Schlomi-WOW!

"You're gonna love my nuts."

That's what Vince Schlomi told me late one night. I was tired, confused and perhaps drank one "Diet 7-Up" too many, but I heard him loud and clear. He then went on to tell me that I was going to "slap my troubles away".

Had I known then what I know now, I would have laughed so hard that I would have wet my pants. Twice over.

For you see, Schlomi had foretold his own downfall in a way that could easily fit a high school English teacher's example of foreshadowing. Perhaps you mindlessly stumbled upon his mugshot at some point over the last 24 hours...

... although it's more likely that you stumbled upon one of his infomercials, much as I did that late night. And if you're anything like me, you'll be saying "Wow!" every time you hear this story.

As I burned the midnight oil and the evening wound to an end, the episode of Family Matters that I had found myself entrenched in took a brief break, at which point Vince approached me and offered me something he called the "Slap Chop". Normally I don't go for stuff like that, but he seemed like a cool guy, so I heard him out.

He told me I could be slapping my troubles away. "The more you do it, the finer it gets!" How can I argue with that?

As he spent two minutes pushing this "lifestyle choice" upon me, I realized that we had met before. It was a similar time, late in the evening and after a "Diet Dr. Pepper" or two. He tried to sell me some piece of shit towel called the ShamWow!

I knew that name and overly aggressive sales pitch sounded familiar! "You following me camera guy?" How did he know my profession?!

So here's the point... it came to my attention today that my late night buddy Vince, or Schlomi, as I know him, recently came into a bit of trouble. Really a victim of circumstance, if you ask me.

I mean, who among us can't say they've found themselves in a South Beach hotel, where their prostitute bit their tongue and wouldn't let go, forcing you to beat her down and call the cops. That's never happened to you? Well, me neither, but it certainly made for a rough Schlomi outing.

"Use it on your car! Your dog! Your RV! Use it to mop up your hooker's blood! Olympic divers use it!"

All I can say is, "Sham-WOW!"

Oh, and that I've been wanting to beat that guy up since the first time I saw one of those damn 2-minute commercials. Judging from his booking photo, looks like his hooker beat me to it.

UPDATE

Be sure not to miss the remixed version of his Slap-Chop commercial. I can't get enough of this:

Lil' Drummer Boy

Day to day, life is full of slow, repetitive tasks. As a result, most of us make an effort to break the mundane repetitiousness of everyday life, whether it's through adventures, friends, booze or work.

But then there are those who are all about repetitive tasks. Take Russ Prager, for example- a local drummer who decided to take it upon himself to break the world record for drumming. After previously holding the record (and losing six months later by some guy who only beat him by 15 minutes), he returned ready for business.

He wasn't only going to beat the previous record of 1o2 hours of consecutive drumming (with a 5 minute break every hour- which could be skipped and accumulated to allow for a 20 minute power nap after 4 hours), he was looking to destroy it.

Any schmuck could drum for 102 hours. Heck, nerds around the world play Guitar Hero for longer than that. But Russ was here to play, and play for keeps.

Shooting for 120 hours, or five days, Russ set out to do something that had never been done before... then kick it in the nuts and carve his name into its forehead. I caught up with him during the final stretch, and boy, was he running on fumes.

Yes, the man rounded out 12o hours like it was nothing. Well, he was fairly incoherent by the end of the endeavor... both hands had cramped into immovable claws, and he almost fell over a few times since my arrival, but damnit he made it. Mind you, he wasn't exactly cranking out any Metallica covers, but damnit he was drumming!

Upon completion, he declared that he was going to "Go to the bathroom, eat a steak, and take a nap".

Russ Prager... Taking daily repetitive tasks to a new level, and making something of himself as a result.

Now if only I could figure out how to break the record for watching the most consecutive hours of 24. I'm gonna need a lot of beer and Smart Food.

Blocking Molly

I've always been a fan of a good concert. Nothing beats pounding some beers and listening to some quality musicians belting out a catalog of killer tunes.

