Fight On.

I always half-wished I could be that sports-savvy girl that can fiercely debate new player's potential, or roster picks, or the reason behind a team's dismal season, but I'm not.  Might've helped me out behind the bar- but I told jokes instead.  My mantra: "I love going to live sporting events, but I just can't watch it on TV.  Wasn't really raised around it, never dated a 'sports guy'."

I'd say I was a teensy bit jealous of those with that passion, but it'd only be true if you included the 'teensy'.  I never really got it.  A dear and brilliant ex-boyfriend who was artsier and fartsier than I ever was, once spoke of his beloved basket ball crazed sister. The draw to sports fandom,  he said, is for those who don't have their own passion.  They need that brotherhood of fellow fans, in part because it replaces real connections they might otherwise have.  But it's a false community.  They don't play on the team, they don't benefit nor pay with any win or loss, and the emotion they feel with every season's pitch and point is yet another opiate of the masses.  Not to say he didn't love sports- he was naturally athletic and generally pretty excellent in all those things.  Despite his own sporty skills, we stood with cocked heads of confusion. Bewildered at the intensity of the draw for his sister shouting and sweating out her painful power claps when the Clippers or the Giants just did something good on the TV.

But when Tim, a quirky and contrary old regular of mine from KC Steakhouse invites me to join in   on his season tickets for a his Alma Mater USC game and tailgating- I wholeheartedly take him up on his offer. Even if you don't watch the game, there's food!  And drink!  And happy (at least at first) crowds, and a fever pitch that is only come by when a mass gathers in consensus.

We meet at 6 am for the caravan to L.A.  This is serious.  Tailgating begins at 8-ish sharp-ish, with an entire tetris trunk packed full of Trojan tailgating gear, collected and perfected over decades.

Once the cardinal and gold tent, tablecloths, coordinating plates, and napkins, logo emblazoned BBQ, and greasy eats are out- the mimosa/bloody beer communion begins.  Communion before ritual.  Tim befriends the Boston College rivals on either side of us, and seals an invite to a local's tailgating party for his next away game visit. Illegal bacon-wrapped Mexican hot dog carts dart through crowds, avoiding officials, and generally smelling like a porky, onion orgasm.

The sense of community found at an event like this does warm the very cockles of my heart. After I mention this, Tim talks of visiting Lincoln, Nebraska for a game, and mixing with the locals at a tavern the night before.  No trash-talk tossing between opponent fans was found that day; the gracious Nebraskans were welcoming, happy to have a like-minded stranger in their midst, no matter his team. When later in the night, one pimply kid did begin to slur some taunts Tim's way, a 97 year-old woman grabbed the kid by the shirt collar growling, "This is Nebraska.  We don't treat our guests this way."  I'm sure Nebraska's friendliness is an exception, but man, does this illustrate the intensity of what it is to represent a team.  Maybe Raiders fans (Totally superfluous example. Maybe.), show their intensity in a culturally different manner, but none the less, what it means to rep your colors as a real fan is some serious shit, no matter the region.

A walk though the historical campus is like visiting the kingdom's royal courtyard during a festival.  I feel the vibrations of Game Day in my gut.  Like the excitement during a concert sound check, I prickle with goosebumps despite a slick forehead in the 90-something degree weather.  This sense of pride is getting contagious.  It's coming on.  We stop to watch the USC marching band play a pre-game show, and I start feeling a vague ownership, a part of the rising synergy.  I did play in the band.  Brass even.  And my high school mascot was the Trojan.  Still, as I look at a fellow tailgater's USC flip flops and USC iPhone cover- I can't wrap my head around spending so much time and energy devoted to a game, that you're not even playing in. Plus, wearing sports logos isn't stylish.  It offends my aesthetic senses.  Says the girl in ragged Converse. Exiting the campus gates to cross the train tracks back to camp, Tim kicks the loose, aluminum base of a tall light pole.  He shrugs, "Good luck,"  and smirks, "You'll hear it all day."  Sure enough, waiting to cross the tracks I hear a metallic bang and rattle every 8 seconds, as students, alumni, faculty and devotees, kick, and maybe pray their way to the arena.   

Packing up to head into the Colosseum- which doesn't serve alcohol- my good buddy Schub says we should have brought flasks.  "No."  Tim says.  "That's for high school.  If you can't drink enough to watch a game for a few hours, you're doing it wrong."  Communion.  Ritual. Music. Discipline.

