Albie Cullen's Blog, page 7

It's Nice to Be Nice

What little faith I had in humanity has been temporarily restored.  Not a single person liked my Ebenezer Scrooge take on Christmas.  The responses I did get all basically told me to get a life and stop being such a buzzkill (I'm paraphrasing most people were as cruel in there assessment as I was in my self centered, little diatribe).  I was pretty down all day.  My parents told me I was entering my fiftieth year today (my "Drown" publicity bio says I'm 36).   Turns out I'm only 48 and my parents don't even know how old I am.  Must have been a real memorable day.

Those of you who have birthdays around the holidays know it is a total screw job.  Those of you who give the "joint" birthday and Christmas gift and lie about spending double know exactly what I am talking about.  As the economy continues to go in the tank and I get older gifts become less important.  So now I get the "joint" nothing as my birthday/Christmas gift.  As the LOL (lovely old lady) pointed out if a guy owns fifty pairs of shoes and has four wetsuits (included a "heated" model) he really doesn't need anything.  For my birthday she agreed to be "nice".  Honestly, her actually being nice is  kind of creepy and making me really nervous.  Then again I left yesterday, worked and surfed today and have been home for less than a half hour.  I give her an hour tops.  Kindness doesn't really become her.

Here is my "joint" birthday/Christmas wish list:

1.  I wish the Kardashian private jet would get lost in the Bermuda triangle with the whole clan aboard.  I think those sisters would feel at home there.  Also I wouldn't have to see their ugly mugs everywhere much less hear their opinion.

2.  I wish Mitt Romney would accept the fact that nobody likes him.  He's been trying for eight years to convince people otherwise yet voters were more comfortable with a pizza delivery guy before he turned out to be a sex addict.  Now they'd rather have a nut case who cheated on his wife who was dying of cancer and took $1.6 million for advising an agency that is largely responsible for the housing crisis.

3.  I wish head high and clean waves all day everyday for my surfing brothers.

Finally as amends to the Faithful the link below is a gift certificate for a free kindle copy of "Drown".  The first person to use it gets it but don't worry I promise their will be more.  One of you cheapskates can even give it as a free "joint" birthday Christmas gift.

Redeem your gift a twww.amazon.com/acceptgift

Gift Claim Code GSLTKEEVQM6Q2LW

KOKO

Christmas: Pure Evil Genius

The PR take on Christmas is that it's to celebrate the birth of Christ.  But like all myths that have built over time, like banks and insurance companies are in the customer service business or that politicians are committed to serve the public, the exact opposite is true.  Let's start with the time of year.  Christmas falls on the darkest day of the year, coincidence? I think not.  Also Christmas comes in the dead of winter.  Nothing wants to make you get out of the house more than waking up in the pitch, black, freezing cold.  In the summer the living is easy.  Your troubles abate like the fading tide.  By December it's time to think about taxes, heating bills, and layoffs.  There is no question the least enjoyable time of year (like life) is the end.

Now let's discuss it's supposed purpose; family.  Given the opportunity to get together the other 364 days a year, most families find something else to do.  There is no more complicated interpersonal relationship then families.  Let's start with the in-laws.  I don't care how good your relationship is with your in-laws.  Deep down they resent that their son or daughter settled for less, namely you.  So while it may be all pleasantries on the phone during the year the only socializing occurs by force of a stupid tradition.  Then again it gives the in-laws a chance to point out your shortcomings in person.

Now let's turn to the parents.  Whatever marital bliss there was has now turned to a sense of obligation.  The wife is obligated to impress everyone by decorating,cooking,cleaning, and gift giving.  The husband is obligated to get this holiday over with as quickly and inexpensively as possible.   From the beginning couples are at cross odds.  So take the everyday stress of juggling jobs, play dates, and sport and add another significant commitment of time and unexpected expense.   By December 21, no one is on speaking terms.  There is nothing more Christian than silence

How about the expectation of gifts.  The Bible talks about being humble, the first shall be last and the last shall be first.  Somehow this has turned into an X-Box under every tree and a new Lexus (complete with Red Bow) in every driveway.  Kids are pretty easy as long as they get anything and everything television advertising has promised them.  Spousal gifts are not so easy.  Most guys would take a twelve-pack and a promise of being left alone some Saturday.  Wives on the other hand are not so easy.  One carat diamond rings are met with, "Honey, its beautiful, its not you're fault but I have fat fingers and one carat looks soooo small."  Two carat diamond earings, "Honey they are lovely but you know how big my earlobes are?"  In-law gifts are crap but at least that's intentional.