Back in my high school days, I hit up a Vans Warped Tour or two, and they were pretty sweet. For $20 or so you could get a full day of music out on a pier in San Francisco, in the shadow of the Bay Bridge. Mixed with a slew of unknowns, you'd get some big timers on the stage- Green Day, NOFX, Pennywise, Bad Religion. Often times I'd recognize a band's name and swing by to check them out... out of curiosity more than anything. And more often than not I was disappointed by a bunch of scrubs that didn't know how to put on a show.

But there was one that I came across back in 2000 that really made an impression on me. After sitting through such hack-jobs as Reel Big Fish and Sum-41, I had no high hopes for a band calling themselves Flogging Molly. They were probably gonna play some punk crap that sounded like garbage (not Garbage) and tempt me into calling it an early day. Oh boy, was I ever wrong.

This rowdy bunch of Irishmen (and women) hit the stage in full force, sporting (among the traditional punk rock insturmants) a fiddle, an accordian, a banjo and a tin flute. As they pounded Guiness after Guiness and pelted out anthem after dunken anthem, I found my young self to be in awe of their grand performance. I've never been much of a fan of punk music (or folk music), but these guys kicked ass, and it was undeniable.

If you've never heard of 'em, this one's a personal favorite:

Following their killer performance, I helped stack the line to purchase their new album (Drunken Lullabies, still one of my favorite CDs) and got the full band to sign it. Mind you, I'd never heard of these guys an hour earlier.

A decade or so later, you might imagine how my ears started burning when I heard their name shouted out across the newsroom. Many of the old-timers had no idea who they were... "some punk band" that "liked to drink and do drugs". At least, that's the impression that they got from a newspaper article declaring that a local community college was trying to get them to come and play, despite the objections of several on the student council.

After playing a few tunes to a newsroom ready to string these guys up for being a bunch of immoral no-good-nicks, they found that their brand of musical drunken numbskullery was pretty darn good, and many asked to borrow a CD or two.

As it turns out, the student council members that were working to deny the band's ability to play on campus happened to be a crew that we were familiar with. It was the same crew of student council members that declared a harsh stance for Prop 8 (the gay marriage ban) a few months back. Mind you, this isn't a private or religious school. It's a public community college.

They refused to offer funding for the musical event because the band is "known for cursing, for doing drugs, and drinking- getting drunk on the stage". While the business plan projects thousands of dollars of funding to book rental programs and scholarships, it very well may not happen because these guys are... well... a rock band.

While the primary opponent to the concert admits that he's more into "church and choir music", he's willing to allow a Christian band onto campus in order to "help teach students how to be gentlemen".

Sometimes... you have to wonder if people just like to pick fights wherever they can. If you really want to raise a religious fuss over Prop 8 (even though it's not a Christian school), that's one thing... but trying to block a rock band because they swear and sing about drinking (I've never heard anything about drugs)? It's on a college campus. Just try to go through a day without hearing about drinking and cussing. Give me a break.

If Flogging Molly does eventually make it to town, I'll be there with a pint in my hand (and perhaps a No on 8 sign in my back pocket). If you can't drink and cuss on a college campus, then where the hell can you do it? Mexico? Please.

Where the Beer Flows Like Wine

Workin' the 9 to 5 can be stressful. Everyone has one of those days where they come home to find that you've got no food, you've got no job, and your pets' heads are falling off. You feel like you've gotta get out of this town, but where? Where are you gonna go?

I'll tell you where. Someplace warm. A place where the beer flows like wine. Where the beautiful women instinctively flock like the salmon of Capistrano. I'm talking about a little place called Aspen. (I don't know Lloyd, the French are assholes).

Well, I didn't quite make it to Aspen, but I did manage to high-tail it out to Colorado to meet up with the fam for a few days away from it all.

Flying into Denver, I found that Colorado wasn't quite what I had imagined. After leaving a series of Sierra snow-dumps, I had imagined that the Rocky Mountains would force me to trudge through mounds of the stuff. Not so much. After a two-hour shuttle ride to Beaver Creek (Vail's lil' step-brother), I finally arrived and was ready to start forgetting about the pets' heads falling off with a lil' nectar of the gods.