Scholars argue which first preceded religion: music, or ritual, and I have personally always been in the music camp.  There is something palpably powerful about rhythmic beats amongst a crowd.  From the Pentecostal spirit-filled altar where I was raised, to the chanting mob- be it for revolution, lynching, or encore.  This football game is no exception.  I imagine ancient humans dancing around flames, feeling the percussion pounding their belly. And as the Trojan torch is lit, the drums of the fight song both threatening and triumphant, I see the Colosseum stands- masses of crimson- shifting in unison as they hammer their right hand forward to each beat in rows of gavels. Thousands chant the same chant, hammering that same arm, hoping the same, all in agreeance.  I soak it up, getting high off the fumes of the dedicated.  If I were at that Pentecostal alter, this is when the pastor would have said, 'Brothers and sisters- God is in this house tonight.'

Yeah, I watch the game too.  I get those mini adrenaline rushes, just like every time I almost rear-end another car (which is sorta too often for a sorta grown-up)- where a prickly heat rushes to my skin- each time a pass is completed.  Or even when it's not, really.  Sometimes I forget about the players, and get caught up in the unity of the crowd, but I start to live and die a little each play. 

This intox never lasts too long for me once I've gone home.  A few days, max.  Maybe that brilliant ex boyfriend iss a little right, in that the team brings a false connection to it's fans.  A passion not backed by anything solid or real.  But maybe that's what any decent opiate is.  If it's an opiate that lets us feel, better to feel it with everyone else as a whole.  A freaking cuddle puddle of team pride. And as for a false community- you bet your ass Tim is going to make some life-long buds in Boston over beer, brats, and a fight song of drums.

Father Knows Best

I went to my first optometrist appointment.  Not because I needed it, but because: fuggit. I finally have vision insurance, I'm 30, and I'm starting to get crispy crows feet from squinting at the wicked computer screen all day.  Or from smoking in the bars.  Whatever. They tell me I'm fine, give me an optional, mild prescription for reading glasses, and send me to the front to make my $25 co pay.

 Dr. Ng's optometry office is across the street from home-girl Melanie's flower shop, where she deftly whips up botanical masterpieces between chain smoking Marlboro Reds with her trademark scowl.  I watch her sweep green clippings from the floor and lock up.  It's easy to visit Melanie when I don't feel like being social, nor alone, because I never have to smile for her, or say anything nice if I don't feel like it.  She's fine with that. We can sit in silence and nobody gets bored or thinks the other person is mad or rude. This day she notices I'm in emo-Katie-mode.  She knows that in the last year since I've made a major life change and started a career, my finances (along with other life aspects) went down the crapper.  I have yet to find a roommate to ease the crunch.  Some romantic failings sprinkled though the months. The last year has been quite the trial, and I'm not handling it with any grace. What she doesn't know, was the humbling request I just made to the nice lady at Dr. Ngs front desk.  With three days to a bar shift, and ten days til pay day, I have $1.86 in my account,  and just enough gas in the tank.  "May I return to pay?"  I quietly ask the nice lady who is only requesting a meager 25 dollars.  None of this I feel like sharing with Melanie, so instead I tell her of the shitty-guilt rock anchoring my stomach from this past weekend.

Dad has been needing to come down for a visit.  He retired this spring for sad reasons (which I will rant about later), he just wrapped up his second divorce, his dog ran away,  and he has little human contact on his breezy ranch. We miss each other.  He's lonely.  But I'm busy.  I'm broke.  I'm too stressed, and too tired to properly host my father. When a bar-shift-free weekend comes up, however, I send him an invite before I think about it too much.  His bags were packed before his email RSVP made it into my inbox.

Now, I know my dad drives me nuts.  After 30 some-odd years of teaching, it's tough for him to have a conversation where he doesn't dominate, lecture, and repeat.  This makes for a long weekend for someone used to living alone in selfish serenity.  I should have done some stronger mental prepping, but I blasted out that invite without much thought. 

Over the next few days, I have small moments where I feel connection, warmth and affection for my Pops. I want him to feel the love. An old regular bar customer of mine gives me VIP passes to the local Village Fest beer, wine and food festival; which lands right up father/daughter alley. Bands from multiple stages make it too loud for us to chat, but this may be the evenings saving grace. I gorge, he takes pictures, it feels good share it with Dad. But on returning home, the spell is broken. I slip back into feeling scrape-my-skull irritated with not only everything Dad does (pointing out every weed and ant-hill, torturous droning about the weather), but the very presence of another human in my space. I've been too bound up in my anxious shell to be at ease with someone invading my self-indulgent pity-party.  This irritation shows.  I know it shows.  I only half-ass try to hide it when I think of how guilty I'll feel later, which reinforces that I only behave for selfish reasons.  I'm a prick, nobody likes me, everybody hates me, I'm gonna go eat worms.

