So, this weekend, a friend invited me to go to the roller derby at the Tennessee State Fairgrounds. Now, when I was a kid, you could often find me sitting Indian-style in my parents bedroom, my head upturned to their television watching the roller derby every Saturday night. Nothing could tear my eyes away from those taut and tawny purveyors of pain. Those beautiful women on roller skates and in tight shorts were even tantalizing to a ten year old boy who was probably supposed to think girls were disgusting. But no. That roller derby fanaticism was in my blood. But as the years went by, the games faded and soon disappeared from cable television and I had all but forgotten those dangerous, thrill-seeking vixens who had intrigued me so.
I went last night, eager to see if the thrill I once got from watching the roller derby would return. And return it did.
Let me start by mentioning the only con of the evening, and that was the venue. The derby took place on the fairgrounds in what would be the equivalent of a stuffy, claustrophobic high school gym. I am one of those people who goes to an event and immediately looks for the nearest exit in case any shit goes down. Unfortunately for me, the nearest exit was several feet away and I would have to crawl over several people to get there. But that was a minor negative in my book, especially after the game begun.
I am not totally aware of all the rules to roller derby, and to tell you the truth, I really don’t care. I know that the woman with a star on her helmet has to get ahead of all the other women on the other team to score points. The women on the other team try to keep the woman with the star on her helmet from passing them by bumping, elbowing or steering her into a crowd of onlookers. And all this is done while speeding dangerously around an oval on roller skates.
The women who raced in this derby were not your typical lipstick and high-heels type of chicks. Instead, there were tattoos a plenty, face and body piercings and a few scars and bruises to complete the set. And I hate to admit it, but I found these women mighty hot. I think this is partly due to the fact that I am completely against having any part of my body pierced or painted and to the fact that I am on blood thinners, so bumps and bruises of any kind could make me an instant DOA. In the hood, I believe fellows like myself are called marks, pussies. I prefer to call myself indescribably gifted and ambiguously gifted.
I think that the one thing that really got me hot under the collar was the way these women, jumped and dashed, pulled and pummeled each other and seemed to do it with a certain relish. There were no crybabies, no, “Oh, I broke a nail” types skating around that circle. Nope. Just a bunch of tatted chicks with gruff exteriors, holey fish net stockings, crazy names like LeeAnn Crimes and Bootsy Brawlins, and a taste for blood. How hot is that? And the cheerleaders?? Knee high converse, with mini-skirts, the aforementioned fish nets, loud, brash voices and many that showed enough cleavage crack to make any straight man or gay woman want to dive right in.
My favorite roller girl was a short-haired firecracker with the unfortunate moniker of Rambo Sambo. Short skirts, garters and fishnets and a definite spunk shot Rambo Sambo right to the number one spot in my heart. In between racing with ferocity around the track, Ms. Rambo could be seen on the sidelines dancing, gyrating her hips and thrusting her head quickly to and fro. I was instantly smitten. Especially when I watched her dismiss her rivals with a quick hip thrust that would send them flying across the floor and into the sideline seats. If only she could change that name! Rambo I’m cool with. But Sambo? My one hope is that she is referring to the martial art of Sambo which has been used by the Soviets/Russians since the early part of the 20th century and she is not in someway embracing the negative, racist image that has existed in this country since the late 1890’s. Seems to me the image of an ex-Vietnam vet and a Russian martial art makes a much more logical combination, so we will go with that.
Apparently, the roller derby matches last from now until the end of summer. My hope is that sometime between now and then, I can catch Rambo Sambo’s (perhaps blackened) eye and drop to a knee and propose. I’m quite sure the marriage would be a short one, as I can only imagine that within the first week or so of wedded bliss, I will find myself being admitted to the emergency room with a knife wound and an anal abrasion due to a roller skate wheel being jammed up my…those girls are so touchy. But that’s all a part of the appeal. Sex and violence, my friends. Definitely worth the price of admission.
I imagine Rambo’s man probably wrestles manic depressive pitbulls and can only pleasure himself if he has sandpaper attached to his hand. I could never measure up to that! But I am willing to try!
Rambo! I love you, girl…..don’t hurt me.
I must say that this has probably been one of the best years for me and major league baseball. Not only did I get to see my fourth major league game this weekend (and nearly a no hitter one at that), but my Phillies made it to the playoffs! Are you kidding me?? Autumn is by far the best season in the year and for so many reasons. One being the fact that the major league playoffs and the world series take place. I’m very excited that both the Phils and the Cubs are in it this year.
Like I mentioned, I got to see four games this year in four different venues. I’ve dropped in some photos of the four: Kansas City, San Francisco, St. Louis and Cincinnati. In order of greatness, San Francisco wins hands down. Just a beautiful, wonderful ball park. The people working there were all very friendly and helpful and I can’t wait to get back. St. Louis and Cincinnati probably tie for second. Both stadiums are relatively new and vastly improved over the old venues. St. Louis may actually get the edge just because the placement of the stadium and the view of the arch are perfect. Plus, their fans seemed a little more fervent. Kansas City’s Kauffman Stadium is pretty old school and the club level seating leaves a lot to be desired. However, the parking is much better since they are away from the downtown area and the staff was very friendly and helpful. But if I had to choose one, it would be AT&T Park. No question. Next year, I hope to hit four more stadiums in my quest to see them all, and definitely go back to San Fran.
