyhow, the point is that the fourth largest city in this consumer junkie nation hasn’t seen legitimate professional sports success since the Astros had their little cup of coffee in the World Series back in 2005- except for the Dynamo winning consecutive MLS championships in 2006 and 2007, but no one seemed to notice much.  How can a city brimming with sports fans afford to tolerate these mediocre franchises?
(pours whisky, shoots whisky, slams glass onto the table)  In terms of team value, the Houston Texans rank fifth in the NFL; the Houston Rockets rank fifth in the NBA; and the Houston Astros rank eleventh in the MLB.  Clearly, the people who own these teams are making some serious money; otherwise the franchises would fold like the Houston Comets did in 2008 (the team that won the first four WNBA championships).  The fiscal success of each of these franchises is incongruent with their performance.
At the start of the 2010 NFL season, I explained my theory regarding the Houston Texans (Theory: no need to win if you’re making ungodly amounts of money).  But at the end of this past season, the Texans’ brass fired some folks as a Jedi Mind Trick to convince us all that they finally made a commitment to winning.  I guess we’ll see about that in September.  We. Shall. See.  McNair, you Enron lottery winner!
(pours whisky, shoots whisky, repeats, slams glass onto the table)  Providence intervened on November 21, 2010 when Drayton McLane, Jr., owner of major league baseball’s only baptist franchise, announced that the team was for sale.  This is good news because putting the team in anyone else’s hands is progress including Mark Cuban or fucking All State Insurance.  Astros fans won’t see any success for a couple of years.  So don’t hold your breath… unless you prefer Drayton McLane as the owner, in which case- by all means hold your breath.  HOLD IT!  Quick Question: How in the hell did the Houston Astros’ team colors go from navy blue and strangely orange to… a bloody shade of sacrament red?
(pours whisky, raises glass, whispers “Hakeem ‘the Dream’ Olajuwon”, shoots whisky, throws glass out the window)  This is the heartbreaker folks.  Our most beloved sports franchise- the only one to deliver a major championship, twice- The Houston Rockets are not fairing so well in the superstar driven NBA.  Honestly, I can’t complain about how this franchise is being managed.  The Rockets have a GM that graduated from the MIT Sloan School of Management in Daryl Morey (he actually taught a class at MIT called “Analytical Sports Management”).  But despite all of his genius, Morey has had nothing but trouble in his attempts to sign a major NBA star, which staggers the mind since Houston is the only team in the top five with NO STATE INCOME TAX.  This means when a player signs a contract in Texas he gets to keep most of his millions.  So if I’m a sports agent, don’t I steer my client towards Texas?
(opens face, pours whisky)  It should be noted that Houston does not have a history of attracting superstar free agents in any sport; and I have no idea why.  Houston has warm weather year round.  The schools are decent.  Land is cheap and the economy is fairly resistant to change.  The food and entertainment industries are top notch.  And, again, there’s NO STATE INCOME TAX.  Also, there’s a six million member fan base already built in.  And let me tell you about these fans…
(just pours whisky on head)  Houston sports fans are unwaveringly loyal… AND IT MAKES ME SICK!  When our teams sink to the level of perennial losers, Houston fans just continue cheering them on.  No public outrage.  No protest.  No boycotting.  No nothing.  Just freakish loyalty.  If this were the American Revolution, you might say Houston would be the Tory safe haven.  Philly and New York turn on their teams violently when they start losing with any regularity.  Houston, on the other hand, just continues supporting the men in uniform (and if we had a women’s professional bikini franchise then we’d cheer for the women in uniform).  Cheers.

The Jangle of the Ice in His Whiskey Tumbler

There’s a very specific sound that hurls me back to the floor of my parents’ living room whenever I hear it.  Sunday, January 6, 1991; the Houston Oilers were playing the Cincinnati Bengals in the AFC Wild Card game and I was sitting on the floor right in front of the television, which was muted so that we could listen to the announcers on the radio.  Former Houston Oilers head coach, Bum Phillips was the color analyst; and after Cincinnati scored two more touchdowns to start the second half, his voice took a turn for the grey.  He also ended every sentence with a distinct jangle of the ice in his whiskey tumbler signifying to households all over Houston, “The game is over.  We lost.  Begin drinking in that particular kind of way that upsets your mother.”