Day 2, I awoke at the ripe hour of 6:30 AM (5:30 pacific) to cash in on an offer to open the mountain with the ski patrol. While the late night left me with some regrets, they were immediately forgotten once I made it to the top of the hill to discover a gorgeous day.

I figured it'd be nice to get an early start on the mountain, but this was awesome. The ski patrol provided a guided tour through each of the recently groomed runs long before the place even opened. It was like having the mountain closed off to yourself, and it almost made me feel like I was someone important.

I got a solid pair of days boarding the Rockies, and truly enjoyed my first adventure to the Coors Light State. I was lucky enough to hit sunny, fifty degree weather (and avoid a major storm in Sacramento), which I just can't argue with.

After four days of boarding over the last two weeks (including last weekend's adventure), I've returned to Sac with a twisted ankle, a jacked-up knee and a back that's seen better days (plus a wallet that seems a lot lighter than it used to), but I'm not about to complain. It gave me flashbacks to my younger days of adventuring through New Zealand... living out of a suitcase, sleeping on hotel floors, and being beat to hell by my own stupid ambitions. But damnit, it feels good.

I just wish it happened more often. To be continued?

Free Ride

Some people thrive on weather coverage. They love trudging through the elements to demonstrate to viewers why they shouldn't have left their homes. I tend to enjoy hunkering down and letting the storm pass. Is it a weakness? A personal character flaw? Call it what you will, but when the buck gets handed off to one of the storm hounds, I'm not raising a commotion. And while this year has been mercifully dry, it wasn't without incident. Last week I found myself stuck in the same spot on Highway 80 for over 3 hours, without a bathroom or Burger King in sight.

It was a long and slow evening, where we just barely made our slot. Aside from that, I just don't like driving in the snow. I'm just glad that this is limited to a small portion of every year 'round these parts.

The only problem with this whole situation is that I really love the snow. Snowboarding is one of God's great gifts to man, which I've been embracing since the age of 11. I'd gladly welcome a hearty dumping of snow on a regular basis if I didn't have to go chase it down every time it passed through.

Last weekend, I decided it was time to cash in on the recent storms and head up to Tahoe with some cronies and cohorts. Finding a surprising spot of luck, we managed to hit the slopes on the only two days of the past few weeks that didn't face a snowstorm. Perhaps that's just Old Man Winter's way of saying "Sorry about that freeway incident. We're still cool, right?" I'll cut you some slack this time, OMW. But watch yourself.

Along with the days spent tearing up the mountain, there were a few local gaming facilities in the area, and we all know I'm not one to pass up a night at the tables.

After being up... and then down... compliments of roulette, I decided it was time to call it quits before digging myself too deep into trouble. Heck, with this economy... you know. While tailing some of my well-wishers around the casino floor, one offered to cover me for a quick hand of blackjack, as he didn't want to play alone. "What the hell," I declared. "One hand never killed nobody." A short time later, I found myself, as well as my companions, surrounded by chips. With that, I decided to call it an early night (4 am) and retire to the hotel with my $250 in winnings. Not bad, considering that I was about to call it a night at -$60. The one quick hand managed to pay for the entire trip. I'll take it.

Alright, Old Man Winter, you've bought yourself some slack by hurling us a bit of luck on the weekend adventure. This doesn't mean things have cleared up between us, but for now I'll say that the effort was appreciated.

Begging for a Budget

Times are tough, and it ain't easy living on a budget. This is especially true when you're the tenth largest economy in the world, and those who are elected to set the budget can't agree on anything. As if the national bickering over stimulus plans wasn't enough, we in California have been experiencing a deadlock of our own in trying to set a state budget. A counter outside Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger's office provided a constant reminder that every passing second pushed California deeper into debt.

On day 104, or last Tuesday, I found myself watching as the State Senate finally put this budget issue to rest, even if it meant staying all night. Armed with sleeping bags, tooth brushes and sheer determination, these public servants went to work caucusing, and caucusing... and caucusing. A 4 PM scheduled reconvening became 6 PM. Then 8 PM... Then Midnight. Yes, the work day came and went without incident. We ended up packaging a separate story (a member of the State Assembly rescued a drunk driver who was trapped in a burning vehicle after an accident, a much better story) before returning to find that little had changed since our departure.