How's "Have a happy holiday" sounding about now?  I almost forgot in order for Christmas to have the maximum negative psychological effect let's have a dry run about six-weeks prior.  We'll call it "Thanksgiving" in maybe the greatest of all inside jokes.

Arguments, domestic violence, homicides, and suicides all soar at Christmas. Psych wards and addiction centers have longer waiting lines than Black Friday.  There is nothing either Christian or christ like about Christmas.  December 25th is the epitome of pure evil capable of creation by only Lucifer himself.

KOKO

RA & GP

Unfortunately for me (and any other music aficionado) in the early 1970′s Gram Parsons decided to head out into the California desert and take enough morphine to sedate a large elephant.  Even now forty plus years later GP's true genius is still being discovered.  GP played a unique mix of rock, country, and blues which he described simply as "American cosmic music".  Just as surf buds Daddy and YZERTIME are big fans of GP I'm pretty sure GP would have loved Ryan Adams.  RA draws on the same influences and sprinkles his beautiful melodic voice over the top.

Before the big radio hits and the mainstream popularity RA was very much the tortured, heavily intoxicated artist.  Now clean and sober Adams while perhaps no less tortured (he reportedly now suffers from a painful ear condition) is certainly more patient.  I have had the privilege of seeing RA perform with his various bands.  Last night I had the luxury of seeing him perform solo acoustic at one of Boston's best music venues the Orpheum theater.   For an artist to pull off a two hour solo acoustic show is difficult if not next to impossible.  Perhaps this is why few even try.

Ryan battled a sound system that was inhabited by gremlins.  At one point he even joked had this been the old days he would have punched a hole in the monitor, blamed the audience, and told everyone to f-off.  He then would have wondered how he broke his hand. Last night although clearly frustrated he did his best to work through the technical difficulties.

Unfortunately he also had to battle the audience.  When he took the stage there were a group of dimwits in the back wearing their baseball hats backwards (you would think the fact they hadn't had a date in ten years would clue them into the fact that women find this style both immature and unattractive) and guzzling $20 Heinekens.  Despite having just had a ticket scanned at the door they seemed completely oblivious to the fact two thousand other people were trying to enjoy a concert.  Ryan handled the moment by making a facetious comment and replaying the night's first number a few song's later.

Ryan also has a policy of asking the audience not to sing along to his songs.  At first I thought this was an artist's egotistical request.  After the jack-ass sitting behind me insisted on singing along to most of the concert I realize the request was actually for the audiences' benefit.  What made it worse was the idjit didn't know all the words so he was always a word behind.  Kind of like your Father singing along to the radio on those long car rides.  Yeah, apparently he was a real big fan.  This mental midget must have thought I had paid to hear him.

The final straw for Ryan was when near the end of the show another drunk yelled, "Play a Mandy Moore song!"  Well that was the end for both Ryan and Boston.  I guess when you have no chance of finding a wife its easy to make fun of someone else's.

KOKO

Tough Times for Straight Guys

Watching Herman Cain's candidacy unravel like a head high wave hitting a strong northwest wind started me thinking.    Feminist lawyer Gloria Allred now has everyone convinced that an unsuccessful pass at a woman constitutes sexual harassment.  (I guess if a woman says yes than it goes from harassment to true love.)  This now means I may face a lawsuit from ninety-five percent of the woman I met in high school and college.

As an aside why does know one find it coincidental that Allred and other "feminists" couldn't get lucky at a Chippendale's show with a thousand singles.

Ironically no one exploits her female clients in search of the almighty dollar more than Allred.  Today Allred sued Lawrence Taylor for "sex-trafficking" despite the fact that he was convicted of simply being a "john".