Almost two decades later, I find myself standing in the very crowded parking lot of Reliant Stadium, next in line for the Porta Potty, hypnotized by the sight and sound of a spirited tailgater jangling the ice in her whiskey tumbler… until some guy walked over to her and poured the contents of the tumbler into a plastic cup.  Probably for the best.

Ticketless and considerably drunk, I strolled a Reliant Stadium parking lot paved with the public merriment of tailgating: Giant plasma TV’s lining every row of the parking lot like downtown Tokyo, satellite dishes that could seat a dozen people for dinner, ambitious culinary devices requiring Plutonium 235 as fuel, loud music of all indiscernible genres, hooting & hollering coming from the mouths of fans dressed as neo-Romans with their Mario Williams jerseys, “Fuck Dallas” chants and a putrid yet prideful stench blended of sweat, alcoholism, smoke, exhaust fumes and rotting dead animal carcass… A party so grand that it caught the eye of Scott Bowen of ForbesTraveler.com who lists Houston’s Reliant Stadium in the Top 5 Stadiums for tailgating.

The scene could not have been more antithetical to my parents’ humble living room, which is precisely why I stumbled slowly back to the car.  But in the process of taking it all in, John Facenda, the historic voice of the early NFL Films, took over the reins of my inner monologue.

“At the start of every NFL season, Forbes magazine publishes a special report on the business of professional football including statistical data and analysis of each individual franchise, as well as ranking the NFL teams by team value.  In its eight pathetic seasons of existence, the Texans franchise has managed to rank in the Top Five with strange consistency despite never boasting a single winning season.  Currently, Houston is ranked fifth between the two franchises in New York City.  In eight years, the Houston Texans have never failed to sellout a game; additionally, the $300 million naming rights to the stadium is the richest in the NFL.  Bob McNair bought the team in 1999 for $700 million.  The franchise is now worth about $1.2 billion.  Again… Not. A. Single. Winning. Season.

The 2010 NFL season, that which is currently underway, is the “Final League Year” of the current Collective Bargaining Agreement between the NFL Owners and the NFL Players Association (an organization no different than your Local 42).  Sports Analysts and Talk Show hosts will be dramatizing this “situation” to an overbearing degree come Superbowl time.  For now, what we have here is your garden variety Board of Directors vs. the Union dispute; the chips on the table (retirement funds, player benefits, player annuity, severance pay, performance-based pay, etc.) are basically the same.

In common consumer/tailgater terms, this could be the last NFL season for a while if the two parties do not come to an agreement after this season.  The Man-drama is embarrassing.

In terms of non-players who rely on the professional football industry for employment and income, this might be Fourth and Long.  And I’m not just talking about the agents, managers and coaches, but also all of the people that serve in the production of just one NFL Sunday.  Camera crews, concession companies, the United Way, etc… many of the people (let’s just assume “thousands”) that work the NFL games will be out of a job if there’s no new Collective Bargaining Agreement achieved this summer.  That kind of drama sucks prison cock.”

“What the FUCK, John Facenda!?!”, I screamed suddenly becoming aware of myself in front of a lovely Hispanic family grilling hot dogs and quail wrapped in bacon on a modest Weber.  I apologized for my outburst immediately, only to have them trump me by asking if I needed a refill.  At that point I looked at my own plastic cup and jangled the ice.  It made a very different sound lacking in the luxury of glass.

And that’s when I finally understood the mania behind tailgating.  It has hardly anything to do with the actual football game, which is nothing more than simulated battle.  Tailgating has everything to do with partying and getting drunk with strangers.  Tailgating doesn’t have to submit to the depressing jangle of Bum Phillips’ whiskey tumbler.  It can be the hollow, carefree sound of ice in a Solo cup needing a refill.