As expected, I return home from work Monday evening to an empty house. No Dad on the recliner reading his daily word and making his mundane commentary. I now remember it as soothing instead of grating. His presence: reassuring. A note on the counter lists the sprinklers and pump he's fixed after I left for work, signed, "Love, Your Dad." Crap. Every snide remark I made about his Fox News-Glenn Beck leanings, every sneer I wore after his naive remarks about college party-goers freezes onto that shitty guilt rock in my stomach, and I start thinking about how much harder that lump will get when he keels over someday.  I snivel, and feel more pathetic than I did before he came, and guilty for feeling guilty for behaving as I did when I knew what I was doing.

When Melanie asks what's wrong with me, I don't tell her about my sad checking balance and the $25 co-pay.  I'm good on the humility helpings.  Instead I tell her about my weekend with Dad, and how I behaved like a rotten princess.  Good 'ole Mel.  She doesn't indulge. She never does.

"You know he noticed how you were being. You know you're gonna miss having to put up with him when he's not around anymore.  Your parents are getting older. You should have known he was going to irritate you, and told yourself that it's only for a few days. You should email him and apologize.  He'll forgive you. He loves you."

Thanks, bro.  Nothing in that pep talk made me feel any better.  Why do I even tell you these things.

Sometimes it seems the universe has its feelers out the way facebook does, popping up with ads and articles in my news feed directly related to my most recent Google searches.  No facebook, I didn't need a reminder at this very moment that I may need debt counseling for student loans.  No Universe, I don't need my dad calling at this very moment to remind me that I have amends to make.

"Dad... I was just talking about you...."

"Yeah?!  I was just calling to tell you thank you for having me this weekend and for being such a great hostess."

Freaking shitty guilt rock plopping into my lower intestine.

"About that Dad... I know I wasn't the greatest company this weekend."

Saturday afternoon before Village fest, Dad takes me to the dump to get rid of the palm branches that I cut down and left laying in the yard for months. After, I offer him an ice cream treat as a good daddy reward.  The ice cream parlour we had our eyes set on, however, recently had roadwork done in the area, and Moo Creamery's original entrance is now closed off.  How do we get in there?  A half hour of looping back and forth, with Dad cruising at the alarming speed of 55 miles an hour on the new Westside Parkway express, we still have yet to gain entry.  I politely drop hints to how tired I am, and that there is a great fro-yo place near the house.  Two hours after we've left the house for a quick dump run, my dad is introduced to the exotic culture of the fro-yo topping bar.  He wants to sit, not take the damn things to go.  He wants to chat, not get the ice cream in, and get out.  After the third weather comparison between his area and mine, while his dessert sits and smirks at me- I drop all guise and put my head down next to my empty paper dish.

"Are you ok, dear?"

"Yeah, sorry Dad, I'm just pretty tired."

Pathetic excuse for being a balls-out rude, spoiled child.  Did I mention I haven't seen this man in six months?

On the phone, after my half-apology for general weekend brattiness: "Not at all, Katie!  I had a great time!  You always make your guests feel so comfortable.  I have my own room where I can shut the door, you do your own thing sometimes, and I don't feel like I always have to be 'on'.  I really enjoyed our time."

I tell Dad that no, I was cranky, and while there is NO excuse for it, I gave a LOT excuses. I've been pretty run-down.  The stress of working six days a week, sometimes being up for more than 24 hours to fit in both gigs, trying to keep a household in decent repair on my own, choosing which bills need most attention, and generally feeling stretched too thin for too long, I don't have the ease about my aura that I should.  No, I never say the word aura.  But I think it sometimes.

"Katie.  I went through the exact same thing, for the same length of time a couple years ago trying to keep the ranch after Kathy left.  Between school, and the janitor job at the car wash, I have no idea how I managed not to lose all my crops.  You're doing great.  You're not a failure.  This won't be forever, and things will get better, and the dreams you have are going to come to pass, because you made them happen. I know you're not the praying type, but maybe you should try.  Ask for help, and peace of mind, and guidance. You're my favorite daughter, and I love you."

Of course I cry;  adult-child that I am.

Maybe I should mention that I'm only his favorite daughter because I have no sisters, but that's not the point.  I paid my copay the next day.  I've come up with a grandiose plan for changing my life.  I might never forget the way I treat my parents when they bug me, but they already have (or are wise enough not to care).  I bought Dad some fro-yo, facebook asked me if I was interested in a Groupon for beer tasting, and all of it is slowly starting to make sense again.

Until my next 30-year-old temper tantrum.