Hittin' the Note

It is far less conspicuous to crash a party by yourself than arriving with someone else. The key to successfully crashing a scene is to always remain circulating, while exuding the air of a confident host overseeing his own dinner party. In nature, no creature is a better survivor than the three hundred seventy five million year old shark. They must constantly swim to keep the water passing through their gills or they literally die from drowning. By always being on the move everyone assumes you must be a friend of someone else since you aren't speaking with them directly. Or, at least they assume as much.

Sprawled across Skip's floor in the old Sig house, Mona Man fires up a bowl. The bong passes around the horn. Major Strausser. Alpo. Griff. The cross legged circle is consumed by a dense billowy cloud of smoke. Alpo's face contorts with stacatto spasms exhaling broken shards of gray haze. Tears streak down my cheeks and onto the filthy apple green shag carpet. "Ramblin' Man" blares from a Marantz stereo in the background. Allman Brother's coming to town this week. Pretty sure it's Friday... I catch a gleaming squint through the reeking fumes of conspiracy.

September 1973. My first two weeks of college at UCLA and I'm already bored and trying to get kicked out of the joint. Without rhyme or reason, my new college buddies and I are cutting all classes, rolling down the hills of Westwood toward the freeway and the Fabulous Forum to the band's sound check.

The Forum used to be easy to access during the day. We simply drove around the backside where a large rolling door opened up to a hangar sized loading area. A big moving truck is surrounded by a number of vans and other vehicles. Roadies are carefully lowering equipment down to their compadres. There is absolutely no security in sight anywhere. I saunter right in. As I walk through a darkened narrow hallway, I suddenly breeze passed a familiar face. I think to myself, "Shit. That's Bill Graham." I enter into a well lit room where Dickie Betts is standing in a small group. He's only about 5'9", absolutely thin as a rail and his acne pocked face looks worse in person than in his photos. Then again, maybe it's just the poor overhead lighting making everyone look unhealthy with a greenish pallor. In any event, a few of the guys cast a glance toward me.

Not wanting to stand out anymore than already, I ask where to find the road crew. Dickie says to go out to the stage area and ask for Twiggs. I tell him thanks and as I walk away, the curious eyes quickly forget me and return back to their conversations. I cross through the backstage area skirting behind the concourse and enter the cavernous arena. It really is quite enormous. And -- yes -- it is fabulous. Zeroing in on the tweakiest looking guy on stage, I introduce myself to Twiggs. Wrong dude it turns out. Oops. Nice to meet you, Red Dog. Beautiful Southern, Gothic ginger hippie with flowing red main and beard, trailer park white trash. Sleeves rolled up, veiny forearms covered in prison tats tell the story of a misled life on the road that I am desperately running headlong toward in a dead sprint. In short, my kinda guy. In a whiskey gravel scratch, he asks, "Who the hell are you?" Without so much as a blink on my part, I say something right because in about two minutes I'm helping unload amplifiers off the back of a moving truck. I hit the jackpot.

That evening's show is a benefit for the North American Indian Foundation. It seems just about everyone in the band has a little bit of Cherokee in them. Afterward, the greenroom is laid out with a terrific buffet spread. The big deal for these southern boys is the Colorado Kool Ade chilling under ice in the tubs. Yeah. These are the days before Coors beer is distributed east of the Mississippi. These guys love Coors! The band is on the road with Marshall Tucker, an outfit out of Spartanburg, South Carolina. Filling out the bill is San Francisco's own Boz Scaggs, who I've known on and off for about four years. A former girlfriend of mine had run off with his keyboard player, Joaquin. I end up becoming pretty tight with Boz's head roadie and younger brother, Mark.

Begin the Beguine

Let me assure you, Artie Shaw earned his Lothario tag! While attending UCLA during the 1970s, I lived across the hall from Artie in an apartment complex on Kelton just off campus in Westwood. Amazingly, even though he was in his mid 60s at the time, he maintained a steady stream of stunningly beautiful, young women running in and out of his place at all hours.

