The prayers of the cursed

Nope, this post isn’t about those lovable losers from Wrigleyville finally landing a solid left hook on a crisp October night. Even if the upcoming World Series feels like something out of a Ray Kinsella novel, with two star crossed towns looking to put an end to the agony of countless winters. 

This post is about a love story that me and the ladies over at The Lovely Fire have been cooking up. It is a prelude to Declan Beckett’s journey into the zombie apocalypse, with steps tendered out of a proposition he did not bargain for. It’s the music in that crazy little thing called love that allows us to believe in the impossible chances.

The wind whispered through the dark, empty trees like a warning in a foreign language. Winter was coming, and with winter came the wicked truths. The season had become a plaintive song to Declan Beckett. The initial frost of a brand new season was little more than a wretched scowl to his way of thinking. The merciless cold murdered all color from the landscape and replaced it with a Faustian bargain, while the darkness spoke the sun into a different language; its dreadful rampart stripping the rind of that ageless fiery circle and rendering it a muted facsimile before schoolchildren had even completed their homework.

He moved to the window of his studio apartment and stared at the barren oak tree that lived inside the street below. It was eighty feet tall, give or take, but it was a thousand miles higher on the pride of its clench. A fearless spectacle of mighty abandon, it had probably fought off the clutches of death a hundred times and it would likely fight it off several hundred more before settling its tab with the stars of a hungry sky. It spoke to the power of miracles; to borrow forever from the shallows, to speak life into a certain death.

Declan placed his hand to the glass panel which was painted in diaphanous rings whose formation was created from the gushing bleed of cold that hollowed the midnight streets. The wind danced precipitously across his brain, widening as a falcon’s wings from begging plead to hopeless flutter to wicked groan to menacing war cry. The seemingly benign construct of its whir possessed a Gothic interpretation of the world whose tariff demanded one’s sanity.

His conscience was an easy enough wall to climb after all these years of a life gone mad with evil deeds and unspent prayers. His last best wish had gone missing to all hope on a September afternoon inside what felt like another lifetime ago from here. With each subsequent winter came a hard and merciless rain that drove his mind to a reckoning he could not supplant with lawyers, guns or money.

The restlessness of his every single day was being especially benevolent on this particular evening, as if his very life was being scratched across the chalkboard of a class on Greek Mythology. It felt like the old days, it felt like New York. Only this was Atlanta, Georgia on a particularly inhospitable night with nary a speck of Southern hospitality in its offerings. He grabbed his leather and a couple necessaries and made way for the rooftop.

“Evening Deke . . . you’re up late.”

It was his landlord, Frank Chance. Dipping his finger into the business of someone else’s cake batter, as per usual. Declan guessed it was the predictable habit of wealthy retirees whose social calendars consisted of missing a woman and the days they spent like Paris. Chance was a harmless little man, if not annoying as all get out.

“It’s a sad fucking thing when an old bugger such as yourself can predict my bed time with any degree of certainty.” Declan winked.

“Well, it’s your own damn fault that you’re so fucking predictable!” Frank hollered. He loved his tenant from 4C, who always supplied him with humorous banter and six months advance in cash money goodness.

The two men spoke for a few minutes, avoiding the awkward reality of Declan’s risk averse love life which consisted of high priced escorts and the occasional celebrity housewife who was in need of some scratch for her perpetual itch. They spoke of the local teams instead, and they labored on modern day politicians who behaved like temperamental chefs and governed like spoiled children. And before they settled their conversation, they spoke of the latest fear that was gripping their town.

The virus was a Frankenstein proposition of Godly smite, Mary Shelly imagination and bureaucratic arrogance and now it was growing in both frequency and dimension. There were numerous reported outbreaks across the city, mimicking the national and global concerns. The days since had swelled into weeks and months, and while every public official insisted there was nothing to fear, it was becoming quite evident that the opposite would soon be true.

Declan said his goodnights to the charmingly inquisitive Mr. Chance and made his way to the rooftop. His cold weather combat fatigues consisted of a gray hooded jacket draped in a well worn black leather jacket whose pockets were lined with a flask full of bourbon and a fresh pack of Marlboro Reds.