I feel bad for Herman Cain.  He made a pass, the woman said "no" and he respected her decision and moved on.  That used to be called, "acting as gentleman" now I guess its a crime.   Today, another woman, Ginger White, claims she had a decade plus affair with Mr. Cain.   Like Allred's client the only evidence is her word.  (If in fact Cain is guilty of the affair he is guilty of the larger crime of which Bill Clinton was convicted: bad taste in woman.  A crime of which Tom Brady quickly absolved himself.)  Ms. White must have a charming personality since her looks or lack thereof put her in serial sexual harasser Isiah Thomas' class of women (square figure with a rectangular head).

Meanwhile back in Massachusetts people are lauding the career of gay Congressman Barney Frank who announced his retirement today.  You know the Congressman who diddled an underage/minor boy serving as a page.  The Congressman who lived with a male prostitute/pimp who ran his business out of the Congressman's apartment?  You know the chairman of the financial services committee and overseer of Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac during the worst economic meltdown in history.

Allred probably thinks Barney Frank is a great guy.  Of course used to be people in glass houses didn't throw stones.  If you are a straight guy these days you better learn to duck.

KOKO

Hallucination Nation

Apologize for the radio silence Faithful.  Was down in New York last week with new novel.  Although the trip was by no means a failure, the intensity and competition of New York was both humbling and exhausting.  The Chris Robinson Brotherhood's version of "Driving Wheel" last night in Somerville pretty much summed up my current state, "I feel like some old engine, thats lost its driving wheel."  But unwilling to accept the alternative we all must find a way to keep on keeping on.

A number of issues have caught my attention.  The NBA players union (largely black) have now attempted to portray themselves as "slaves" to the "plantation master" (white with the exception of Michael Jordan) owners.  As pointed out here about a year ago, the NBA players have a unique way of  alienating almost everyone.  I haven't spoken to one person whose mentioned the Celtics.  Second, I don't know one slave who was paid in some instances hundreds of millions to play a game.  For some reason the players feel they are different then the rest of us.  That they are not subject to the rules.  He who has the money makes the rules.  All of us (with the exception of the one percent, the rule makers) in one way or another are slaves to the IRS, the banks, insurance companies and utilities.  The NBA players are too dumb to realize that they had a chance to remain in the one percent.    Well Kobe, LaBron and D. Wade welcome to the ninety-nine percent.  Hold on to your spot because unlike the rest of us you earned it.   (Wondering how long it will be until the average height of fast food workers and gas station employees increases significantly.)

This bring me to the Occupy (insert major city) protesters.  Because of both a complete lack of organization and message they have squandered an opportunity to challenge the one percent.  Most cities have yet to have a frost never mind a major snowstorm.  Mother Nature will be on the one percent's side. Faced with adversity this rag tag group of essentially homeless people will disband and Wall Street will continue to rape and pillage as usual.

Finally it was just announced that the so-called "super committee" will fail in its mission to raise taxes and cut government spending.  All of the members of not just the committee but government have been so corrupted by special interests asking them to regulate themselves is akin to asking Deadheads to control the amount of acid dropped at concerts.  One of the proposals rejected was the cutting of the $3 billion exemption for owners of corporate jets.  These people don't even have the cajones to say to people who can afford to travel by private jet, you can afford to pay the tax as well.

I have news for you faithful, won't be long now until the ninety-nine percent becomes the one hundred percent.  Start learning chinese.

KOKO

Home Fires Burning

Woke up yesterday drenched in sweat. Was it too much poppy tea, a nightmare, or a dream of surfing in the sun drenched Caribbean? As I crawled from the bed whispering with what little strength I had, "water, please, water". I quickly found the source of the problem. The thermostat read 81 degrees. Yes my bedroom was warmer than 48 states this time of year.

Growing up my Father kept the heat low in the winter. The thermostat was set at 62 degrees (maybe 64 on holidays). If anyone dare complain my Father's response was "put on a sweater". To this day I own several sweaters. Eventually people would just avoid coming over. Another common mantra of the time was "close the door, I'm not heating the street!" Since he technically wasn't heating the house I'm not sure how he could be heating the larger area of the street. Also I often heard this refrain from friend's fathers; you would think the streets were balmy in February.