UCLA enjoyed a well deserved national reputation for its ravishingly lovely female population. So it seemed only natural for the Casanova of his generation to set up shop within steps of the dormitories and sorority houses. A veritable stable for the old stud retired to pasture. And, he was in great company. Hugh Hefner had already reached the same conclusion a few years earlier when he ditched Chicago's dreary winters for balmier climes at his Playboy Mansion West in Holmby Hills just a few blocks away. It was little wonder I never heard Artie practice his clarinet. Not once! When could he possibly manage to find the time in his hyperactive social schedule with all of the demands?

I share these reminiscences on the occasion of Artie's newly remastered compilation release, which is an absolute must have for aficionados and neophytes alike. Shaw was the "it" guy of the Big Band era. Known as the "King of the Clarinet", Shaw's creativity and virtuosity of playing made him stand out from many of his contemporaries, including fellow clarinetist and "King of Swing" Benny Goodman. Shaw: "Benny Goodman played clarinet. I played music."

Throw in Ava Gardner, Lana Turner and Evelyn Keyes as three of his eight uber trophy wives and you begin to understand the dynamic charisma of Artie Shaw's megastar celebrity during his hey day. Five Stars says it all. Go check it out. *****

Gino & Carlos

The USC defense is truly awesome. Those linebackers are absolute studs. Cal simply couldn't find its rhythm on offense against them. The Trojan offensive line though needs to taken to task. Ridiculous penalties. SC undoubtedly has the best players in the country. But, they are going to have a tough road to the BCS with Oregon, Notre Dame and UCLA remaining -- all spoilers.

I agree, to a point. What I can't figure out is how OSU annhilhated SC in the first half of that game. Ran right through them. Cal has two good backs and didn't do squat with the run. Longshore gets spooked under pressure, throws picks, Riley has a concussion hangover but they held SC to one TD in 57 minutes? Wassup?? Yeah, SC is solid, but I don't think they would hang in their very long in a BSC 'playoff'.

If the Golden Bears couldn't beat SC with Aaron Rogers or DeShawn Jackson, they weren't gonna get it done yesterday with Longshore or Riley. As inefficient as the Trojans looked on offense yesterday, I ca n't imagine any team in the country beating them when their hitting on all cylinders. That includes any teams from t he SEC, Big Ten, Big 12, Big East, ACC or independents. I have not seen the Trojans choke in any big game since Vince Evans manhandled them in the Rose Bowl in 2006 -- and even that game was theirs for the taking except for the Reggie Bush fumble when he was running alone in the open field for a touchdown! Believe me, I'm a classic USC hater, but -- man -- they are loaded!!! Go Pac-10!!!

I listen to a lot of SoCal sports talk and it's amazing how a host can go a whole segment complaining about the BCS standings, how SC gets hosed in national rankings, how they get passed over compared to SEC, Big Twelve, etc. Can anyo ne say Oregon State University? How did they beat the Trojans so EASILY?? SC usually lays a pretty big egg every year, sometimes more than one. I wouldn't say SC was inefficient on offense, I'd say Cal has a pretty good defense. I think SC was much better in past years, except p ossibly, on defense. Yes, they do come at you, albeit with forearms up and aiming high. They've always done that.
I'll take Florida or Bama against SC any day.

Well, here we go. The only thing missing from this friendly discussion is a couple of cold beers and a game on the TV in the background at Gino & Carlos!

As you know, I've had great pleasure reading your journals, that clearly demonstrate that you are indeed an astute observer of many subtle and nuanced aspects in sports. I'm talking about a broad range from boxing to minor league baseball. With that acknowledgment, I'd be willing to take the Trojans over the Gators, The Tide or any conference champion in America any day of the week -- especially in a big money bowl setting. Perfect seasons and better records have very little to do with cementing the argument about on field superiority. Head-to-head competition is the only way to satisfy the debates, which is why the current BCS system is such a farce.

