FUCK YOU, AMERICA

LONG LONESOME ROAD

No noises, up in the crawlspace or next door. All quiet on the western front. Maybe too quiet, as they say in the old movies.

I THINK ABOUT THAT LONG LONESOME ROAD ALL THE TIME

The Beans

Back home I ran into Jane. She said he'd been 86'd from the casino, and that this wasn't the first time. She wanted an accounting of the evening's festivities, so I gave her a quick summary of what went down. As she was getting into their gigantic truck to go get him, she clarified a few things. He'd never spoken with her on the cell phone regarding the evening's outing or the money he pulled from their account. His claims about his winnings there were totally bogus. In fact, according to her, he'd lost upwards of $350,000 there in 18 months. He doesn't work, he lives off of his father's real estate investments, rental properties. He lied to me about working for the Parks Department. She claimed he spent six months in San Quentin on a DUI. I didn't bring it up at the time, but THAT is weird.

His mother was with her. "He's really a nice boy," she croaked as she staggered into the truck.

"So is Charles Manson," I replied.

"It won't happen again," said Jane.

"No," I said. "It won't."

Like I said: I feel right at home.

In The Pit

Dick spotted me $60 in chips. His idea had been that we would sit at the same table and play off of each other in some overly elaborate conspiratorial scheme he'd not quite worked out. I was pretty pissed off already. The place is soaked in bright fluorescent light and you can't smoke. Drinks are not comped -- you actually have to PAY for them. The clientele is just what you'd expect to see at a welfare office. Dick got hung up flirting with some gal carrying drinks around, and it took me all of about 15 minutes to lose his $60. I didn't care, I just wanted out of the place.

I found him, still chatting it up with this waitress, and advised him that I was going home. We went to the bar, where he tried to convince me to pour vodka on my already fairly murderous bad mood. I took a beer instead, and then I found my way home on my own.

BAY 101, SAN JOSE

I've been in a lot of casinos. I'm from New Jersey, lived in Vegas for a while. I've partied in Reno and Tahoe. I have no desire to visit Biloxi. My personal favorite is the Bellagio, in Vegas. I know casinos. If I were of a mind to design an anti-casino, something exactly contrary in every way to the expectations of a seasoned visitor to such enterprises, it would be San Jose's Bay 101.

This place is far worse than a Wal-Mart. The lighting in Wal-Mart is better, and it is not quite as deep and fecund a genetic cesspool. People are more refined at Wal-Mart by all comparison.

The squirrels are having an orgy up in the crawlspace. It sounds like Pink Floyd up there. So far nothing from next door.

FRIDAY THE 13TH FALLS ON A WEDNESDAY THIS MONTH