As we were waited patiently (and the OT started racking up, much like the budget clock), we suddenly heard a commotion in the hallway. Why, it was Senate President pro Tem Darrell Steinberg, and he was gonna make a statement! Snatching cameras from their tripods, the Media Elite stormed towards the hallway to find that Steinberg had already begun his statement, and the scrambeling began to obtain it.

Unfortunately, I was unable to place myslef within the inner ring of the crowd, and was forced to enact the age-old photog strategy of turning the viewfinder towards the ground and hoisting the heaftey camera above the head. A terriffic strategy, for sure, but damnit those things are heavy, and boy do those politicians like to talk.

After several minutes, my elbows began to buckle and the camera began to waver, yet he wouldn't stop talking, slamming the Republicans for their roadblock efforts. Finally, I had to rest the camera on top of my head, forcing my neck to take part in the agony. Of course, I realized that I must look ridiculous, but I figured that I was at the back of the pack and no one would notice the comical display of ENG desperation that my life had become.

Then, two days later, a friend forwarded me an email from another friend, who happened to be reading the LA Times. Included with the following picture was this comment: "Who is that crazy guy cramped over to the right? I am surprised he still has his job since he was filming the back on someone's head."

Good to see my late night efforts were being recognized. Fortunately, the photo wasn't taken moments later, when my arms gave out and I actually ended up shooting the back of someone's head.

So the following night, I almost got sent back for another late night go-around, but I played the "I'm dayside tomorrow" card and was able to dodge the bullet. The crew that went ended up staying until 6 AM when, believe it or not, the budget was actually passed!! Thank God I missed that one, as I had to be in at 9.

So, after 106 days and a 45 1/2 hour meeting (the longest Senate session in history), the budget crisis has come to an end. Well, there are still drastic cuts being made to schools, public transportation and various other programs, but at least the Governor finally got to take that counter down.

Good to see that the system still works.

Amgen: Thievery and Moisture

After placing tenth in yesterday's Amgen Prologue, the mighty Lance Armstrong awoke to find that Sacramento isn't quite as lovely as it had seemed the day before. While he and many other cyclists slept soundly in a local hotel, someone decided to take it upon him or herself to give these folks a true Sacramento welcome by breaking into their trailer and stealing a number of bikes, including Armstrong's time trial bike used the day before.

Hope you enjoyed your stay.

The day didn't get much better following this discovery, as the wind and rain ravaged Northern California in a way that it hadn't seen all winter. Unfortunately, this was also the first day of the race, where they were to travel 108 miles from Davis to Santa Rosa. Indeed, conditions were rough.

But this didn't deter the fans from braving the elements (and the inside-out umbrellas), as they once again arrived in full-force to see a legend in action.

With a torrential downpour, high powered winds and frigid temperatures, I was bombarded with flashbacks to my younger days of working the sidelines at Oregon football games. Isn't California supposed to be the Sunshine State? Oh wait, that's Florida. Now you tell me.

But a little rain never hurt anybody (insert Katrina joke here... too soon?), and it sure as heck wasn't about to stop this guy:

Hope, as they say, was ready to ride again. I, as I say, was ready to climb back into bed in a desperate attempt to raise my body temperature back to a healthy level. My hands had long since lost feeling, which I had all but accepted as a sad truth by the time the racers finally lined up. But hey, at least I didn't have to ride a bike back to the station in these conditions. You'd have to be an idiot to ride a bike in this weather! Oh... sorry.

And with that, they were off on what Armstrong would later call one of the worst racing days he had ever seen. But don't worry, there's only... seven more days to go?! That weather forecast had better have some of those happy suns wearing sunglasses in the coming days, or the "Tour of California" might not be doing the state any favors.

At the end of the wet-n-wild day, Lance finished in fifth place, proving that Hope is still alive (in case you had forgotten). Personally, I hope that the weather clears up, that the race is a good one, and that they catch the crackhead that tries to sell Lance's bike on Craigslist. I also hope that the crackhead agrees to a jailhouse interview. Welcome back, Hope. We missed you.