Thank heaven … for SC girls

Thanksgiving means many things to many Americans. Sure, there’s the thankfulness of being free and living in America. There’s family. There’s even the non-stop shopping fever that seems to be trending amongst our consumerist friends. And, then, down at the corner, there’s football – a seemingly endless, four-day orgy of overeating, overdrinking, the occasional nap, and football, football, football. To make matters better, aside from the professional games, most of the college games are rivalry match-ups, games where tradition and a long history of bad blood make them intriguing and “must see TV” regardless of teams’ current records.


Born and raised in Texas, I have a special place reserved in my heart for Texas vs. Texas A&M, a game that draws a line literally down the middle of the family – not just mine, but most of the families in Texas. Thanks, Longhorns, for pulling out the victory last night. You saved the weekend for me, and for that I’m thankful. I’d be more thankful if we can get those knucklehead athletic directors together and ensure this over 100-year old rivalry continues.

Having gone to grad school at Washington, I also have the Apple Cup, the annual show down between the Huskies and cross-state rival Washington State. If you win one game a year, you have to make sure you win this game.

But, at the corner bar, we won’t likely be watching the games of our alma maters and favorite teams, or at least not watching with undivided attention. Rather, we’ll be certain to catch not-so-furtive glances at the USC-UCLA game. Why? Well, I could type a 1000 words on why exactly, but one picture will more than suffice:

What? Are you kidding? Most definitely another couple of handfuls of things to be thankful for.

During my time in Seattle, my buddies and I had season football tickets for the Huskies. Not being big-time donors, we were in the corner of the end zone at the closed end of the stadium. Great place to watch a football game, at least in September, before the rains start in late autumn and last … forever.

But, with all those games and memories, one of the memories most etched in my mind was during my grad school time, when I sat in the student section at about the 45 yard line for the USC game. When the Trojans came to town, it was always a big game, and it was never more so than during the Huskies’ golden years of the early 90’s.

That day, the pre-game crowd was raucous, with the stadium literally shaking as the players and fans prepared for the opening kickoff. Then, to the left, we felt something, something we couldn’t put our finger on, but something palatable in the air. The presence grew stronger and broke us out of our frenzied trance. Then, we figured it out. It was silence.

Silence was overtaking the din of the crowd, and it was starting from the far left corner of the stadium, but growing and swelling – sort of like ‘the wave,” but polar opposite. The crowd was slowly being overtaken with silence, and we were growing more and more confused, until we saw why.

There, walking on the track like an opening sequence of Baywatch, making their way across the stadium to their spot in front of the visitor’s section, was the USC cheerleading squad. Thankfully, it was an abbreviated “travel squad” of cheerleaders, with only four or five girls, for I’m not certain we could have taken much more. Four or five were more than enough. All around me were guys standing silent with their mouths open. I think I actually stepped on my tongue.

It’s not like we didn’t have hot girls in Seattle. Thanks to the grunge music movement whose epicenter was just a few miles away, there were loads of girls with unwashed hair, mixed and matched thrift shop clothes, and fresh “sucked, fucked, and tattooed” tattoos on their shoulder or lower back. You couldn’t take those girls home though, for mom certainly wouldn’t approve.

These USC cheerleaders? It’s not like you could have brought them home either. Not that mom would disapprove, for I’m sure she would have been tickled pink. Rather, they couldn’t be brought home for fear that dad, brothers and every guy in the neighborhood would be over trying to steal your girl.

I don’t remember the score of the game. Don’t even remember who won. But, I won’t forget the impression made by 4 or 5 southern California. And with that, I can say “Go SC” without too much shame this weekend.

Tweet me up @RayHartjen

The Grasshopper Diary

There’re a lot of great things that come from hanging out in bars. There’s … well, okay, maybe there’s only one thing that’s great and that’s the stories. But, really, isn’t that reason enough to spend countless hours and dollars, and more than a few very countable brain cells, leaning against the bar and telling tales?

