That is right people, you wont have your favorite Zamboni to kick around for a week or so as I am going to New Orleans- there I am going to learn the secrets of three major forces in the Universal Energy Field:
2.Hope after Disaster
I will miss you probably half as much as you will miss me! but remember- Just when you are thinking, “how helpless I am without the great zamboni’s thoughts stalking my every move!“, remember that the only one thing that basically all Zamboni’s diatribes come down to is this: the answer is not in Zamboni, it is in you.
But we do all need a little help from our friends too- and so today I would like to thank some: E.L.Wise, Ralf The Bart, D.J.M.W., Bird la Bert, E.H.W. , SKDancing, “LuLu” A. Dylan Winestock, Rye ODonnell, Jiannush Warrenski, Phillipus Gormensch, and because she has lost someone very near and dear, and to me she is like the sun that comes up to a long night, Cass E. “Joe Di” Maggio, Zamboni always is sending you strength and patience.
If all else fails, try wearing mismatched socks- it makes it harder to take yourself seriously. Thank you reading.
Hit “comment” and leave a question!! Would it kill you?
Larry Stevenson was working as a lifeguard in Southern California in the early sixties-
And he invented the Skateboard. And the Skateboard invented freedom. It invented Skateboarders crazy and weird like Mark Gonzales. It made concrete into the new pristine endless wave and endless perfect sets (except when it rains) And it gave us a new way to look at the city and the world, like one big park- And it was, and still is, good…Thank you and rest in peace…
Treyvon Martin was killed by a white guy named Zimmerman, in one of those gated communities in Florida where people live in fear. He was killed because he was a black kid wearing a hoodie, at night, and for this he looked “suspicious” enough. Zimmerman was some kind of self-appointed “neighborhood watch”. Martin was not armed. Martin was returning from the store with skittles. Zimmerman is still free.
I have family in Florida. My folks were born there. My uncle used to pick us up from the airport and slyly inform us he had a gun in the glove compartment because it’s dangerous in Miami. When he talked about “those people will get you right at the intersections, stopped for a light” we understood what he meant. My uncle, thank god, never did anything crazy like Zimmerman, and his gun carrying days are over, at least I think. I also know he liked the badass-ness of carrying a weapon. We loved him and still do.
Going back even further, my mom went to the Univ. of Florida, 1957-58. There were no black students at that time. The school mascot, Albert the Alligator was often spotted walking across the lawn in front of her dorm. Alligators allowed on campus, no blacks.
All my visits to Miami I remember feeling peoples fear. Doors locked, we drove everywhere, we didin’t walk down certain streets, in certain neighborhoods- the white people I travelled among lived in a fantasy bubble of people just like themselves. Most of them being Jews, this seemd extra sad. Black sheep scapegoating others. The feared and hated, hating and fearing . To hear these rich Jewish teens, friends of my cousin, warn me not to go to Ni***ertown was nauseating.
I guess my circles haven’t changed because no one I know is talking about Treyvon Martin. Maybe they are and I just don’t get out much.
Treyvon Martin, I wish you hadn’t lived in Florida, but then again I don’t know if you would have been any safer here in Berkeley. I’d like to think so.
You have a kind face, and I wish you’d never worn a hoodie over it. I wish the wearing of a hoodie wasn’t an excuse to shoot someone in 2012 that seems to work well enough with the Law. I wish the kids I teach in high school were talking about you, were demonstrating about you, were doing something.
If I could ask Zamboni a question, I’d ask,”why do things change and not change all at the same time?”
Some things are too fucked up even for Zamboni to handle I guess.
I just got a text of an intimate nature. The problem is, I don’t know who the sender is- and don’t know how to find out without being rude or hurting their feelings. How do I do this slyly, without just saying “who the hell you are?”
Dear Awk J-
Is funny. I myself great zamboni just received a text yesterday at midnight which said “hey, what are you doing right now?” and my old cell phone the size of beer can shows only for caller ID “Lisa F.”
Who the hell Lisa F was I did not know! But I had to find out without hurting the feelings of this alleged female. What if we had been intimate once making what we call in Estonia “a warm sushi party” together? What if it were my second cousin on my aunt Svetlanika’s side- what if both were true?
So, to be safe, I text back: “I am thinking of you”
She respond: “?y?$%#$^#@@!!!!! HEEE!!”