In fact, when Texas beat USC in the Rose Bowl in 2006, the consensus among knowledgeable observers was that the best team in the country lost the game. USC beat themselves more than Vince Evans beat them. True, on the winning drive Evans was virtually unstoppable and USC's defense laid down like yellow dogs and died. But, number two beat number on in an upset where one was vastly better than two.

This year, however, the Trojans are vastly underrated -- Oregon State notwithstanding. Look at what they did to Ohio State the week before. They destroyed them so totally, that Ohio State was discounted for the remainder of the season -- regardless of their record! After that performance, the Trojans were emotionally ripe for an upset the following week. That is no excuse for that performance nor is it a reason to throw them under the bus as the BCS computers obviously did! I'd take the Trojans in a head-to-head match up against any program in the country -- bar none! For God sake, they house trained the Huskies 58-0 last week and somehow dropped two places in the BCS poll. Does that seem a little wierd to you? No wonder Carroll was pissed. You'd think he would have put a major league ass whipping on Tedford's boys to prove the point.

Yes. Cal's defense is completely underrated. They held the sixth highest scoring offense in the country -- averaging 40.1 points per game to 17! And, that could have just as easily been 10 points if Tedford had challenged the first TD -- we all saw the incompletion - or if his idiot wideouts could not line up offsides on touchdown plays...amazing! But, the Trojans completely shut down an offense averaging 36 points per game. They never could find their rhythm and the constant pressure took Best out of the game plan and forced QB turn overs.

There is a reason why the Crimson Tide have not been ranked number one in the country for 28-years. Their program has never completely gotten out from the shadow of Bear Bryant. And, that was practically back in the stone ages of college football at this point! Alabama looked really bad yesterday - as in terrible. John Parker Wilson is an absolute stiff. McClain and Arenas are decent, but far from Heisman worthy consideration. And, Lou Saban...well, we don't need to go there, do we?

Urban Meyer is the best coach in the SEC. But his up tempo offensive schemes make Tebow better than his true talents. He'll never star as a QB in the NFL. Pure and simple. In fact, few SEC QBs -- other than the Manning family -- ever make the grade at the pro level!

On the other hand, as uneven as USC performed on offense last night, look at the roster. Mark Sanchez is an absolute stud. He's a NFL first rounder and easily the best quarterback at SC since Carson Palmer. The Pac-10 passing game is more adept at a high level pro-style attack then any other conference in the nation. Forget Leinart and Booty...proven losers outside of Carroll and Sardisian's system. Take your pick from the current stable of Trojan tailbacks over any running back in the SEC. McKnight, Gable, McCoy, Johnson can all run circles around the other backs. As for coaching in the college ranks, Carroll is the hands down best in the business.

The only area, which I might concede, is the intangible that makes college football so much more entertaining than the NFL. It is the capacity of the human heart. If the Trojans play with the same degree of emotional intensity as they're capable...they are truly unstoppable. The question remains can Tommy Trojan get it up in the clinches.

I guess we'd have to do an in depth interview with the Southern Cal cheer leading squad for confirmation. My final take on the subject is that it's a wonder the NCAA has not banned Viagra as a performance enhancing drug!

with their heads and less with their testosterone levels bordering on steroid-induced, I think they could do some long term damage. Trouble is, you're right, watching that sideline and the panty-hose legs of some of that high-priced SC snatch, yoweee, I'd be thinking post-game snarf, too... Sanchez? My jury is hung. I can't figure him out. Truly, if you took him out of SC and put him anywhere else in the Pac10 I don't think he'd get noticed. Jake Locker was the best QB in the conference but he went down. I like Rudy Carpenter. Tough, heady, Brett Favre genes, and I don't mean the 'real..comfortable..jeans'.

or NFL bonus baby before their golden girl shelf life status expires, they can always apply for post graduate work at Hooters! And, yes, Locker is a stud. He hails from a stretch up the road -- Ferndale -- which plays in our school's section. Lastly, I'll take you up on the Hotel California bar exodus. As Eric Burden once said: We gotta get out of this place!