There was a benefit of growing up under such conditions. Now I am accustomed to a cooler climate. The LOL (lovely old lady) apparently is not. The new house appears to be both well insulated and energy efficient. One flick of the thermostat and you are in South Florida in July. Apparently preferring Florida She flicks the thermostat early and often.

We have not been able to resolve our difference over keeping the house at a reasonable temperature versus having the kitchen double as a sauna. As a result I come home strip to my underwear (I'm pretty sure the LOL does this so she can observe my toned surfer body, although she is very good at hiding her pleasure. In fact if I didn't know her so well I would think she was pretty much just angry. Her cold outward appearance and short loud responses are a brilliant disguise.) and open the windows.

I'm not heating the street (although there is a fog surrounding our house) but I am tossing ten dollar bills out of the window every hour.

However, there is know financial price tag which would keep me from keeping the LOL warm and happy (translated, "quiet"), well maybe warm anyways.

This morning when I woke up it was beautifully cool not just in the bedroom but the whole house. I then heard a loud bang. Apparently I had left the windows open upstairs and the LOL slammed them shut.

Looks like it will be another hot, August day in South Boston this November.

KOKO

You Ain't Going Nowhere

"I don't care how many letters they sent/morning came and morning went/pick up your money/pack up your tent/You ain't going nowhere" – Bob Dylan

Quite a show at Furthur (aka the surviving (barely) members of the Grateful Dead) last Thursday and the concert wasn't bad either.  After catching a few waves up in North Hampton I headed down Route 101 to Manchester.  I arrived about an hour before showtime.  Being opening night of Fall Tour with all of the Deadheads well rested (and detoxed) the party was in full swing.  In response to Drown the Grateful Dead ticket folks have been kind enough to accommodate my every ticket request.

I took a quick glance at my ticket and headed to the tenth row on the floor.  The band started at about 7:45 catching some by surprise.  About midway through the first tune, "Playing In The Band" an older couple (mid-sixties) sat next to me.  Most of the help at concert venues these days are retired folk posing as ushers.  They were not about to take on the stoned, twirling Deadheads and the floor section was quickly in chaos.  About three songs in a young man came to the row.  He informed the couple that the woman was in his seat.  A look of fright came over her as there was at this point literally nowhere to go.  The man said, "Not my problem doll, you gotta go."  The couple moved past me and found a spot further down the row.  The man stuck out his hand to me and introduced himself,  "I'm Steve."  He had no remorse about booting the older couple.  "Hey, its a Dead show, I got a floor seat and its every man for himself."  Since he was about 6'5 and clearly under the influence of several substances I shook his hand and agreed wholeheartedly (and technically he was right).

About five songs in another young man came down.  He looked at me and said, "Dude you're in my seat."  I confidently pulled my ticket from my pocket.  Steve took it upon himself to mediate the dispute.  He looked at the two tickets and said to me, "Dude, right seat but you are in row 14."  I didn't have my glasses and in my haste had misread my ticket.  At this point the aisle was jammed with dancing bodies.  I cowardly said, "Steve, where am I going to go?"  He facetiously said, "Yeah, row 10, row 14 I can see how you made that mistake."  He then said, "Not my problem dude, you gotta go, you're ruining my show."  With Steve's assistance I was pushed into the jam packed aisle to fend for myself.

I had no chance of getting back to row 14.  Then a surprising thing happened.  The bodies in the aisle made room for me as if welcoming my presence.  I began grooving to the music and people smiled at me.  (Pretty sure it was my new top hat, although I deduced after about three songs the cute girl in front of me was actually smiling at her boyfriend who was behind me.)  At some point I looked down to my left and a dwarf, gnome or little person (not sure of the politically correct term these days) was holding a joint above her head offering me a toke.  Being clean I respectfully declined.  The Deadheads around me laughed and twirled on. I eventually became accustomed to the smell of patchouli, stale whiskey, body odor and weed.  For the rest of the first set my new found aisle friends and I had a hell of a time.