So with my new friends, I toasted, “To Bob McNair’s parking lot… Cheers.”

BONGZILLA: It’s Been A While

Tim Dorsey takes a bride.

FPH has come into possession of a rare and strange device: BONGZILLA, a pole mounted six tube funnel, adjustable up to six feet in height.  Upon its arrival, there were great cries of “Hosanna”, gasps that lasted longer than necessary, scientists using calculators, barking dogs, etc- there was even a question if it might be extra terrestrial.  After the initial panic, we tricked Tim Dorsey into taking a picture with it.  Then we discovered that BONGZILLA is a combination stripper pole and beer bong.  Modern Science has finally mashed-up two of the most storied pieces of college technology.  It holds a twelve pack.  And judging by the picture the only rules are that you must wear swim wear and fit the gender ratio of 1 man to 2 women.

We’d like to open the forum here to get some ideas on what we should do with it.  And certainly later we’re going to need some fine Houstonians brave enough to let us experiment on them with BONGZILLA.

Please Comment only if you have already graduated college or are incapable of attending college at any point in your life.

Post-Show Realization: Live Show Etiquette

If you know me at all, then you’re aware I have no place to comment on “etiquette”. But after witnessing two legitimate concert-going personalities collide, I’m compelled to explain the logical behavior one should instinctly have already.

If your ticket reads “General Admission”, and you are in fact capable of reading that, then you should *at least* follow these SIMPLE guidelines to help prevent you from being a Concert Douche Bag Prick Piece of Shit.

Live Show Etiquette:

Control the Volume of Your Annoying Voice: This is the most important courtesy that you can extend to your fellow patrons. If another patron of the concert turns around to “Shhh!” you and your friends, then by all means- SHUT THE FUCK UP! Swallow your ego and your senseless pride and shut. the. fuck. up. You are in “The Wrong.”. There’s no question here. The “Shhh-er” doesn’t even have to be polite. Though they probably should, I know that I wouldn’t be. Nobody paid money to hear you talk about anything. If you feel the need to chit chat at an unreasonable volume, then roll to the back of the venue or go outside. It’s also important to realize that no matter how soft spoken you are naturally, your voice is too loud if someone other than the person you’re talking to can hear you. This applies to every genre of live show.

Don’t Wear a Band T-Shirt to a Show of the Same Band: …Unless you’re a bad ass and the t shirt is 25 years old. It’s just sad to see people wearing t shirts supporting a band they’ve already supported by purchasing a ticket. I get it- you’re a fan. If you weren’t a fan- you wouldn’t be there. Furthermore, the band will not see you wearing the shirt and think, “Oh man, that dude’s wearing our shirt. I should invite him on the bus after the show.”

Respect Your Height and the Height of Others: It’s no surprise that if you’re tall and you’re standing in front of the stage- you’re an asshole for blocking the view of others not as vertically flawed as yourself. Tall people = Privileged Concert Goers. Here’s a simple math solution to this problem: Examine the crowd and find a window mid-way back from the stage and allow those shorter than you to step forward. God gave you those extra inches, He will appreciate you not using them to disrupt the rest of his landscape.

Weed Part One: People smoke at live shows. Get over it. Don’t bring the authorities into this. If it bothers you that much, then politely ask the stoners to move. Politely. Emphasis. On. POLITELY. And to the stoners: weed is cool, so be cool. Don’t light up around little kids.

Weed Part Two: Do not ask to smoke someone else’s weed. Wait until it is offered to you. If you must, look at the owner longingly as though you were a puppy looking for a master. The owner will eventually share with you.

Mind these logical insights that you should have already discovered yourself and, together, we will maximize the concert experience. This is the end of your friendly reminder. Cheers.

The LSD No No

On June 12, 1970, the single greatest achievement of any bipedal member of the animal kingdom occurred in San Diego, California; when the Pittsburgh Pirates’ Dock Ellis pitched a No-Hitter against the San Diego Padres in a Major League baseball game… in the rain… on LSD.