San Francisco
St. Louis
Cincinnati
Kansas City
Just returned from San Francisco. Loved the town. Loved the people. Miss it already. Just the thought of that waning summer sunset lingering over the Bay Bridge conjures a depression I could not aptly describe. I feel like the city is teasing me, coaxing me to return, and return I will.
I posted this on the EM MySpace blog and thought I should post it here as well
This past weekend I did something I have wanted to do for years but for one reason or another have never gotten the opportunity to do. I have always wanted to go to Kansas City, Missouri. I have always wanted to visit the American Jazz Museum, the Negro Baseball League Museum, see a Royals game, the famous 18th and Vine district best known for all the great jazz that has been played there. But most of all, I wanted to go to Kansas City because it is the final resting place of Charlie Parker.
Years ago, there was a debate in Kansas City over whether the grave of Charlie Parker should be moved from the obscure location of Lincoln Cemetary to a more accesible locale around the 18th and Vine district. Many musicians and fans feel that Lincoln is not a proper burial site for Bird and that he should be somewhere where people who come from all over the world can easily find him and pay their respects.
This past Saturday morning, I left my hotel room with several objectives, the first and most important one being to visit Bird. My mapquest directions told me that the cemetary was only ten minutes away from my hotel. Great, I thought. I’ll visit Bird, hit the museums then go to the game. I followed the directions on the map, but the cemetary was not as easy to find as I thought it would be. Back and forth I drove down the same street in search of Lincoln Cemetary. I even stopped three different people and asked them where the cemetary was. None of them knew. In fact, two of the people I asked were actually half a mile from the cemetary and they didn’t have a clue. For two hours I drove around the same five mile radius searching for Bird. I didn’t care. It could have been four hours. I wouldn’t have stopped searching. But I was getting frustrated. The morning turned into afternoon and I wondered if all my other plans would fall by the wayside as I knew that if I didn’t find Bird’s grave site, the whole trip would be a failure for me.
I drove and drove. In fact, I came across two other cemetaries during my search. Finally, I became so frustrated, I just decided to take this little side street and see where it lead me. I turned and within seconds I saw a sign. The closer I got to it, the more elated I became until finally I could make out the words on the sign. “Lincoln Cemetary - Resting Place of Charlie “Bird” Parker”
Sitting quietly amongst a grove of tall trees and shade was the grave of Charlie Parker. Right next to him was the grave of his dear mother Addie. I had found it. Within this tiny cemetary a legend was laid to rest. The place was so peaceful, so quiet that there were even a few deer grazing nearby. To me, it was the perfect place for Bird to be. Even more perfect was the fact that I was there all alone. For a few precious minutes I had time alone with the man who changed the way I looked at the world and at music.
I knelt down to the ground and brushed away the few twigs and pebbles from the tombstone and I placed my hand on the cool marble. Silently, I began thanking Bird for what he had given me, for introducing himself to a fifteen year old kid and completely rearranging his view of the world around him. And just then (and I swear this is true), a black bird flew by my head so close I could hear the beat of its wings against its breasts, and it settled into a tree nearby and watched me. Now, I’m not saying Bird heard me or that that was some kind of sign. But I will say that I will never forget that moment. And if you love Bird as much as I do, I think you understand why I feel that way.
Should Bird’s grave be moved? I can understand why some would want it moved. But for several reasons, I feel he should remain where he is. For one thing, if you move Bird you must move his mother as well. They should always remain together. Secondly, 18th and Vine is a nice area, but busy, especially with tourist traffic. Lincoln Cemetary, while not large or overly impressive is quiet, serene. There are no honking horns or constant foot traffic. Only the chirp of birds, deer grazing nearby and the cool shade of those big, beautiful trees. Yes, Bird was hard to find, but for those who want to see him and thank him badly enough, his grave will be found.
I took pictures while I was there. You can view them here:
Well, I am not sure if you noticed or not, but I haven’t updated the station since last Sunday. Reason being, I spent the last five days at Myrtle Beach in South Carolina. That Drifters song, “I’ve Got Sand In My Shoes” kept repeating itself over and over in my head over the past week.  No matter what people may say, the best time to go to the beach is a week or two after Labor Day. The crowds and tourists are gone. The shore is empty. All you have is cool ocean breezes, the geriatric crowd and plenty of space and time to make memories. All you need is a blanket, a bottle of wine and your love, and nature will provide the rest. Skies dappled with starlight. The sound of the ocean rushing up and crashing upon the shore. Lock it away, that memory. Because another one just as good may be a long time in coming. The greatest thing about a vacation is that it reminds you that life is not all cubicles and flourescent lighting. There is beauty out there.
Oh, the boardwalk’s deserted
There’s nobody down by the sho-o-o-o-ore
And the ferris wheel ride isn’t turning around any m-o-ore-ore-ore
The heat wave and the crowds are just old new-ooh-ews
But I’ve still got some sand in my shoes