The moon was a ripening scream and it was begging his attention from places he could not understand. He burrowed his eyes into its crust, peeling back the cashmere plum in a desperate want that swelled his eyes. He lit up a smoke and took a swig from his flask and he tried harder still. All of this from the inspiration of a dream that he could have sworn wasn’t a dream at all.

He was on the beach, with a lighthouse holding court behind him and there was Marie, walking in that gentle blossom way she used to walk, treading the ancient sands and plugging the world around her into a beautiful sound. Each step filled him with a deep and endless want and each moment with a breathless curiosity. And then she was standing right there, before him. In the dream he did not feel the need to grab her up before she disappeared again. In the dream he was content to listen. To everything.

“Baby. I miss you . . . so much.”

“I’m always right here baby, always . . . right here.” She reached for his hand and placed it over her heart and it was as if the gesture had been created from the heavens above. 

“It’s not enough . . . ” 

“Yeah. It is. Baby, you don’t get what all of this means. Not yet . . . but you will soon enough.” 

“Let me come with you.”

“It doesn’t work that way baby.” 

“Why not?”

“Because there’s another girl on another rooftop, and she needs you more than I do right now.”

“No!” He replied angrily.  

Marie simply touched his face and curled her lips into a smile that lit his world on fire, every time. And then . . . she was gone.

“Mon, it’s the girl who loves you telling you the truth of all things. So no worries . . . everything alright.” 

And so it began, shortly before the end of the world, the Marley dreams. He awoke to the sounds of Jimi Hendrix burning his guitar into a fine mist of purple haze from one flight down in apartment 3C. And that’s when he decided to make way for the roof, no mattering the thermostat. He was going to play it like the old days, like New York; when he used to make way for the rooftop in his Long Island City apartment building and dream upon a skyline wrought by the proverbs of Runyon.

There was something going on outside the cloister of his four walls and a roof, and it was killing him to know the truth of all things. The indigo moon plunged like a seabird, spilling the wake of angry tides across the ancient sands whose answers were still bathed in eloquent smiled answers to the savage beasts of the world. Like that mighty oak, they paid no mind to the losses when all that really mattered was the air that allowed for its climb.

He didn’t figure on outrunning his cursed existence, but maybe that wasn’t the point of all of this. Maybe all the answers to all those many questions was in the music of a person’s soul, and maybe his lost soul could provide a final redemptive argument to the unforgiving fates. And maybe the catastrophe of his present day might show its reason, soon enough.

The promise of maybe was all he had left.


Sweet thoughts for a sweet someone’s birthday eve

From time to time I’ll go back and read past journal entries. Most of them are incoherent scribbles from the middle of the night or dumb droning thoughts on dumb droning subjects. Sometimes though I actually manage to write something profound, perhaps even pragmatic and purposeful.

This was written on the eve of a milestone birthday. The timing seems to work out to share it here, as today happens to be the eve of a certain very special person’s milestone birthday.

Sooo, sweet, deep thoughts, for a very sweet, deep someone. Happy Birthday Eve.


From May 20, 2014

This is the last day I’ll be 39.
Tomorrow I will meet 40.
Today I am only three decades and days old.
Tomorrow I will have four decades.
And yet I know it is just another day.

Sometimes I think about life like a big vase of marbles. Maybe jelly beans. You know those carnival or raffle games? GUESS HOW MANY JELLY BEANS IN THIS VASE! WIN A PRIZE! A BIG TEDDY BEAR STUFFED WITH FAKE PLASTIC BEADS THAT–IF DIGESTED–WILL EXPAND IN YOUR STOMACH 400x AND KILL YOU! Yeah. Those types of jars.

Well imagine at the beginning of life we get a jarful of jelly beans — all ours. And at the end of each day, we take out one jelly bean from the LIFE jar, and we move it to the USED jar. (Well, only if we really want to have something to show for our lives. Our days. Maybe some of us just remove a jelly bean and eat it. Enjoy life, right? Ah, but it’s so hard to eat just one.)

The law of averages would probably say I’ve now got just about as many jelly beans in my LIFE vase as I do in my USED vase.

So what happens then? As the beans begin to dwindle? Do they begin to taste sweeter or more bitter? Do you dread the counting of the beans, or does each day become more sacred, taking on greater and greater significance? Or is every day still just another day?

Of course I am sitting on a beach in Aruba as I consider these thoughts. The notion of counting grains of sand (like time in an hourglass, so are the days of our lives, spoken in a dramatic soap opera voice) seems dauntless–
And yet.
And yet.