Barry Bonds breaking the Career Home Run record of Hank Aaron and Mark McGwire breaking the Single Season Home Run record of Roger Maris were both milestones achieved by science, not athleticism or physical prowess.  The use of steroids and/or other Performance Enhancing Drugs by any athlete renders them a shit-eating coward in the eyes of this fine Sportsdesk.  LSD is an entirely different burrito.  Taking LSD and doing anything is really either a sign of the utmost bravery and courage or a call for help.  In the case of Dock Ellis and his LSD No No, I believe his acid trip was the former.

On June 11, 1970, Dock Ellis (likely to be closely related to Houston’s own, Robert Ellis) approached the Pirates’ manager asking if he could have the day off to spend in Los Angeles because he was not slated to play the next day in San Diego.  Several hits of LSD later and six hours before game time, Ellis realized (via his friend’s girlfriend- hmmmmm?) that he was supposed to pitch against the Padres the next day, or what he “thought to be the next day.”

Ellis made it to San Diego Stadium in time to make his start.  His pre-game warm up included the procurement of Benzedrine from a lady friend of his, sitting in the stands.  Benzedrine was a stimulant, and in that day almost every ball player was stimulated.

There’s a small detail that goes a great deal unnoticed when the subject of Dock Ellis’ masterpiece is discussed; and that’s the fact that it was raining… in San Diego. Nothing rains in San Diego.  Ever.  The greatest job in the world is as the Weather Man in San Diego.  It’s sun shiny and fucking perfect year round… Except on the day that a man tripping on acid takes the mound at San Diego Stadium.  If you believe in a God that doesn’t watch baseball from his skybox- in the sky- well, then you’re crazy.

In a 1984 interview, Dock Ellis recounted the following:

“I can only remember bits and pieces of the game. I was psyched. I had a feeling of euphoria. I was zeroed in on the (catcher’s) glove, but I didn’t hit the glove too much. I remember hitting a couple of batters and the bases were loaded two or three times. The ball was small sometimes, the ball was large sometimes, sometimes I saw the catcher, sometimes I didn’t. Sometimes I tried to stare the hitter down and throw while I was looking at him. I chewed my gum until it turned to powder. I started having a crazy idea in the fourth inning that Richard Nixon was the home plate umpire, and once I thought I was pitching a baseball to Jimi Hendrix, who to me was holding a guitar and swinging it over the plate. They say I had about three to four fielding chances. I remember diving out of the way of a ball I thought was a line drive. I jumped, but the ball wasn’t hit hard and never reached me.”

For an additional recounting of these events and the rest of the interview, look for an animated short by James Blagden called “Dock Ellis & The LSD No-No.”  It’s on the internet.

I deeply believe that there’s a great injustice that survives this No-Hitter, and that is: Why are we not celebrating this achievement every year?  There’s no question the annual recognition of Dock Ellis and the LSD No No would be most everyone’s favorite holiday.  It would be the defining American Holiday.  If baseball is America’s Past Time, then June 12, 1970 is baseball’s Christmas.  I have a dream…

On June 12, 2010- the 40th Anniversary of Dock Ellis’ LSD No-No- everyone (who’s at least marginally fun at life) takes a sick day at work to go see a baseball game on acid.  If it weren’t for the Bible Belt and Federal Regulations, this would be a very marketable holiday.  I envision everyone showing up to Minute Maid Park filled to the brim with excitement and crippling fear.  People giving each other high-fives and then immediately having a mild nervous breakdown from touching another human being.  The giant posters of Second Baptist’s Ed Young, situated next to most of the concession stands, would no doubt come to life and frighten customers.  Big Ed would loom over you in the concession line and utter in a deeply southern but God-like voice, “God would pay $12 for a bottle of water.  So should you.”  You finally purchase the bottle of water only to realize there’s a plaid piranha swimming around in it.  Of course, the players would be on LSD as well.  It’s only fair in keeping with the grander experience.  Roy Oswalt, I imagine, would be somewhat unaffected by the LSD and likely end up pitching a fine game.  This is a man who prefers to be paid in farming equipment.  I don’t think there’s enough going on in his brain to materialize a real acid trip.  The Seventh Inning Stretch and the singing of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” could really amp up the “holiday spirit”.  Just think about it.  Minute Maid Park is already one of the most visually disturbing places in Houston (there’s a train that carries fake oranges from side of the stadium to the other).  So why not take it to a completely unnecessary level… for the love of the game?

