Archive for January, 2009

That sun-and-wind-harnessing, hope-spreading, getting-all-vigilant-in-our-darkest-hour, hot-wife-having, interwebs-friendly, smooth-talking mofo from our 50th state, Barack Hussein Obama.

Let’s work for change, people. How does it feel to have our country back?

Find a service project in your area now.

I hurt in places I’ve never hurt before. My right wrist is stiff. And I’m a little sluggish today. But because of it all, the SafeNest domestic violence shelter is $500 richer.

Last night was the grand opening media party for Stoney’s North Forty, a new country nightclub at the Santa Fe Station hotel-casino in northwest Las Vegas. It builds on the success of owner Stoney Gray’s original Stoney’s Rockin’ Country location, offering more than 9,000 square feet of yee-haw fun, complete with line-dancing-ready dance floor, pool tables, video games and — of course — a mechanical bull.

Now, usually, the last place you’d find me at is a country bar. I have a pretty strong distaste for country music, American beer and overly white culture in general. I’ve turned down plenty of invites to the Las Vegas Boulevard Stoney’s before, but as I figured I’d give this party a shot — I swear, the open bar had nothing to do with it. OK, maybe a little.

Members of the media were invited to enter a mechanical bull-riding contest, with the top three riders winning $1000, $500 and $250 respectively for a non-profit charity of their choice. For some crazy reason, I signed up, with little hesitation. I was one of only four people.

After putting away a couple of those free drinks, I gathered with the rest of the contestants — and friends, colleagues and onlookers — at the side of the fenced-in, cushioned bullring. After some quibbling over who’d go first, a tough, well-built young woman eagerly stepped up, slid on a glove, and rode that wild animatronic bull into the sunset. Of course, I had to go up next.

Let’s remember that I’ve never ridden a bull, robotic or otherwise. Or a horse. Or a motorcycle. A bull-riding expert escorted me to the burly machine as he explained how not to suck: One hand in the air, rock with the changes, keep knees forward. The words made sense but there was no time to process their application as the controller started pulling levers, causing the bull to buck, twist and gyrate. I don’t know how long I stayed on, but I do know I got tossed off to the inflated surface below.

My right hand was a bit sore, but my right groin area felt stretched and bruised. I was glad it was over. I swore I’d never climb back on one of those torture devices again. I suggested shipping a mechanical bull to Guantanamo Bay for interrogation use. I watched a couple more riders — younger guys actually wearing cowboy boots — give pretty good shows, though one did fall off. Then I was told I’d have to do it again.

This time, Gray himself coached me. He told me to just stay on top of my hand, and that if I felt myself slipping back, just to pull up on top of my hand. I faux-confidently mounted the mechanical beast, switched from right to left for a gripping hand, and took off for another ride. And 22 seconds later, it was over. And I was still on top.

After limping off to get another drink, one of the girls from the public relations firm representing Stoney’s came to bring me back to the bullring. Thankfully, it wasn’t for another ride. It was to inform me I’d won second place, and therefore Stoney’s would donate $500 to the charity of my choice, SafeNest. I was dumbfounded. It must have been a sympathy decision. Or maybe I have found a new career …

Either way, my first experience at Stoney’s was actually … fun. The music wasn’t too twangy, the atmosphere wasn’t too hokey and the, um, entertainment was, well, you know. But one thing is for sure: Now I know why cowboys walk kinda slow and funny.

Not all who wander ...

Today is the 15th anniversary of something pretty crazy happening, something that would go on to provide creative inspiration for songs, poems, articles, essays and even an entire multimedia mini-empire. But it’s kind of a hard thing to talk about, to relate, because 1) It’s been 15 years and honestly, the details are mostly fuzzy at this point and 2) If you don’t find the youthful whimsy of a 17-year-old Pj amusing, you may think I am at least borderline psychotic. So I’ve been wrangling over whether or not to tell (actually, re-tell, but its unlikely anyone out there has seen/heard/read this before) the epic tale that started with the discovery of one simple little item: a domino.

... are lost.

Then again, maybe it’s not the origin story that’s important. Maybe it’s what came after that. Reams of notebook filler paper loaded with quasi-prophetic ramblings. An unfinished, unpublished novel following the fictional adventures of a young man (me) on a road trip across the United States and back again as society comes to a bitter end and a new world order crawls from out of the wasteland. A half-dozen or so songs written, recorded and released railing against hatred and prejudice and all the other stuff about which teenage goth-punks who aren’t interested in slicing their own wrists sing. An abnormal obsession with the combination of the numbers one and five, something fueled by another possibly unhealthy obsession with a certain dead 1960s rock star.

These days, you won’t find me curled up in the corner of an apartment with notebook in hand, scrawling mad rantings for pages on end. You won’t find me sitting in a public park at midnight alone, drawing visions of the apocalypse on loose-leaf paper. You won’t find me balancing on rooftop ledges, half-preaching, half-singing to an audience that may or may not be listening.

But I’m fairly certain that somewhere within every word I’ve written, song I’ve played or emotion I’ve felt each day since Jan. 15, 1994, there exists the intangible influence of that strange, terrifying and mind-opening night.

Apparently, Gotham City is unprotected, but Las Vegas is under the watchful eye of the Dark Knight. Or at least, its roads are.

(Photo courtesy Batfan Kendall Abbott, The Art Knight)

One of the many writers whom I follow, Sean Campbell, has offered up over the years multiple lists of quirky (as well as mundane) items of knowledge about himself on his blog, Don’t Cross the Streams. I thought the idea of “100 facts” was intriguing — something about the exercise of self-examination from a singular view — and started compiling a list a while back. It’s interesting to see how some of the items I wrote not even six months ago are already invalid, but I figured I’d share a little bit more about myself by kicking off this list of 100 things with the first 25. I’m sure it’s more than you ever wanted to know: (more…)

‘Twas sad news all around for Hollywood today as two actors moved on to the big casting room in the sky: Patrick McGoohan, who portrayed Number Six on 1960s sci-fi TV show The Prisoner, and Ricardo Montalban, best remembered as Mr. Roarke from ’70s/’80s TV hit Fantasy Island — but those of the geekier persuasion most likely love Montalban from his role as the vengeful title character from Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan. I sure do.