Instantly I recognize this is that Lisa F. -a snake charmer I met at a Taxonomy convention in Chappaquidick and this was our code word for “watching TV”
Now if this had been my grandmother, she merely would have said something like, ” how sweet you are my little zamboniman (: ”
My point is this: In this situation say something bold yet vague, that way you will get a reaction. And positive or negative, a real reaction is better than no reaction.
The same is true for life. Speak up, even if you say something offensive or taboo- at least it will keep other people- and you- awake.
Remember what the Buddha say: “there are three things that cannot be hidden:the sun, the moon, and the truth.”
This question comes to Zamboni last night in a sold out show I performed in Pt. Bonita Ca. YMCA Camp facility- right next to the old Nike Missile site. The fog was dense but not cold, the fog horns murmered always in the background like contented whales and black moths fly into Zamboni’s new glasses- but still I endure and give knockout show- Challah! It is beautiful on the edge of the continent in Marin Headlands, I reccomend you go. Maybe you too get lucky and see surprize Zamb. show.
The answer I gave was as follows.
It is a tie.
First is Double Double “Animal Style” at In-n-Out Burger.
The second is the original hamburger made at Louis’ in New Haven Connecticut. I have been eating them there since 1898 when this establishment opened ( I was a freshman at Yale then, just around the corner) they still to this day make their burger in vertical racks inside these cast iron grills you see here. They are the original ones from 1898.
Yes there are burgers everywhere, so can I really say that one is “the best” or even two?
Of course I can, I am Zamboni, but remember that it isn’t just what you eat. It is how, and where, and why. Eat only when you are hungry, and look at something beautiful, whether a face or an old bench worn with one hundred years of satisfaction. You’ll digest better.
There are fancy burgers, burgers stuffed with foie gras stuffed with black truffle stuffed with caviar stuffed with fugu fish for 146.00$. No. The Hamburger is one of the hardest things to do well because it is simple. The simple is always the hardest because there are more ways to flub up.
When you’re dead the days you miss will be the ones you can hardly remember.
This is the 12th revelation of this Pontiac Chief given to me, great Zamboni. What do you make of it?
Since you asked, here’s what I think. You see Zamboni knows for a fact that Death is no big deal. You just go to Las Vegas. Of course you have to stay there, but still, unless you were very bad in this upper world, there is a lot to do.
When you’re there you do think back on your life. You will see yourself on the most boring simple of days, running late, going to Trader Joe’s, the dentist, being bored, and looking up at the ceiling or at the TV even when those you loved most were right beside you. The great days, the days of seeing into someones face, the wrestling on the beach, dropping Lobsters into a pot days, those will disappear and not haunt you because they were lived. Only the days not fully lived will haunt ya.
“Dear Zamboni Who is the Most ‘Chill’ person you know?”
This question comes from J.G. Frumentoom, who lives on an organic Quinwah farm in Nebraska, and due to the winter months now seems to have too much time to ponder things.
Dear Frumentoom, before I give you your answer, for those in my audience unfamiliar with the slang I will annotate and explicate what this meaning of “chill” is for those who can’t tell a “crunk” from a “skunk”.
To be chill is to be very relaxed and just content with not doing anything special, but only just “chillin” the way an ice cube might or a baby Polar bear just “chillin'” on an ice floe.
This, though easy to answer -as is everything for I who am Zamboni- is an interesting question. Mahatma Ghandi, believe it or not, was very chill. Even when being forcibly removed and detained he was never flappable and never became aggravated. The Buddha, who I knew personally, was indeed very chill But I have to say not as fun to hang out with as Ghandi. Ghandi at least appreciated off-color jokes while the Buddha never laughed at them and often didn’t even seem to hear me when I told one- even my best one about two Catholic girls, a giraffe and a vampire- but I am splitting hairs here.
The most chill person is not a person at all. The Most Chill award goes to the Earth itself- our planet, who though not personish, is a being and an animated spirit nonetheless.
Think about it. For four billion odd years, the world has been chillin’ like a goddamn villain! I mean chillin’ hard, very, very hard. Through plagues, ice ages, popes, amoebas crawling out of the water to become squirrels, wooly mammoths, cavemen, and all the rest, the earth has basically just been sitting here, kickin’ it.
It doesn’t complain, kvetch, bemoan its outcast state or wish it was somewhere else.