Here’s to Dock Ellis and his LSD No No.  Cheers.

Todo Moto: Undoubtedly, Better Motorists Than Yourself

“You must be careful that you understand all the consequences of an idea before you believe in it.”- Orson Scott Card’s Xenocide.

I, very recently, learned of that quote by way of Yates (a founding member of the Inner Loop’s only motorcycle club- Todo Moto)…. he used a cellphone to call Rosey (the President) and asked him for the exact quote.  Paraphrasing was not an option for Yates.  Authenticity is the only way to go, which is a virtue that extends much deeper into his life and the lives of his road warrior brothers, Todo Moto.

I followed the four red lights in front of me as they politely shared the same lane of I-10 East that heads into downtown; they were in perfect 80 mile an hour harmony, navigating the interstate already overrun with idiots driving cars.  Five other motorcyclists tailed me as we headed into the warehouse district for after hours mayhem at the Owl Farm.  By this point in the interview (somewhere in the vicinity of 2:30 AM), I started to recognize that these fearless motorcycle junkies were the safest motorists on the road.  They don’t fool around with cellphones or car stereos or makeup; not just avoiding these commonplace distractions but loathing their very existence.  They concentrate on the road because they’re aware of how close to the edge they’ve already come… and they like it.  When Todo Moto rides- they get from point A to point B, which is more than you can say for yourself.

I parked my car in the parking lot; then took a moment to quickly re-examine my past few hours with Todo Moto while listening to the idle roar of their engines.  What started as a curious interview had quickly developed into something different and meaningful.

Beginning at Jimmie’s Place on White Oak- Todo Moto gathered (eight or more at least) and allowed me to ask them questions.  But within minutes (or a fish bucket full of Lonestars), the paper-like infrastructure of a typical interview gave way; and the joy of engaging new friends began to enlighten me.  I met a welder, a heavy equipment mechanic, a tattoo artist, an A/V guy, a dude that works with lasers, a guy from L.A….etc.

We jaunted to Dark Horse on Washington Ave. furthering the experience.  My questions became less and less the subject of motorcycle clubs or even motorcycles in general (although, hearing these spiritual auto-mechanics talk shop puts a welcomed spin on raw science).  Compulsion?- that was the only question left unanswered.

What’s the worst common misconception about Todo Moto, or motorcycle clubs in general?

Yates: That we go around starting shit; or that we’re looking for trouble.

Todo Moto subscribes to a utopian theory of “Don’t fuck with us, we won’t fuck with you.”  It’s no secret that a global appreciation of this creed would save lives.  Who can argue with that?

Local legend, Stephen Walker commented: “Yeah, whenever I tell someone that I’m going to play a show at the Rat’s Nest (Todo Moto’s luxurious clubhouse on Navigation), or I’m going to one of their parties; the person always responds with, ‘Oh yeah?  You like those guys?’ as if it were weird or something.  I don’t really see how they’re any different to other riff raff in Montrose.  We’re all out to have fun.”

To claim that Todo Moto has never left a mess of madness and tom foolery in their wake would be ludicrous.  It would be preposterous for anyone to make such a claim.  But a reputation for misbehavior should never be feared.

Those simpletons that fear motorcycle clubs are hanging onto a stereotype left over from the 60’s- an era in which said simpletons never lived.  More simply: Todo Moto enjoys all the same things you and I do… like karaoke.

I had the absolute pleasure of witnessing a karaoke performance so rare and so moving that it would’ve made lovers out of Annise Parker and Gene Locke.  Simon (a club member once responsible for a $1,151 traffic violation) delivered a breathtaking rendition of Meatloaf’s, “I Would Do Anything For Love (But I Won’t Do That)”.  Never once did he read the words on the monitor.  No need.  In fact, since the microphone was wireless, he sang all over the bar.  Several measures were sung from a urinal in the Men’s bathroom.

