Okay, I'll try to gloss over the little stuff and then attempt to describe
The Disturbance as self-therapy.
Mrs. Raoul and I got into LA at 7AM on two hours of plane sleep. I'd aimed
to be out four of the five hours, but goddamned if "Pirates of the
Caribbean" wasn't the movie, so I allowed myself an hour of viewing
pleasure. "This can't be a dream; there's no rum." - Cap'n Jack Sparrow.
At the car rental counter in the Hyatt I told them I needed a convertible
for the day. They had one left. An '06 'Vette. With 400 miles on it. For
$240. Mrs. Raoul wisely counseled me to change my demands and I settled on
something called a Toyota Avalon, which at least had a moonroof and went
fast. After getting disastrously poor advice from a valet, I ended up
cruising Normandie Ave. and Crenshaw on my way to the 10, but was in 1000
Palms by 11AM for a six pack with my friend and his newly widower Dad, all
was well, and I headed back to LA. Other than the two hour trip taking
three hours due to traffic, I rolled into the Hyatt around 4PM and waited
for Mrs. Raoul in the lobby bar. Then we were off to some trendy bar called
the Opus (!) but the bartenders loved us and we downed many Coronas and
headed next door to the Wiltern for Mrs. Raoul's Lindsey Buckingham show,
sponsored fortuitously enough by Corona. We were well lit and had 8th row
seats in a 1500 seat room. Say what you will about Fleetwood Mac (I'm not a
fan, Mrs. Raoul's their No. 1 Fan), anyone that plays guitar must at least
appreciate what he does on a six-string. And to see up close how there are
no smoke and mirrors is fairly distressing to a hack like me. After the
show, back to the Opus for another $80 tab then I got to bed around 1AM.
SatAM we cabbed it to LAX. Nearly missed our flight to Oakland. They had
to reopen the plane to get us on. Mrs. Raoul will blame this on me, but I
guarantee those passengers would rather leave late in order to let me drop a
deuce in the airport as opposed to fouling an airplane bathroom. And that's
all I'll say about that.
BARTed it out to our Mariott in SF with no fanfare. Got settled and went
down to the concierge to find a place to hole up for sports and cocktails.
We were directed to Jillian's, a fantastically huge place with nine big
screens covering about 280 sq ft of wall space behind the bar. Anyway, big
tab, mucho beers, then a relatively early bedtime around midnight. We had
shit to do the next day and the concierge wasn't any fucking help. I'd
asked him earlier about going to the Raider game and was there anyplace to
buy some beer around the hotel. His answer was "Of course, of course," like
I was a moron. So I pressed about taking it on the BART and he started
looking around and mumbling about "just keep it discreet", and I said
"Right, just keep 'em in the bag then" and he gave me the "Yes, yes, we
will have time to do this tomorrow" and wandered off. Well, "tomorrow" was
going to begin at 7AM but I gave him the benefit of the doubt. So the next
morning when I didn't see him at the desk, Mrs. Raoul made clear her
misgivings at having the new concierge call that fucker at home so I could
get my "tomorrow time" in with him. Needless to say, I saw every place he
would have recommended and they were all closed before 8AM. Pig.
SunAM, quick breakfast at Denny's and they didn't know where to buy beer
either. Fuck it. To the BART and get this show on the road. SacD called
and he was almost in the parking lot as we boarded the train. No crazies on
the BART at that hour, just some beggars. I did give a couple bucks to a
lady in a wheelchair and crying about needing to make cash for her meds
co-payment. I figured I needed all the mojo I could get and if this person
turned out to actually be Nightcrawler, so much the better.
A few words about the Tillman jersey, as they deserve their own paragraph.