There is a finite number of grains here too. At least as far as we know. Sand could multiply like Mickey’s brooms in Fantasia expanding exponentially, but even then, if you flash froze time for an instant, wouldn’t there still be a finite number of sand grains?

But back to jelly beans. Can you imagine if we could steal each others’ jelly beans?

I guess we can. I guess that’s called murder. I guess you can even psychologically steal beans too– emotionally hurt another– steal their will to live. But that time is never added to your own.

So, sure, each day is just another day. And yet some days are milestone-ish.

After 40 years, I think I want to travel lighter. Emotionally, but maybe physically as well.

On day Four of Aruba, and I’ve already worn a couple of things twice (jean shorts!) so there is no doubt I over-packed, even though I brought less than before.


So to travel lighter, I have to let go.

I have to let go of and release attachments.

The past is just a story we tell ourselves.

Why shouldn’t our stories be happy? Why keep re-living the past over and over again? I don’t live in the past. I live in the now. This one precious jelly bean.

Ahhhh… like jelly beans… assorted flavors. Some days are sweet juicy cherry. Some days are buttered popcorn jelly beans. ICKY.

And I can see more popcorn beans in the vase. I know some days ahead will be icky. Though I don’t know when. But I see a hell of a lot more cherry and blueberry and grape and bubblegum.

Apparently I have a sweet tooth today.


Let go.

Travel lighter.

Enjoy jellybeans.

Have something to show for your days.

And jelly beans can be flavor-combined. If you share with a friend, you can create new flavors. And if you partake in enough others’ cherries and berries, they may even drown out your own icky butter-popcorn days.


To M,

Thank you for making my days oh! so sweet and for drowning out those icky butter-popcorn days with your honey-drizzled fruitiness.
Happy Birthday, Soul Man. I’m sooo glad you were born.
Love love love love you, c-



If You Build It They . . . Oh Never Mind

The world of politics has generated more fairy tales than Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm. 

Take this Trump Wall © for example. It ain’t happening. Not even if you fronted Mexico ten billion dollars, not even then. So why does Mister Golden Hair keep beating on these dead drums? Because it’s his one trick, and he’s going to schlep it into history’s footnotes, that’s why.

If Trump was really, truly serious about creating an impediment for unwanted tourists, he wouldn’t be talking up a wall. He would be telling us why a moat is the best idea.

A moat makes TOO much sense, which is why it’ll never happen. It figures that Trump would want to build up, seeing as how he never attached his name to a skyscraper that didn’t run over budget. But if he really wanted to stem the tide of illegal immigration in this country, he’d be shoveling dirt rather than yanno, what he’s shoveling. Generally speaking, digging is less expensive than building up- unless you live in Massachusetts.

As Americans, digging is second nature. We dig in to smorgasboards, we dig our music, we dig challenges and oftentimes we dig our own graves- metaphorically speaking. You dig? Of course you do, you’re an American!

We could build a moat that would leave the peeps in the Seven Kingdoms breathless with envy. Let’s say a quarter mile wide and deeper than Johnny Depp’s thoughts on matrimony. And then we could fill it with water, and crocodiles. This makes sense from a security standpoint AND it also serves an ecological purpose in that it will help to repopulate an endangered species. Hey PETA! . . . You’re welcome.

A wall is going to cost Mexico (sic) tens of billions of dollars, and that’s before the first brick is laid. And really, there’s a better chance Tim Tebow gets laid in the next year than the first brick of this wall. And if the wall does start happening sooner rather than later, it means Trump won the general election. Hardly a sure thing, considering he’s behind in fifty seven states. And we only have fifty.

Okay, so he’s actually doing better than any of us thought. Like Jason Vorhees and Michael Myers and Marie Osmond, he just won’t die. So . . . say Trump does win, what then? Even his followers are well aware this wall talk is shakier than a Stevie Wonder self portrait. Many of his followers get the joke. More specifically, the ones who don’t find Larry the Cable Guy the least bit entertaining. Them. Those peeps fully expect Trump to trash the wall talk should he attain the Oval Office. They’re pre-conditioned for disappointment, which is why they’re behind Trump. Really, the only people- outside of the Larry the Cable Guy demographic- who are looking forward to a wall along the Southern border are graffiti artists and reality show producers. 