If you could time-travel with your bike, what time in history would you travel to?

Yates:            I wouldn’t take my bike.  I would steal several from The Rolling Stones’ Altamont concert in 1969 and bring them… ahem… Back to the Future.  I would also go back to the time in history when punching a cop was a $20 fine.

Rosey:            I’d travel to 3010.  I’m always going forward.

What’s your favorite character from “The Little Rascals”?

Yates: Funny story about that… when I was a kid, I auditioned for the part of Stinky in “The Little Rascals” movie.

So, is Stinky your favorite character, I assume?

Yates: Sure.

If Todo Moto had a billboard, what part of town would it be in and what would it say?

Yates: My vote would be to place it in downtown Beirut and it would advertise for Free Babysitting.  In Houston though it would have to go on the outskirts of town and it would read, “We’re still partying in your bars.”

Certainly, these guys have a pride about their club and creed.  It’s a pride no different than that of a man mowing his lawn on a Saturday afternoon, appreciating the fact that the motor drowns out his nagging wife standing on the porch yelling at him to make good on some other bullshit responsibility.  Everyone needs an outlet; a place or a feeling that allows you to escape- even if it’s just a moment.  For Todo Moto, the outlet is the road and the ride.  Only a blown gasket can interrupt the meditative state of cruising together with your cohorts.

A Mexican republican, a black attorney, an old rich white dude and a lesbian walk into a bar.  Which do you vote for as Mayor of Houston?

Whoa, that’s a tough one.  Man, I don’t know… kinda makes me glad felons don’t get to vote.

Oh.  That’s right.

Yeah.  Disaster narrowly avoided.

Aye.

From the inside of my Ford Mustang, I listened as the engines, one by one, sang their final note; and in the rear-view mirror, I saw Todo Moto standing next to their bikes, not as new renditions of old propaganda, but as remnants of a classic American ideal. Cheers.

A Visit to New York Calls for a First Blog

It seems that whenever I go on “vacation” (which can be defined as almost anything not having to with Houston; and in this case is a trip to NYC for a wedding and a rock’n'roll show) (oh… and Cheyenne) I seem to completely abandon my normal routine and responsibilities, which are fairly questionable to begin with. I thoroughly enjoy the departure as anyone would; but I’m mildly troubled by the fact that I really haven’t changed clothes or had a proper bowel movement since I got here on Thursday. I smell of two day old whiskey despite having showered twice. I don’t “feel” hungry; that is to say basically that I’m not hungry- but I ‘ve felt the need to replenish my energy. I choose to do so with pizza and more beer. How wrong can this trip get after a while, I wonder?

Except for Thursday (it rained), the weather has been absolutely stunning. The women are hardly wearing clothes and I’m stuck wearing jeans and a tee shirt. Not that there’s a problem really- I just wished I had packed for such an awesome climate. I’ve also sweated through every inch of the tee shirt. Now, I’m moving on to the pants. This could get awkward.

I flyered cars, cabs, vans, trains and people (street bums, musicians and hookers) with FPH Summer Fest flyers. Granted there’s little possibility of someone seeing a flyer and then attending the festival in Houston. That would take the term “flyering” to a whole new level of promotion (since they’d have to fly to Houston- I think you get my point)… and then they’d have to call it Mills-McCoining, which is lame by all accounts.

See what I'm sayin'?

Tonight, I will be getting dressed up to attend a wedding here. Quite possibly the most posh thing I’ll ever do for as long as I continue to live. A friend from college is getting married- he’s taking the matter well. They’re going to honeymoon in my bathtub next week- so that too will be awkward.

I leave tomorrow out of Newark. I just hope there’s some city officials left to check my bags.

Kenneth Lay Tells the Truth About Lying

 

Definitely still alive.