Ferndale, ahh..reminds me of the last vacation trip I was on with my mom and my dad, about ten years ago before he slipped away to the Big Library in the sky. Ferndale, up there around Fortuna and Rhonerville, where my mom and dad grew up. We went up there for a little road trip, couple of days at Sea Ranch, a few days in Garberville and day trips up to the Redwoods and Eureka, Arcata, Ferndale. Great trip. I didn't know Jake Locker was from up there. I think he looks much better than Tim Tebow. Much better in all aspects. I don't know if he's as big as Tebow, but he's got a better arm and he's faster, I think. But ever since Ryan Leaf tanked in the NFL, the old Northwest doesn't get much attention for its QB's. Next year I'll be up at Stanford for the Big Game and also for the Notre Dame game. Easy with the ND smack, I have some friends from there. I think they have at least a realistic academic ideal. Real classes, real standards. I don't know about Rick Neuheisal. He yells at his QB constantly, waving his arms and berates the poor guy on the sidelines, after admittedly throwing some questionable balls. But the guy was third string. And when the announcers scratch their heads wondering what

the coach is doing in the QB's face on television, you've got to wonder. Ben Howland? Top drawer. The man.

A Candle for Katie

Our life stories could break our hearts if we only let them. A work in progress...When film director Claude Lelouche was asked why his Paris apartment was always in a state of upheaval, he exclaimed: "It is like life... a work in progress. When it is finished, it's over!" We've spent a lifetime apart and I look at where we've been and with whom. For my own peace of mind, I stop short of asking myself the reasons why.

Soon after I left Lehman Brothers, I leased an office space two blocks down the same street on Kearny at the base of Nob Hill. Right around the corner and up a block on California was the Old Saint Mary's Catholic Church. It stood like a missionary sentinel in the midst of Chinatown. Rising from the crowded throngs on the corners of California and Grant Streets, its red brick facade was streaked in dark gray stains making it resemble a widow in mourning. Its diminutive silhouette was draped in the long afternoon shadows from a sea of lifeless skyscrapers. Across the clickety clack sounds of cable car tracks was a McDonalds filled with tourists.

I used to go up on the roof of my building to escape reality -- sometimes I'd smoke a little grass. I'd watch the pigeons fly in sweeping formations around the steeple of the old brick church...the late afternoon sun would reflect off its spire. The clock hands never moved. I lived not too faraway up several steep flights of stairways ascending the southern slope of Telegraph Hill.

Sometimes on the way home -- if it was early enough -- I'd stop into the gift shop of the church. They had an amazing collection of not just Catholic articles of faith, but ecumenical items from around the world. Anyway, my questing led me to browse various spiritual readings. I bought my first Coptic cross there. I wore it around my neck on a rawhide string for a few years.The day I broke my neck was the last time I wore it. Something was lost -- my innocence, perhaps -- and with it, the kismet had vanished... our connection was gone. Somewhere in a long forgotten jewelry box lies a cold piece of tarnished pot metal that used to carry the heat from my body...

Yes... I remember Old Saint Mary's...The next time in the old neighborhood, I'll stop in and light a candle for Katie and say a little prayer for what is to become of us...

A Trillion Here...A Trillion There

Much to my surprise, I recently found that we now own AIG…??? So here is another proposed solution... I’m against the $85,000,000,000.00 bailout of AIG.

Instead, I’m in favor of giving the $85,000,000,000 back to America in a We Deserve It Dividend.

To make the math simple, let’s assume there are 200,000,000 bona fide U.S. Citizens 18 years old and over. Our population is about 301,000,000 +/- counting every man, woman and child. So 200,000,000 might be a fair stab at adults 18 and up..

So divide 200 million adults 18+ into $85 billion that equals $425,000.00.

My plan is to give that $425,000 to every person 18+ as a We Deserve It Dividend.

Of course, it would NOT be tax free.

So let’s assume a tax rate of 30%.

Every individual 18+ has to pay $127,500.00 in taxes.

That sends $25,500,000,000 right back to Uncle Sam.

But it means that every adult 18+ has $297,500.00 in their pocket.