We all love a good story.

Seeing the trailers and advertisements for the next Johnny Depp movie, “The Rum Diaries,” brings one story to mind. The Rum Diaries is a novel penned by Gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson, a not so fictional account based heavily on the author’s own trials and tribulations in Puerto Rico in the late 50’s. It’s simply a novel because Thompson was too drunk to remember all his details, so he had to “fill in the blanks” a bit with stuff that sounded about right. So, he got drunk, wrote and rounded the story out.

To protect the innocents, of which it’s usually difficult to find in a Thompson story, he and his publishers called it a novel. Wink, wink.

Thompson spent the last half of his life living outside Aspen, Colorado. A few of those years in the 80’s coincided with my friend Amy living there, a young lass on her own for the first time, chasing her boy across the country and trying to make ends meet as a bar waitress.

An occasional customer of the bar was Hunter Thompson himself, and one early afternoon presented such the set of circumstances to create a timeless bar story. So, here goes, as straight from Amy’s mouth to my keyboard, with only about 15 years separating the two.

Thompson walks in and takes a seat at the bar. He orders a beer and four or five cocktails, including, remarkably, a Grasshopper. I mean, c’mon, who orders a Grasshopper anyway? You can’t make that kind of thing up, and it’s definitely an anchor to the story. This significant, mindful detail gives credence to the entire story.

Anyway, Amy’s friend, the bartender, says sheepishly, “Uh, I don’t think I can give you all those drinks, sir.” To which, Thompson replies, “Son, how old are you.”

The bartender says something, some number in the low- to mid-20’s.

Thompson slides his sunglasses low on his nose making direct eye contact, leans in and says, “Boy, I’ve done more drugs today than you’ve done in your entire life. Now, give me my fucking drinks.”

And to that, Thompson got his beers and all his cocktails, including the Grasshopper.  You can't argue logic.

True story.

At least as far as we both know.

Today, we raise a toast to Gonzo. Barkeep! Grasshoppers for the house!

Share your tale on Twitter @RayHartjen.

When pulling your Weiner will be okay

Our national media obsession of all things Weiner and wieners ended – at least we hope ended – today as U.S. Congressman Anthony Weiner (D. New York) resigned his elected position. The once-promising high flyer for the Democratic party, and a very likely future mayor of New York City at that, came crashing down to Earth in a humiliating scandal derived from risqué pictures sent via Twitter.

Now, have you seen the picture that caused all the hubbub? Really, a little chub, a bit of wood in a pair of jockeys, caused all that?

In the first place, what’s the big deal, anyway? This is the day and age of ubiquitous social media platforms and connected hardware devices, of information overload and whatever the hell “sexting” is. If you haven’t sent an inappropriate picture of yourself over the internet, you're just not trying - it’s just a matter of when, not if.

It’s always something pushing the boundaries in politics. What’s one’s cross to bear and a career ender in one decade becomes a non-issue in the next. Remember the idea of Ronald Reagan becoming president, and the scandalous thought that he had once been … divorced!

Bill Clinton famously – and barely - escaped the drug use fervor created by his “never inhaled” stance. Eight years later, the United States voted in the silver-spooned cocaine cowboy, George W. Bush and his DUI conviction past. Who the hell knows what Obama has done. We don’t know, simply because we don’t care enough to ask. Drug usage is so … last generation.

Of course, nothing changes the fact that Weiner is out on his, uh, butt, and things aren’t looking good for the career public servant. He hasn’t ever had a real job, and he has no business or law degree. What’s next for him, other than his recent job offer from Hustler’s Larry Flynt? American politics have given some pretty outrageous second and third chances before.

Well, hello Marion Barry, how long have you been standing there?

We’re won’t have Weiner to kick around once all this fades into history sometime in the next 42 minutes. Oh, there will be the hard-to-resist Weiner jokes, “pulling the Weiner,” so to speak. The lasting legacy will be a redefinition of what’s appropriate or inappropriate to tweet, post, etc. The bar has been raised – or lowered, depending on how one looks at it. Everyone is going to have a picture, you just wait and see.