 

I made the decision to attend one of the many Mayoral Forums that Gene Locke, Roy Morales, Annise Parker and Peter Brown have been attending since the start of the Mayoral Race. They seem to be doing their part; so I should do my version of due diligence. There’s a mayoral forum on August 18th from noon to 1:30PM put on by the Houston Area Table, Houston Tomorrow and the FPH. For more information, please call 713-782-8833.

My odd and questionable preparations for this forum included a plane ride to visit a semi-forgotten Houstonian- Kenneth Lay.
If you really believe he’s dead… well, that’s adorable. Ken Lay lives on a remote island in the south Pacific… because that’s how much money he stole.
Don’t forget, Ken Lay lived in Houston for a very long time; and is well-versed in how his city operates. Ken Lay was a baaaaaad man; there’s no doubt he shook the Devil’s hand a few times. So I figure he could probably shed some light on what exactly I should ask a candidate running for Mayor of Houston.

After I landed on the makeshift airstrip, I made a direct route to the beach which is where I was told I would find Ken Lay. Sure as shit, there he was- donned in tropical attire and large and in charge… of some of the smallest polynesians I’ve ever seen. He was sitting in a beach chair, being fanned, with a drink in one hand and a stick in the other. There was a medicine bottle at rest on the table next to him.
I approached softly.
“Hey asshole! Get off my property!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. He turned around and smiled at me, which was very creepy at the time.
“HA! I’ve literally never heard that one before. So who the hell are you?” he asked as though he’d been a gentleman his entire life.
“Just a concerned citizen of Houston, TX,” I answered.
“Oh… well come on down.”
As I walked down to the shore, I saw several of Ken Lay’s pint-sized manservants run to fetch me a beach chair and a drink. Oddly, the drink was not served in a coconut. It was served in a chalice covered in jewels.
“Sorry, we ran out of coconuts. Soooooo, how can I help you?”
“Mr. Lay, you can tell me everything I need to know about a Mayoral Race in Houston.”
“Oooooh yeah, that’s comin’ up, isn’t it? Probably in November.”
“Probably. But there’s a mayoral forum on the 18th of August that I’m preparing for.”
“Well, my strange visitor, you should definitely look into Ordinance #2006-1001. Also known as the Limited Use Banner Sign ordinance. It requires businesses to obtain a permit to display any sign constructed of cloth, canvas, light fabric or other light material, not to exceed 40 square feet in size.”
“How much is the permit?”
“Altogether it’s $150. And that gets you seven consecutive days in any 30-day period to use the banner.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Hell no! I’m not kidding. It’s a travesty; a horribly non-creative way of using small businesses as revenue capillaries. Not to mention it puts a shit load of red-tape out there making it harder for small businesses to advertise and generate revenue for themselves,” he exclaimed in a squirrelly voice.
I began writing frantically on my notepad.
“Okay, ok, ok… you got anymore?”
“Damn, son! Wake up. There’s probably hundreds of these knick knack permits and fees and ordinances that take money out of modest pockets,” he said as began to pick up the momentum of a crazy man. He picked an odd time to be honest, I thought.
Ken Lay ranted and raved, continuing to open my eyes about the red-tape injustice that comes out of City Hall. He detailed the levels of vanity in which these ordinances are founded; claiming they “help keep the city stay clean and maintain a proper metropolitan appearance.” He referenced innane bike ordinances, poor pay structure for city workers, ridiculous street closure prohibitions, etc… And by that point, Ken Lay was standing up, yelling and swatting the polynesians with the stick. I was forced to get him another drink and calm the crazy crook down.
He popped a pill out of the medicine bottle and slowly explained to me the approach I needed to take.
“Listen, you’re a smart kid. Obviously. You found me. So channel that energy into finding where the City’s money comes from and where it’s going. That applies to these Mayoral Candidates as well. They have donors. They have big name contributors. Peter Brown wants a giant fast train that stretches from Houston to Dallas and San Antonio. So, I’m betting there’s some contractors that contribute to his campaign… blah blah blah… Boy, this is basic politics.”
I could tell he was getting tired from a lonely life on an island, exiled from the world for his wrongdoings. I felt sorry for him almost. Ken Lay made me realize that there are some silly evils that go unnoticed because we spend most of our time gawking at the giant ones. Like Enron.
His eyes were growing weary, as well. I think it must’ve been the pills because I didn’t taste any alcohol in the drinks. So, I gathered my things and got up to leave.
“Mr. Lay, thank you for your time. I really appreciate the lesson,” I said with the utmost sincerity.
“No problem, strange visitor. I’ll be rootin’ for ya. Come back anytime… Hey, I heard Mattress Mac torched his ware-…” his voice trailed off as I made my way through the jungle, back to the plane.

