Sunday, July 16, 2006
Sammy Hagar, August 2nd!
Finally, finally, finally, it looks as though things will be completely back to normal here in the Bucket for the foreseeable future.
World Cup? Over.
Mrs. Pops' vacation? Over.
Enforced weeklong visitation by an armed ATF agent to investigate charges that I was living in violation of my parole? As of today, over.
Well, that last one is almost totally over. To wrap it all up, I'm supposed to say in a public place that explosives of any kind are dangerous and should not be handled by non-licensed people in any non-professional context. And also that purchase or possession of explosives of any kind intended to be used in the commission of a crime is a felony that can carry a sentence of up to five years in prison. And also, just because you have an idea that is extremely funny, that doesn't mean that said idea is not also against the law. Also, kids, stay in school.
There. I guess I just fulfilled that part. Small though my readership is (numerically I mean; I assume most of you are quite impressive physically), this space still technically counts as public. So now I'm free and clear.
You have your Pops back, without distraction.
At last I can get back to talking about things that are important to both you (the collective "you" for which there is in English no simple pronoun like the French vous) and we (the collective royal We, by which I mean Me, an archaic pronoun usage reserved for royalty, myself and the kind of crazy homeless people who make themselves crowns out of their own feces).
So today, this happy Sunday, I'm here to talk about... um... I... er...
How the fuck did I do this six days a week?
So... um... this weekend I... uh...
If you were wondering what I did this weekend, it was a hundred and eight degrees in Riverside on Saturday I heard. 108. Celcius I'm pretty sure.
And what did we do Saturday night? Indian casino.
When you think of the southwest US and you think of Indian reservations, naturally you think of somewhere you'd desperately want to be on a day when the lands occupied by the white-man are so hot the ground is intermittently phasing directly from solid to a gas.
Further, I don't like to gamble or drink (exceptions: cock fights, absinthe), so a casino seems like about the right place for me to be so that I might achieve the least amount of entertainment possible. My sister cajoled/lied/dragged me into going, but I was proud of myself: in the 4 hours we were there, I spent a total of $8. They have nickel slot machines there, you know. My sister apologized for making me go. It was the most passive-aggressive $8 I ever spent.
The good news was that the super-fantastic Pechanga Resort and Casino is a full-sized Vegas-style casino complete with deafening rows of money-stealing sensory overload machines and third-hand smoke by the metric tonne. Seeing the American Indians of the Greater Temecula Area thrive like that after so many years of suffering and deprivation did my liberal-guilt-tainted heart good. As we left, I felt the shackles of 500 years of white-man oppression-inspired self-loathing melt away. I turned back to the air-conditioned splendor of the main casino before I walked away, gave it one of them Antonin Scalia fingers-under-the-chin gestures, spat on the ground and said: "I'm done with you people! Probably just spend it all on fire-water!" and left, just as soon as the nice men were done punching me in the kidneys. Who knew there'd be so many natives in earshot?
It's good to be back.
This post on the Narcissus Scale: 9.9