After the first set I was able to get to my seat in the fourteenth row where exhausted I enjoyed the second set in relative peace.  I'm headed to NYC to do it all again at MSG this Thursday.  I'm not sure the New York Deadheads in the aisle will be as accommodating.  I plan to have one of those seventy year old ushers escort me to my correct seat before they head for cover.

KOKO

Ripple

"Reach out your hand if your cup is empty/If your cup is full may it be again/If you should stand then whose to guide you/If I knew the way I would take you home" – Grateful Dead -"Ripple".

For about 360 days a year my life is torture.  Banks, insurance companies, clients, judges, editors and/or the government all haunt me on a daily basis.

This doesn't even include the abuse at the hands (literally) of the LOL (lovely old lady). Just last night I was awoken out of a sound sleep with the LOL strangling me. (She says I am too dramatic.  She was "just pressing her hands against my neck".)  Apparently eating the last Halloween Kit-Kat is a capital crime punishable by death in these parts.

But every once in a while my higher power cuts me a little slack.  I just returned from an afternoon of riding head high waves in Newport.  Tomorrow I will be following the swell up to New Hampsire.  From there I am headed to see the remnants of the Grateful Dead (aka as Furthur).  Then Friday its off to the track to invest in the Breeder's Cup.  Take the Kentucky Derby multiply it by five and hold the races on one day, that is the Breeder's Cup.  It's like Christmas Eve and Christmas but with just Santa Claus and no family!

"Your  Breeder's Cup is empty you say? No worries for I am here to take you home.

Before I get started be sure to click here to check out the only handicapper (and writer extraordinaire) who actually uses his mouth to put money in your pocket, Jay Cronley. Last year Jay picked a Breeders Cup superfecta straight up which paid about 850 to 1. This is essentially the equivalent of predicting the Powerball numbers, two weeks in a row.  You would be wise to take  a little of what Jay's giving away.

There are actually more than a dozen races over two days.  I focus primarily on the Saturday contests raced on dirt.  (I have bet favorites, longshots, fast horses, and slow horses I have yet to win a turf race.  First rule of gambling (i.e. investing), "a man has to know his limitations".)

Race 5 at Churchill BC Sprint

6 Force Freeze, 8 Big Drama, 3 Aikinite, 5 Jackson Bend

Race 7 at Churchill BC Dirt Mile

9 Trappe Shot  7 Jersey Town 8 Caleb's Posse 5 Wilburn

Race 9 at Churchill BC Juvenile

7 Creative Cause 8 Speightscity 10 Union Rags 13 Optimizer

Race 11 at Churchill Breeder's Cup Classic

10 Havre De Grace 3 Drosselmeyer 13 To Honor and Serve 2 Flat Out

(EDITOR'S NOTE: favorite numbers, birthdays, blind draws, osmosis, throwing darts at the wall and betting against Bob Neumeier have all proven just as effective as handicapping in all past Breeder's Cup races but the Classic in particular.)

And I'm off!

KOKO

Father Knows Best

Sitting here watching the Madoff mea culpa.  Quite frankly it's as unbelievable as thinking a black politician from Chicago was capable of much less interested in making a "change".   For better or worse in my line of work I have a lot of experience with people who are less than truthful.  (And that doesn't include my personal experiences as an addict and alcoholic not exactly a group of upstanding citizens to put it mildly.)  Defendants, victims, District Attorneys, defense attorneys and judges all lie, often.  There are two sure signs people are lying.  First as in Ruth Madoff's case they suddenly develop Alzheimers.  When dealing with life changing events people seldom lose memory of such occasions.  Many try to forget which only serves to further imbed the image on the mind.   She had little recollection of Bernie's confession.  Of course if she was aware of the scam all along the confession wouldn't have been all that life changing.

The second characteristic is that liars cannot look you in the eye.  Andrew spent the interview looking at the floor.  When Ruth said, "I am being completely honest," she actually closed here eyes totally.  Finally, despite being interviewed separately their stories were so similar it was clearly rehearsed.  While people may convey the same facts by definition we express ourselves differently, different language with different affects.