Don’t forget. Mayoral Forum, August 18th. 713-782-8833 for more information.

The Devil and Mattress Mac

Pssst… Insurance Fraud, think about it.

Late Thursday night I sat down to conquer some writer’s block… when, unannounced as usual, the Devil throws open the door to my office.

M-M: Damn it, not you again!  I’m busy.  Go away.

Devil: How are you not watching this on TV right now?

M-M: What?

Devil: What the …  Just turn on your local news.  Channel 2 or something.

M-M: Sorry, I don’t have a television.  Bye, bye now.

Surprise, surprise, the Devil was hellbent on me watching something stupid he found on television.  This guy can be a real distraction sometimes.

The Devil walks right in front of my desk and begins to outline a rectangle in the air with his finger- a 52” plasma TV appears, levitating in the middle of my workspace.

M-M: You’re such an asshole.  Not to mention a serial show-off.  What could be so damn importa…  Whoa.

Channel 2 news was live on the scene at the Gallery Furniture “compound” where the warehouse in the back had become a fiery inferno of furniture inventory.  The showroom looked to be untouched by the flames but all that remained of the warehouse were the four walls.  Water cannons were launching water over the walls into the fire.  I was mesmerized by what was on the tv.  It never occurred to me the kind of bonfire that a warehouse filled with cotton and wood could create.

M-M: Did you do this?

Devil: Nope.  Not my work.  But it looks like my work.

M-M: Why do you say that?

Devil: Insurance Fraud.

M-M: You think Mattress Mac, Jim McIngvale, a Houston icon, set his warehouse on fire in an effort to commit epic insurance fraud?  This is your theory?  I mean, I’ll agree with you- the guy definitely has a flare for showmanship but I don’t think insurance fraud is a proven outlet for flamboyance.

Devil: What’s wrong with diligent speculation?  I’m not saying he did it, but if Mattress Mac did torch his warehouse then he did it exactly how I would’ve done it.  I think there may even be some copyright infringement here.  Or a patent violation.  Whoohoo!  Look at that bitch burn!

M-M: <sigh> Explain.

Devil: Well, let’s start with the basics.  Your economy is in the shitter.  He already sells cheap furniture so he can’t really lower his prices any further.  And- shockingly- Gallery Furniture just expanded and opened a store in the Galleria area that sells higher-end crappy furniture.

M-M: Where is this going?

Devil: You’re a moron, you know that right?

M-M: Make your point.

Devil: Mattress Mac’s thinking that he’s not going to be moving as much super-cheap furniture because poor people are simply not going to buy new furniture.  And… the people that have money to spend aren’t going to want to buy the crappiest of furnitures.  They want the good stuff.

M-M: So Mac torched his inventory in order to collect on the insurance-

Devil: And use it to buy more expensive furniture since that’s who is most likely to consume.  Exactly.  Furthermore, as you can see, the Big Showroom seems totally fine, which means he doesn’t have to replace that.  Just the warehouse.  And that’s cheap too.  He’s a sly one, this Mattresssssssss Mac.

M-M: You’re a weird writing partner.

Devil: I wouldn’t be surprised if the ATF sends a NRT to investigate the origin of the fire.

M-M: What does that mean?

Devil: You’ll see. Again, I’m not saying he did it.  I’m just saying that’s exactly how I would have done it.