It doesn’t get pissed off when it can’t find its keys or give a waiter a snarky expression after waiting like 15 minutes for him to bring the damn dessert menu. The earth is really the most kickback dude you can imagine, perhaps too kickback, but there you go. It just abides.
Perhaps there is a lesson here that Frumentoom steers us to. Though to be chill is certainly a virtue, there is a time for everything under the sun, including being the opposite of chill. What is the opposite of chill?
Saturday night alone, in Vegas. I’m there for a football coaching clinic. I’m staying at the Super 8, in the wasteland of the never ending strip, halfway between new Vegas of Venetian canals- and old Vegas of neon cowboys and Fremont street. I’m nowhere. Cobwebs.
Fuck it. I’m in Vegas. I dress up in my grey suit and pink/green striped tie and head out. Figure i’ll cab it to some big club at the Cosmopolitain. Right outside my not quite finished motel, I start looking down the boulevard for a cab. I spy the bar next door- which I thought was a condemned strip club. Peeling green paint, no sign. Tentatively I peer in, maybe I can have a quik beer there…
I step inside. Yep, this is locals only, I can smell it. Not a gondola in sight. Red banquettes, low ceilings, one square of bar.
But then I look around and open my ears. Swing music, Sam Cooke, hipsters in straw fedoras and the girls with curled up-dos. Dancing that is actual dancing. Lindy-hop, charleston, east coast swing. Polka dot dresses, striped thin ties. Heels and hose with lines down the back. Jesus did I land in my fantasy?
I dance with her and her. There’s “no thanks I don’t dance” but just one and and it seems there are short brunettes every where I look each cuter than the last. Then there’s a tall blonde. We dance. She stands off a bit with her drink, looking at the dance floor. Sorta nice ironic smile. She’s not gabbing with anyone. She’s way younger than me, but has a few years on most of the collegiate hipsters swirling around. “Amber, come on over, sit at my VIP table.” She comes over, we talk. Get another drink, dance. Then she asks what i’m doing in Vegas. What do I say? It doesn’t make much sense. What the hell am I doing in Vegas. I’m a Drama teacher for gods sake- football coaching , who am I kidding? Maybe I’ll just say i’m in finance. But like they say- always tell the truth, it’s the easiest thing to remember.
She looks at me stone cold. “Are you serious?”
“Sure” I say.
“I studied acting in college and I love football. In a month i’m trying out for the LFL, womens football league.”
“Yes,” she goes on, “I’ve just really gotten into it in the last couple of years.”
I’m stunned. Am I being punked? Candid camera? Every guy’s wet dream -someone who looks like a cross between Jennifer Anniston and a young Ellen Barkin confessing a love of football?
Needless to say, two more rounds of drinks, she’s from Denver, we kvell about Tim Tebow with no irony or restraint. She’s worried about her tryouts, doesn’t have much football experience. Neither do I , say, but i’m learning a ton of stuff in all these sessions at the convention. She’s fascinated with every geeky detail I spew about DB backpeddaling drills, Zone defense and O line blocking drills. There’s a pause, or two. She’s doesn’t know the stuff.
“Do you want me to teach you some things?” She just smiles, like a kid.
“Follow me.” I say.
In the blaring lights of the Viva Las Vegas wedding chappel, on the blacktop driveway, we spend half an hour around midnite running drills. Her short black skirt doesn’t make her pause for a second before getting in a three point stance. It hikes way up. She’s fine with it, brushes aside any awkwardness and wants to get on with it. Guys ride by in limos and taxies swerving at this confusing site. I teach her to backpedal and cut, block with her elbows glued to her side- she eats it all up, and spoiler alert, no I didn’t get the girl but I wouldn’t have changed a thing.
It’s now 1am..”You wanna go get something to eat? ” I say.
She says no, has to head home. I invite her to the next morning’s conference, the last session before I head out. She says maybe.
The next morning, groggy at the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino with all my clothes in a backpack, there she is. And in a sea of giant football guys, there’s a small wiry jew with a tall blond knockout, looking over that mornings workshops. Giant guys very, very confused, strange looks. I say to her,”okay coach, lets go in.”
Lingerie Football League, yep, but don’t knock it. Those girls are beasts, and if crazy perfect nights like this one can happen, Amber I think you have a chance.
Yea I know, but man it’s good to dance to. Remember, the Aruba, Friday nights, South Las Vegas Blvd, right next to Viva Las Vegas. Indeed.