Got across the footbridge to the parking entrance and Stadium Officials
immediately pegged me as a Cardinal fan. A few other stadium employees
asked if I had missed the Cardinal game by a few weeks. At this point I was
way too numb with disbelief to paraphrase Tillman's final words and scream
at them "IT'S PAT FUCKING TILLMAN, DAMN IT!" For the rest of the day, I got
nothing but "Tillman was a good man", "That's a shame what's happened
since", knuckle-slams, back-pats, high-fives, "TILLMAN!! FUCK YEAH!",
"That's a great jersey", etc. from the Raider Nation. Two notables: one
lady told me she had the same jersey framed above her fireplace, another
"kid" in his twenties jumped my back yelling he knew Tillman and that
Tillman's mom had been his teacher. But like the raptors from "Jurassic
Park", as reptilian as the Raider Nation is on the outside, inside are keen
instincts and virtually all of them knew that I was a Bronco Backer. And
according to plan, I took not one iota of the shit that the few proudly
donning the Predominantly Orange (I counted two Elways, one Champ, one
Davis, two Jake the Snakes, one Al Wilson) encountered. Nothing physical,
but I wouldn't have caught as much of the game had I been busy deflecting
barbs. And I can't ignore barbs. Gotta deflect them. Have to.
So we shot all the way across the parking lots and saw SacD's set up from a
quarter mile away, what with the Hawaii flag waving thirty feet in the air.
Convened with Sac, Mrs. Sac and the girls and a couple of Sac's Bros who
were none to impressed with the logic behind a Free-Agent Fan sporting a
jersey not even from his adopted team. But whatever - I saw no weapons at
this point and Sac was greasing my beer plight by serving me out of his
endless cooler. It's cool drinking fancy pale ales at 9AM. You don't
really feel like an alcoholic because it's expensive beer, not swill. Mrs.
Sac and Sac had the griddle flying with breakfast burritos and eggs and I
think chorizos and hot dogs...I don't really know. I was too busy moving
along and trying to stay in the direct sunlight. It has been confirmed that
thinned blood and Oakland in November are not a match. Mrs. Raoul even
succumbed to burying herself under a Raider parka. But she still looked
good. (HEY! That parka'd look good on my bedroom floor! Ba-dum-dum!)
The lots filled and Sac decided to take us for a stroll. Sac played Virgil
to my Dante, escorting us around the various circles of Hell on Earth. If
anyone ever makes this trek, it is critical that you hook up with SacD.
SacD is the goddamned Guv of Lot C. He knows most of the people and all of
the people know him. We caught some NFL updates from the people with
DirectTV satellites on their car roof, we caught some action from a
season-long domino tournament, we caught the aromas from rib barrels and
deep fryers, and around 9:30 we also caught some friggin tequila shots from
one of Sac's minions. We continued to a roped off area with a bar and
Tecate girls and a DJ. SacD basically shouted down the DJ with The
Bullhorn. SacD fucking loves The Bullhorn. And I will add this: if I ever
get into a situation where I am to hook up with SacD and Fillard, I will NOT
bring The Bullhorn as I anticipate the Grasp for Control would certainly
result in fisticuffs between these two otherwise Gentlemen. Anyway, we got
back to Base of Ops, slammed a few more ales, weathered the line to the
Port-a-Pots and made the 25 minute wait tolerable with The Bullhorn. Some
guy in front of us kept trying to jump in to our jokes, but he was sort of
weird. And yes, that is me calling the boy weird, so make of it what you
will. By the time this kid was second in line, SacD and I decided it would
be a good fund-raiser to auction off his place in line. I pointed him out
to the line behind us and Sac started the bidding at $5 and it was funny for
about eight seconds and then some hotties approached and I grabbed The
Bullhorn while Sac fired up his camera.
Now was time to enter the House o' Thrills. We grabbed ale for the walk and
began navigating the carnage. Like walking across the goddamned moon.
Piles of burned out charcoal. Bundles of rubbish. Mounds of discarded cans
and bottles. Al Gore could refinance another WH campaign with the recycling
abandoned at one Raider game. But the atmosphere is strangely appropriate
on approach. This was not abandonment in the face of an advancing horde.