A husband and wife would have $595,000.00.

What would you and your family do with....$297,500.00 to $595,000.00?


Pay off your mortgage – housing crisis solved.

Repay college loans – what a great boost to new grads

Put away money for college – it’ll be there

Save in a bank – create money to loan to entrepreneurs.

Buy a new car – create jobs

Invest in the market when it recovers – capital drives growth

Pay for your parent’s medical insurance – health care improves


Remember this is for every adult U S Citizen 18+ including the folks who lost their jobs at Lehman Brothers and every other company that is cutting back and, of course, for those serving in our Armed Forces.

If we’re going to re-distribute wealth let’s really do it instead of trickling out a puny $1000.00 ( “vote buy” ) economic incentive that is being proposed by one of our candidates for President.

If we’re going to do an $85 billion bailout, then let’s bail out every adult U.S. Citizen 18+!

As for AIG – liquidate it.

Sell off its parts. Let American General go back to being American General. Sell off the real estate. Let the private sector bargain hunters cut it up and clean it up.

Here’s my rationale. We deserve it and AIG doesn’t.

Sure it’s a crazy idea that can “never work.” But can you imagine the Coast-To-Coast Block Party! How do you spell Economic Boom? I trust my fellow adult Americans to know how to use the $85 Billion We Deserve It Dividend more than I do the geniuses at AIG or in Washington DC .

And remember, this plan only really costs $59.5 Billion because $25.5 Billion is returned instantly in taxes to Uncle Sam.

PS: Feel free to pass this along to all of your pals as it’s either good for a laugh...or a tear...or a very sobering thought on how to best use $85 Billion!!

By the way, America will be borrowing this money from China just like they have already done to pay for the war in Iraq.

On Stargazing

You send me to the moon...

Would love to go there with you - having a "roller coaster day." May skip lunch and just have a Grey Goose Martini!

Your taste is impeccable as is mine. Grey Goose or nothing at all!

Agreed!

Here's to happy landings!

Cheers!

The Fall Classic

I have always considered myself a dog lover. When my son Cole was eight years old, he had this little smooth coat fox terrier -- Lulu. Perfectly adorable to look at, the reality was quite the opposite. In fact, she was the most neurotic, high strung little cur that ever existed. Clearly, a misspelled breed name. It should be terror -- not terrier. When Lulu wasn't chewing on woodwork and baseboards, she'd jump up on the table at fancy dinner parties and break crystal. And, mind you, this was while the guests were seated. Red wine everywhere! To this day, the memory of her incessantly shrill yapping and schizophrenic behavior provide me with a spot on definition for the French word migraine.

It is October 2002. A date seared into my mind like a branding iron straight through my skull and into my cranium. The Giants are leading the Series against the Angels 3 games to 2. Right before game six, my Giants cap that I've had since I was a kid vanishes into thin air. Now, I wear that hat for all the games. I can't find it anywhere. The game starts. Our pitcher, Russ Ortiz takes a five to nothing lead into the seventh inning. Nine more outs and we are world champions! Dusty walks out to the mound and hands the game ball to Russ. The Angels are so incensed, they rally back to win the game and win the Series the next day in game seven.

After an epic choke job of that magnitude, I polished off a pitcher of martinis and headed for bed -- teetering and bewildered. There on my bed rested the tattered remains of my beloved cap. Compliments of Lulu. She hid it, destroyed it and then added insult to injury by thoughtfully placing it on my pillow after the devastating loss. The little devil dog knew exactly what she was doing... She had deliberately stolen my mojo solely to place a hex on my team. And, then the crafty little bitch had chewed it up to spite me forever.