Now let's talk about the suicide attempt.  Instead of a note Bernie and Ruth transferred money and jewelry to their children in violation of a court order.  Not exactly a cry for help.  I'm all wet but I didn't come down with last night's Nor'easter.  They took a couple sleeping pills and surprise all they did was sleep.  I'm sure they slept just as soundly as they did during the decades they were spending other people's money.  The Madoffs adamantly deny any knowledge of the scam and sympathize with the victims.  They say the sons turned Bernie in.  (Bernie's last stroke of genius thereby allowing the family the appearance of propriety.)  However, the Madoffs who are still worth several million dollars refuse to give up a single dime of their wealth.  Their sense of entitlement the very thing that caused their Father's problems appears to be genetic.  Andrew said the worst day of his life was when Bernie essentially told him the multi-million dollar gravy train left town.   How about finding out your brother killed himself?  That was just another  day ?   Ruth is even worse.  When speaking about the death of her child at his own hand she talks as if she missed an appointment to get her nails done.  Didn't shed a single tear.  These people are cold, calculating psychopaths.

The LOL (Lovely Old Lady) actually asked me an interesting question.  Would you believe your Father unconditionally?  I think like most people there is no one I respect more.  This respect is based on experience, tangible evidence.  The experience the Madoffs had was that they were being payed millions to work for a family business that never filed an annual report, routinely violated rules and laws and was constantly under the inept scrutiny of the Securities and Exchange Commission.  There was never any accounting for the money they were supposedly making.  There best and only believable defense would be that they like their patriarch were so greedy collecting every dime they could they didn't bother to notice what their Father was doing.   But like most of my clients the Madoffs are sticking with the unbelievable, unsupported "we're innocent" mantra.

You don't have to feel guilty about buying the book.  None of the money will go to the Madoffs.  The royalties will go to Andrew Madoff's fiancé.  How these people can keep a straight face much less show their greedy, criminal mugs is beyond me.

KOKO

Success

"Up on housing project hill, it's either fortune or fame, you must pick one or the other but neither are to be what they claim" -Bob Dylan, "Just Like Tom Thumb's Blues".

Success is difficult to measure. Most sane people (of which there appear to be fewer and fewer each day) would agree that financial accomplishment is no measure of success. Yet America ultimately measures people by their wealth. Bernie Madoff was loved by all right up until he plead guilty. So if we exclude money how do we measure success?

Was Drown a failure because it did not make the New York Times best seller list? Or was the book a success because it has sold more copies than most authors with the support of large publishing houses?

Am I failure because as an addict and alcoholic I not only wasted twenty years of my life I tortured those close to me for those two decades? Or am I a success because I managed to stay drug and alcohol free today and have been clean for almost three years?

You're beginning to see the problem?

When Theo Epstein arrived in Boston I was surprised that someone who had never done anything received such a welcome. I was positively neutral on Theo. As time passed Theo did not do anything to dissuade me of my opinion of him professionally as average at best.

In 2004 he won the World Series with a team largely built by his predecessor Dan Duquette. (Theo traded Texas' starting left fielder in tonight's World Series David Murphy for Eric Gagne. Gagne single-handedly blew seven games for the Sox down the stretch but this isn't about individual personnel moves.  If you are in a bar look around good chance Gagne is sitting next to you.)

In 2007 while Theo was on strike for more pay, running around the Back Bay in a gorilla suit the Sox obtained the cornerstone of the 2007 Championship: Josh Beckett and Mike Lowell. (Theo went through shorts stops the way a long haul trucker goes through toll booths, Lugo, Renteria, Gonzalez and the underwhelming Scutaro.)

So in reality the two accomplishments Theo is most remembered and by some revered for had little if anything to do with him. (Most fantasy baseball players are better than Theo at evaluating free agents: JD Drew, Mike Cameron, Carl Crawford and John Lackey for starters. The doctor that conducted Bobby Jenks physical couldn't be a veterinarian.)

I personally don't think by any measure Theo was successful, however if you still disagree consider this. I think we would all agree that a man who is successful is ultimately able to come and go on his own terms. Theo was allowed to go to the Cub's front office, the only term being that he go; quickly.

The other good thing about success is that "if at first you don't succeed, . . . ." This is something all of the Madoffs, who are now peddling books claiming they unsuccessfully tried suicide, should keep in mind.

KOKO