Hilary has never been a closer. She snatched defeat from the jaws of victory in 2008 and she allowed Bernie Sanders to become more popular than Harley Quinn on a party bus. There’s still time for her to awaken her inner Sun Tzu, but to quote one of my favorite Yogi-isms, it’s getting late early. She best get to work, or invite the possibility that her Homecoming Night morphs into a Dr. Seuss readalong, narrated by Louis C.K. Blue State, Red State, Red State . . blew! 

She can lower the bar on Trump, rather than the other way around. See him a Southern Border wall and raise the idea of The Moat. And so what if it doesn’t jibe with her message of inclusivity? It’s just a political promise . . . and political promises are made to be broken. Nixon promised to end the war in Vietnam while Bush 41 insisted he wouldn’t raise taxes and Obama sold hope and change as if Christmas trees on December 24th.

They all won. Because that’s how politics works. Promise voters the world, even if you have no moolah in the old bank account. So what if those promises prove to be like glitter from a strip club and they end up following you home. Your home is the White House, and hell . . the explanations as to why those promises didn’t happen? That’s what press secretaries are for.

Imma shoot off an email to Hil.

Zombies and Ellas and Diddys, Oh My

A few months ago I noticed my recently played Spotify artists ranged from Eazy-E to Otis Redding to Britney Spears to someone like John Denver. I don’t actually remember the last two, but I do remember telling Jennie about it. After we both laughed, Jennie sent me a poem made up of song lyrics from those four artists. And it was awesome!

Which sparked an idea… what if we challenged each other to come up with a couple of poems based off of song titles only from five artists we pick for each other? We’d even post them all here on Drinks and let Mister Thorn pick the winner.

It was one of those things that seemed like a good idea at the time. Then inevitably we both got busy and this became another brainstorming idea — one of hundreds — that got left behind on The Island of Forgotten Ideas.

Until I found the scrap of paper I had jotted my little poems on somewhere at the bottom of my purse.

Jennie had challenged me to the following singers/bands:

1. Diddy (or Puff Daddy or Sean Combs, since technically they’re the same person. I think.)
2. Nine Inch Nails (or Trent Reznor)
3. Rob Zombie (or White Zombie)
4. Lana Del Rey
5. Ella Fitzgerald

So what I had to do was create a poem out of song titles from each of the above artists. Easy peasy, right? Yeah right. You google Rob Zombie song titles and then get back to me on how easy peasy it is then. (For example, some of his titles include: “Sick Bubblegum,” “Scum of the Earth,” “Ging Gang Gong De Do Gong De Laga Raga,” and “Well, Everybody’s Fucking in a U.F.O.”)

But I had a great time coming up with a few. Wanna challenge me with five artists? I’ll work on them for a future post. Or I can challenge YOU. Jennie had hers written down too; if she can find her slip of paper, we’ll post them here sometime. We’ll even still let Cayman pick the winner. xo, christy



I’ll be missing you
The perfect drug
Medication for the melancholy
When I get low, I get high
God knows I tried



Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets
Money ain’t a problem
Fucked my way to the top
Never gonna stop
Head like a hole, I’d rather die, than give you control.



God of thunder
In the wee small hours of the morning
You get me closer to god
Will you still love me when I’m no longer young and beautiful?
I’m coming home.


Artist order
1. Diddy, NIN, Rob Zombie, Ella, Lana
2. Ella, Diddy, Lana, Rob Zombie, NIN
3. Rob Zombie, Ella, NIN, Lana, Diddy



“Young and Beautiful” by Lana Del Rey


*Hey Michelle, did you notice I’m still channeling my inner-Dorothy like I did in my Lovely Fire post? Hint, look at the title.

The Long and the Short of It (Abridged Version)

More isn’t always better.

Take for instance, “Long story short . . . ”

There’s no such thing as “Long story short,”. Just as there is no such thing as bread in Chinese restaurants or professional football in Miami. It’s a boldface lie in long britches. It’s like Three Easy Steps! or the starting time for a big sporting event or a ‘vote of confidence’. It’s a funny line from Jim Belushi, an honest line from Hilary Clinton, the bottom line at Bank of America.