That hat was more than just a symbol of support for my team. For though it was faded with age, it's kelly green underbill and inner head band liner stained with the sweat of my brow from years of passionate campagning, it was also a totem for all the generations who have loved the orange and black -- the most honored and venerated professional team in all of sport. A team that has won more games than the Yankees, Dodgers, Cardinals in baseball; Lakers, Celtics, Knicks in basketball; Bears, Cowboys, Giants, 49ers, Steelers in football or Manchester United in soccer. The franchise with more hall of famers enshrined in Cooperstown than the fabled New York Yankees despite their impressive array of hardware accumulated from 26 world series championships. The roll call of greatness whose names personify the very essence of the sport itself. Christy Mathewson. Willie Mays. Willie McCovey. Juan Marichal. Orlando Cepeda. John McGraw. Carl Hubbel. Cap Anson. "Wee Willie" Keeler. Rube Marquard. Joe McGinnity. Mel Ott. Gaylord Perry. Bill Terry. And, the countless others who on their way to the hall wore the Giant uniform with distinction. Not forgotten and shrouded in a controversy that only true greatness can court is Barry Bonds. The ultimate anti-hero to those who wrap themselves in the cloth of hypocrisy, but, undeniably the greatest player to ever suit up. These are my heroes. This is my team representing a line up card for the ages. And, in the 50-years since the club moved from the Polo Grounds in Manhattan to San Francisco, Giants fans remain among the most loyal and devoted in all of sports, awaiting their first world series championship title in the City by the Bay.

Former Giant skipper Roger Craig had a way of spinning folksy homilies into the lexicon of San Francisco sports lore. When Scott Garrault was a young pitcher for the club during its late 1980s resurgence, he experienced a losing streak that threatened his confidence. In his reassuring North Carolinian voice, Craig intoned to his young pitcher: "Don't get your dobber down." The dobber in baseball is the little button on the top of the cap. As I turned out the light to sleep that fateful night, I stared up at the darkened ceiling and thought, "I am losing my faith. My dobber has never been this down. Hell, she chewed the dobber completely off and buried it!"

Somewhere out there on a sand lot, a small group of kids laugh with glee as they circle the bases with reckless abandon. The crack of a bat echoes across a diamond. The crowd roars in the chill of autumn. Above it all, presides a baseball god with a sword of justice in one hand and judgment book in the other. Karmic justice for the deserving and the damned.

It is with only a tinge of sadness that I must report Lulu was run over by a car less than three months later. As we stood by Lulu's little grave with the hard, dark earth and shovel at its side, the sun glared brightly upon a frost covered January morning. Wincing in the harsh light, I told myself that duty demand I utter a brief, solemn benediction for the comfort of my surrounding family, which I did. But, as the children wailed balefully, it was all I could do to restrain myself from smiling just a little. For with a little patience, comes justice in this world. Such are the roles of fathers and baseball fans alike.

Square One

The problem with closure is that it rarely works. At least when it is unexpected.

Eight hours in from Vegas. My mind is a blur. I try to clear the cobwebs from my brain, but nothing seems to do the trick. I decide to check my emails and attempt some followup correspondence. I'm on Facebook and add as a friend one of the guys I've been partying with in Vegas. While reminiscing over a drink in the desert, we'd thrown around a few names of people from our past. One had stuck right smack in my craw and I couldn't quite shake it. I haven't seen her since Jimmy Carter was president. I wonder if she is on Facebook. Nah. Highly unlikely. I enter her name and bingo!

Wow! There she is. And, man... I am not ready.

The picture reveals a lot. Timelessly gorgeous, she has taken good care of herself. She is the same age as me and looks a damn sight better for the years. Her dark hair flows from a widows peak sweeping across a sculpted brow. With a pair of silver hoop earrings and an open neck blouse, her complexion radiates a healthy southern California glow. She possesses a Mona Lisa smile quixotically translating the sacred mysteries of her inner thoughts. All of this is good. I think.

But, it's those damned eyes that I lock into and I know at once this is the woman I had fallen head over heels for as a girl. It seems as if the stars have traveled a billion light years to land in her eyes and now shine back at me.

No, I tell myself. I am not that boy searching for love from so long ago. I am a middle aged, single man with three children who look up to and need my unconditional love and support. I wear the scars of the intervening decades that have forged my character and strengthened my identity. Where I was once a callow youth, experience dictates that I should by all rights have more answers than questions to the riddles of life.