A couple of more martinis, and I just might tweet out mine tonight.
Look for my photos on Twitter @RayHartjen

But, does every vote HAVE to count?

Oh, the boys in the bar love a good political story on TV, what if there’re no sports on ESPN, ESPN 2, ESPNU, “ESPN the ocho,” etc. Democracy and dictatorship – those are two topics, often morphing into a singular one that makes for a spirited debate between sips of spirits.

Let me go on the record here: As a devout believer in democracy, freedom, and liberty, deep down I don’t really have any strong objections against tyrannical dictatorship as long as one simple rule is observed, and that is that I get to be the dictator.

Not coincidentally, the same goes for censorship; if I’m the censor, then no problem.

Alas, break the simple rules, and all doesn’t seem so bright, right and rosy.

Anyway, the subject of voting came up between martinis it conjured back memories of a flight I had into Oakland International Airport – an awfully regal name earned by having a daily flight to Mexico, or what we often call South San Diego - 12 or 13 years ago, before I relocated to the Bay area. Pre-9/11, this was when the rental car lots were right across from the terminals, a brisk 45 second walk through the congregation of smokers who cloud the vicinity of every public building on the west coast.

I showed my Washington license to the National attendant, who offhandedly remarked, “Oh, Washington, D.C.”

I politely corrected her. “Washington state,” I replied.

Naturally, she said …

… wait for it …

… “What’s the difference?”

Where to begin? Geographically? Politically? Ideologically? Existentially?

I decided to take the Kindergarten approach and said, “Washington, D.C. is the nation’s capital, on the east coast, between Maryland and Virginia, while Washington state is two states above California here on the west coast, you know, where Seattle is.”

“Uh, yeah, whatever. Will you be returning the car full of fuel or would you like to prepay the entire tank?”

I drove off that day in my non-descript, no frills GM fleet car with a profound realization. Being old enough to have a job meant that dumb ass was old enough to vote. Granted, I don’t know if she was smart enough to vote, but she was certainly old enough to vote, although working at the Oakland airport meant it was possible, if not entirely probable, that she was a convicted felon, and therefore prohibited by law from exercising that right.

I enjoy hearing public policy debate and commenting to a friend that I am looking forward to canceling her vote with my opposite vote at the polls. That perspective is so much more funny than the realization that some dumb ass “what’s the difference between Washington D.C. and Washington state” voter might cancel out my own vote.

Oh my, I just thought of it – What if she actually voted with me? What would that say about my choices?

Nah, that’s just nonsense.

So, the true realities present themselves. We’ve got to get people out to vote, but we’ve got to get the right people out to vote. You know, the right people – the people who see things as I see them.

If you end up with too many voters like that National attendant, you’ll likely end up with Sarah Palin in office. Then, when she’s in her U-Haul driving around Seattle looking for the White House, we’re going to have to bring that entire Washington D.C./Washington state debate to a bigger, broader public forum, and that’s something I just don’t know if I have the stomach for anymore.

Hit me on Twitter @RayHartjen.

The Mighty Pen (& a still dangerous sword)

In the early part of the 19th century, English author Edward Bulwer-Lytton wrote “the pen is mightier than the sword.” It’s been the battle cry for the meek ever since, giving hope to those hopeless of pushing their way to, and over, the top. It’s the rallying cry, the last bastion for the meek in their quest to actually inherit the Earth.


It sounds nice; almost utopian, in a manner of … typing. Over the long-term, it might even be accurate. Key is “over the long-term.” I can’t help but noticing while watching democratic protests streaming from around the world on CNN to my comfy, warm, corner bar that the first attempts to counter swords with written words sort of ends up as a bit of a disaster for those very first to draw the battle lines.