It was a marking of one territory while moving to greener pastures. Slash
and burn, Raider Nation-style. Nary a cockroach in sight. The S&B are the
only breed that could survive prolonged exposure to such a wasteland of
anticipation and remembrances. And anticipate they now did. The only
reminder of civilization upon entering the grounds were the ticket-takers
and pat-downs. The Surge dominated at this point. The Faithful hummed an
aura that permeated any and all within 200 feet. I briefly lost sight of
Sac and wanted to turn to a security guard and yell "I GOT A BOMB AND I'LL
FUCKING BLOW IT!" just to have an escort to security. Mrs. Raoul? Who the
hell knows. In situations such as this, it's self-preservation and hope to
see ya on the other end.
To enter the stadium you are funneled through a tunnel which is about twenty
feet wide and ten feet high. It only allows light from either end and is
about eighty feet long. But you're in there with about two hundred others.
Two hundred S&Bers. Two hundred S&Bers who decide that this is a good time
to let loose a howl of anxiety, frustration, past glory, chemicals, and
anticipation that reverberates off the concrete and bleeds you on a
molecular level. I've been blessed enough in my life not to have had to
deal with real dread involving a child or loved one so I feel badly about
saying this, but walking through that tunnel I felt Dread. My only
conscious thought was "What ARE these people?" I've mentioned before that
night I did in that bar in South Philly, but there I stayed. The Dread in
that tunnel locked into all my ganglia and began firing off messages of "Get
the fuck out. No good will come of this." My coping skill in such
situations is to detach and sort of watch from afar. Didn't work. I
realized how trivial my Tillman jersey plan was in the face of such Dread.
But because I'm stupid, I locked on to the literal Light at the End of the
Tunnel and shuffled forth. The Dread plowed with every echo and re-yowl.
Then, as I realized I was gonna make it, bravery reared it's head and I
cracked a grin at the disperal of the crowd.
Sac navigated us to our seats and everyone was cool. We were 24th row on
the goal line that Javon crossed. Mrs. Raoul took mucho pix and video. I
spent mucho time shivering and shooting the shit with the regular next to
me. Mrs. Raoul kept making beer runs. Held off on the cigarettes until
halftime. Stayed the entire game. Then out to Sac's again for post-game
and met some more of His People.
Now a quick word about weed at a Raider game. I've been to reggae jams out
here, I've been to Kona, I've been to Maui, I've been to my cousin's house,
my roomie at IU was a huge smoker, and I've been to numerous concerts.
Hell, my lanai has had it's moments. Never in my life have I smelled a more
continuous aroma of ganj than our day at the House o' Tokes. The moment we
got off the BART we smelled some. Circling the lots we smelled some. In
the smoking areas we smelled some. In the seats we smelled some. In the
bathrooms we smelled some. Met one of Sac's People after the game named
Uncle Gene who was the goddamned Key to the Highway. He was so disappointed
in my cigarette habit that he insisted I smoke something healthy, and one
hit allowed me to BART it back to SF, lost in the Beastie Boys/Beatles
mash-ups on my iPod. Gott sei dank Unkle Gene!
Dropped our shit in the hotel and proceeded to rack up about a $120 tab back
at Jillian's. Shot some pool, noticed the Bears and Giants were about
23-20, grabbed another round, had a cig, looked at the score and the Bears
were up about 30. Hmph. How fucked up were we by then? I graced Jillian's
Sunday night karaoke crowd with some Doors and Pearl Jam, then got the fuck
out of Dodge.
MonAM Mrs. Raoul responsibly did her shopping for gifts while I slumbered
until 11AM. BART to SF, found our 3PM flight delayed until 6:30PM and had
no choice but to run up another $100 in the airport bar.
Back to Life. Mucho Mahalos to Mrs. Sac and Sac and the girls and any and
all of the others (HEY-YA ONE-G!) for a great day. If I could avoid that
hellacious tunnel, I'd do it again. During a September game. Opus, damnit,
you should have spoken up sooner and I would have shot you my cell. Next
time. In Sept.