It’s human nature to expand rather than contract and in so doing, to waste someone else’s time. It’s easier to shake and rattle, rather than to simply roll. That’s why we have malls and stretch limos and Don McLean.

People who have a story to tell always want to tell you the whole thing. 

The last recorded incident of a long story actually being short? Try The Gettysburg Address in November, 1863. Which clocked in at two minutes despite its dubious “Four Score and Seven Years Ago,” beginning. Somehow, Lincoln was able to enumerate on such lofty ideals as honor, sacrifice and the underpinnings of the Declaration while framing the bloodshed at Gettysburg as a symbolic call to union by God and country . . in two minutes time! For the sake of comparison, Cleveland Browns head coach Mike Pettine’s average pre-game speech last season clocked in at a robust four minutes and twenty eight seconds. The Browns went 3-13.

Think about that one tomorrow morning when the other end of your line recites a thesis on why they can never date anyone with kids ever again. And best of luck trying to cut that conversation short.

Current Events For Dummies (That’s redundant, isn’t it?)

I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty sick and fucking tired of “Breaking News” that ain’t really even news. So Imma focus on some of the peeps who are swimming through this week’s news cycle instead. Because it’s what Wolf Blitzer would want.

Trump- Trump peeps will tell you that’s why they LOVE him; because he “tells it like it is.”- an intentionally vague and wholly indefinable concept due to the fact it is entirely semantical. Noam Chomsky and Pat Robertson “tell it like it is” from different corners of the galaxy, with zero promise of a nine o’clock tee time to hash things out. In other words, it’s another way of saying “I’m right and you’re wrong.”

Trump could have been a legit agent of change in this country. Just look at the truths he’s expunged from the murky undercarriage of our business as usual existence. Over the course of a year he laid waste to the GOP field, exposing many of them for what they have become- lazy, entitled talking heads who are more adept at righteous indignation than right thinking leadership. He fired on the Democratic machinery for being entrenched elitists who believe they know what’s best for the whole wide world, even when they don’t. He introduced himself as Exhibit A when railing on about how grass roots movements win Oscars but money still wins political favoritism. Problem is, every good point is soon buried under the inane rants of a man who prefers to play to the frustrated roars of his followers rather than pound out common sense alternatives for an ailing system.

An agent of change doesn’t hide behind euphemistic walls. He doesn’t flip flop and he doesn’t talk about how great America used to be when the fact of the matter is that a democracy’s greatness is ALWAYS presently constituted rather than a byproduct of sketchy recollections. Change should feel uncomfortable, but it shouldn’t be unreasonable.

Ryan Lochte- Never mind . . .

Colin Kaepernick- Sit, stand, nap . .  it’s not my business how someone chooses to recognize (or not) the National Anthem. Personally, I stand and I put my hand on my heart and I give thanks to the men and women who defend our right to speak freely, think openly and play Pokemon Go. I have no problem with someone who uses their high profile platform to address social issues, just so long as they are informed and earnest. And I’m dubious as to Kap’s ability to carry through on what he started. I mean, did it just occur to Kap that we have serious issues to attend to? Where was his indignation before now? Cynic that I am, the timing seems opportunistic; a player on his last NFL legs decides to summon his inner Ali against a system he deems unfair and worse. Why did he wait? Seems to me, he might have begun his crusade after winning the starter’s job, or after signing his big contract, or during Super Bowl week a few years ago. Whatevs, it’s his opinion now. He’s going to have to deal with the criticism, but he’s also going to have to come across as invested. It’s not enough to address the failings of a system. If it was, then public policy meetings would begin at Happy Hour. Maybe Kap surprises everyone and becomes a clear and consistent voice for those whose voices have been muted for far too long. We’ll see.

Dwayne Wade- He lost his cousin to gun violence last Friday night- Nykea Aldridge is one of more than 400 victims to have been shot, and one of 87 fatalities . . . in August. Chicago is closing in on 500 homicides for the year, and there are still four months to go. I don’t know how this changes, but I do know that Wade is fully invested in the fight for change, even before Friday night. He knows of the cause he stands behind and he is a voice that won’t be here and gone. And he’s in a town that desperately needs him, not for his basketball skills but for the change he can affect.