Of course, there’re no pens these days, or swords to for that matter. The pen went out with stationary. Seriously, has anyone outside of Japan, home of the 5-story stationary store, seen a piece of stationary in the last decade? Today’s pen and paper is a high-speed network connection and social media platforms. Unfortunately for the initial protestors, those trailblazing mavericks of social unrest, the sword too has been replaced – by high-powered bullets and rifles.

Old regimes in Tunisia and Egypt have toppled, and the impact of the modern day pen (the internet) on those revolutions, cannot be underestimated. However, those regimes, and those currently under duress in Bahrain, Libya, and even, shhh, keep it on the down low, China and Iran, have a fondness to embrace the quick first response, that of violent attack and repression.

You don’t bring a smartphone and a Twitter feed to a gun fight, unless what you’re going for is martyr status. So, while others rejoice in the revolution and the freedom that invariably springs from it, try convincing the families of the over 250 dead in Libya that the ‘pen is mightier than the sword.”

History will remember those with the pens fondly, but for my liking, I’m making sure me and my pens stoke the fire of the revolution safely ensconced in some pub, far away from the rat-a-tat-tat of some kid’s AK. Those on the wire might be advised to turn tail and get the hell back. That or trade in their pens for bigger pens that go “bang.”

Viva la revolucion.

Tweet me up @RayHartjen

That's likely to leave a mark

Sometimes you need a trip to the hospital and an X-ray to properly diagnose a broken nose.

Other times, it's as plain as the nose on your face.

For Brandon Vera after his UFC fight on Jan. 1, it was the latter.  Of course, I could be wrong, as I'm not a doctor. 

Since when did Philly get so soft?

So, tonight it finally happens. The Eagles and the Vikings square off in Philadelphia, in a game that was supposed to be played on Sunday night but was postponed – 9 hours ahead of kickoff – because of a pending snow storm. Since when has football succumbed to the mamby pamby depths of baseball?


Okay you baseball lovers, before you start writing all sorts of hatred vitriol; just remember that your sport is pretty much the only one where a player pulls himself from a game because he got a blister on his finger.

Oh, what now? Cat got your tongue?

Pennsylvania Governor Ed Rendell gets just how ridiculous postponing a football game is because of the pending threat of 8 inches of snow and some winds. However, he gets it wrong in that it speaks to the wimpy nature of the United States. Rather, it’s the candy-ass wussification of Philadelphia that should be under indictment. The City of Brotherly Love used to be known as one tough city. Hell, it’s the city of Rocky Balboa, for crying out loud. The city that once famously booed Santa Claus and cheered when Michael Irvin laid injured on the field with a neck injury. Fans were once so notoriously rowdy in the old stadium, an adjunct municipal court was put in. 

That's a tough crowd.  Or, apparently, was a tough crowd. 

Hey, around the rest of the United States, we held up our end. We were ready for game time. Philly, you let us down

Postponing the game was criminal. First of all, I-95, right next to the stadium, was never even closed on Sunday. If the freeway stays open, how freakin’ dangerous can getting to the game be (other than the ordinary danger of navigating Philadelphia on any given day)?

So, me and the boys in the bar have what exactly to entertain ourselves with on Sunday night absent the game? Ourselves? The same old boring conversations we have every other night of the week, save the blessedness that is Monday Night Football? Yeah, I don’t think so.

Exhibit two in the criminal nature of the postponement: Fantasy Football. Week 16 in the NFL is also known as semi-final week in the world of Fantasy Football, where my team – the first place Bay Area Bad A$$ - is taking on a challenger who has the Philadelphia Eagle’s Michael Vick playing quarterback. Now, if the game is played on Sunday, in a mini-blizzard, it looks pretty good for yours truly. Tonight, when it’s just cold – let’s just say I’m praying for a sprained ankle to come early in the first quarter.

Somebody, somewhere owes me. Somebody needs to pay.

Freakin’ Philadelphia. I wonder if they all got dresses for Christmas?  Its only saving grace is Scrapple and Pat's steaks.