And, there I stare in silence. For on that screen smiles a lovely face that once intoxicated me with its scent, gentle caresses and vibrancy. It is an overpowering sensation. I feel a release of energy rising from my stomach and a hot flash across my cheeks. Why am I blushing? My conscience quickly responds. You're blushing because of what you did to this beautiful woman. And, I know that little voice inside is shooting straight with me.

Do our choices in life shape our character? Or does our character teach us about choice? The weight of the question drifts off in the ether of pheromones I emit as I study her face. Jesus. Over the years, I've frequently wondered what became of her and my love. And, staring back a foot away is a smiling face with all of the answers to the countless questions I've asked myself since I was that boy. This is the very moment of truth. The years of anticipation and expectation are at an end. All I need to do is send a message and hope she responds.

Amidst the champagne euphoria of rediscovery, a nagging doubt bubbles up to the surface threatening to turn my emotional elixir flat. Why would she respond to me? In that instant of recognition, my conscience is laid bare. Drawing a long, deep breath, I stare back into those soulful eyes -- reflection pools of hope. I want to make certain that those are real sparkles and not just pixels manipulating my heart.

Sure, she'll reply I tell myself. Just click the mouse and wait. After 30-years, what have I got to lose?

Surf and Turf

The differences between San Francisco and Las Vegas are, if not abundantly subtle, transparently clear. Both are islands of a kind, one being surrounded by water on three sides while the other stands out like a shiny trinket amid a vast wasteland of sand. You sink or swim in one town. In the other, you begin to wither from extreme exposure the minute you arrive and end up crawling to survive for the remainder of your stay.

Vegas could only be built in the middle of a desert. Everything is truly a mirage. As my plane taxis down the runway toward the terminal, the hotel where I am staying appears right over the fence and down the street. God isn't that great. Everything is so close by. Wrong. Once in the cab, it takes an agonizingly slow ten minutes as we drive eight miles to reach my seemingly nearby destination at Mandalay Bay. Only as we approach it, do I realize the epic scale of the structure. It is 64-stories tall, which would make it the tallest building in San Francisco by a considerable height. By contrast, along the Vegas Strip it's only slightly above the local average.

The valet graciously opens my cab door greeting me as I fumble through a stack of small bills for the driver. Standing at the registration desk, a tour guide from Denver leads a group of jack Mormons through reception. At least this is my educated guess, since the men have all been attired from a Sears Roebuck catalog and each are trailed by their own individual harems not of the local pay-for-play variety. After checking into my suite, which at a luxurious 800 square feet for only $109 seems criminal, I change into a swim suit and head down to the pool area to meet two college friends I haven't seen in close to 30-years.

Referring to Mandalay Bay's outdoor water facilities as a "pool area" is like calling the Taj Mahal a building. About a thousand bronzed and tightly toned figures lie on chaises in the whitest sand I've ever beach combed around a man-made oasis with a gentle three foot swell breaking about every minute. Surrounding the lagoon are several enclosed palm fringed pool areas with naughty laughter emanating from private cabanas. Promenading through the maze of endless rows of beach goers, I feel the constant gazes of people eyeballing me, checking to see whether I am someone famous. No celebrities today. Only celebrity seekers. After I pass, their disappointed looks return to their Star magazines.

I spot my friend in the distance. He holds his cell phone against his ear and waves to me with a rakish grin. His fit physique does not jibe with my memories of a doughy college student. Mike is now a sought after film producer in Hollywood who in recent years has hit his full stride. Perhaps, he is not quite an A-list producer, but, with a beautiful former soap opera star for a wife and two young healthy children at home, he has a good life and he knows it. He reaches out confidently to shake my hand with a firm, but relaxed grip. No wonder the fucker has a beautiful golf swing.

"TJ," he tees off. "It's been far too long." Hell of a back swing I think. Damn near perfect form. Mike adjusts the USC golf cap shading his piercing blue eyes.

"Forget it," I reply skipping a beat. "It's Vegas."