Anthony Weiner- He screwed up his career in Congress and then derailed his mayoral chances because he was playing Sponge Bob No Pants on his cell phone, but that’s not why he’s a phony in my book. Nah, it’s his self righteous, “I know better than you do” attitude that defined his political career that has me shaking my head. He went after diplomats for the millions of dollars in unpaid parking fines they owed the city, and yet his fleet also had a slew of unpaid parking fines . . . huh. Weiner devoted a ton of time and energy to cracking down on tobacco smuggling on the internet- which is a fiscal consideration worth fighting for if you’re in Congress. But smuggling penis pics across the internet- even when he had no idea who was receiving them- was okay. What a dick.

Tim Tebow- Why the hate for this guy? I mean . . he’s never been in trouble with the law, despite playing for the Florida Gators! He’s never failed a drug test, tweeted something moronic, dumped Taylor Swift, beaten up a Cub Scout or been arrested for jacking a pair of Beats from the local Target. And yet . .the spigot of hate directed at this dude by his critics is more epic than Brad Pitt’s lonesome anger in Killing Them Softly. How did he become such a polarizing figure when . . . Oh yeah, I remember now. He’s a white, Christian conservative. I’m not a Christian conservative, but I’m also not a bully. I don’t pick on people who are different than me, I don’t call them out for trying and failing, and I sure as hell don’t sandblast them for picking themselves up and trying something completely different. The haters got the wrong man, but I’m pretty sure most of them already knew that.

Chris Brown- Speaking of bullies, here’s a dude who never met a bad idea he couldn’t make even worse. But his Scarface routine is a new level of stupid, even for Brown. It’s never a good idea to tell the cops to “bring it on” . . . schmuck.

Terrorist Clowns- This story seems odd and far fetched, but in the event there are clowns in the woods? The peeps of Greenville County best learn the Ritual of Chud . . . quickly.

I’ll end this mind numbing experience with a shout out to Travis Rudolph. The Florida State wide receiver recently visited a middle school in Tallahassee, where he spotted a boy eating lunch all by his lonesome. So he joined the kid. He must’ve forgotten the macho mandate thrown down by Nike, ESPN and all the other merchants of menace who sell swagger and attitude and mean girl behavior as cool shit worthy of celebration. Here was Travis, keeping it real . . . by behaving as a kind, compassionate human being.

That right there . . . is some breaking news.





A Fair and Imbalanced Rio Recap (In Technicolor!)

You know what I find amazing about the Summer Olympics? The fact that very few people know what a fortnight means. It’s Old English and it means fourteen nights, but since it has nothing to do with live streaming or loaded nachos, Americans are oblivious. Granted, this ain’t the most patriotic way to begin a post about the Summer Games, but I really dig the word fortnight so you’ll have to excuse my delayed red, white and blue holler.

If asked to recap the Rio Games in five words or less, I would probably go with “A Fortnight of Kicking Ass.” We won 121 overall medals- with zero help from the Clinton Foundation. That’s the most since Russia was, well . . . Russia. We won the most gold, silver and bronze medals and one of our top swimmers ignited an international incident, so really, we accomplished everything we set out to do. I’d like to think we sent the rest of the world home hating on us just a little bit more. Let’s face it, nobody hates Turkmenistan, other than the peeps who call it home.

Admittedly, I thought Rio was going to be a disaster, what with the sulfuric acid quality of the water and the specter of a Zika Virus. Not to mention, the IOC blew most of its back room coin on added security measures for an event whose threat level was higher than Joe Namath at a Monday Night Football game. If the Summer Olympics had been a television pilot, it would’ve been canceled in May.

Thankfully, the Summer Olympic Games of 2016 happened. And they happened bigger and brighter than most any fortnight’s worth of games I can remember. Every day possessed a forever quality, every medal a validation of hard work and persistence, every moment possessed the glorious quality of limitless possibilities.

Michael Phelps pocketed five golds and a silver. His continued dominance is all the more amazing when you consider he eats ten pounds worth of McDonald’s a day. While the majority of Americans might be able to match his Big Mac intake, they’d have a hard time making it from one side of a hot tub to the other after doing so.

And what about Katie Ledecky? She scored four golds and a silver, smashing her world record time in the 800 meter freestyle. She was so far ahead of the rest of the field that she grabbed some Mickey D’s with Michael before making it back in time to see the other swimmers finish. Her competition for the 2020 Games in Tokyo should petition for a five second head start.

Sports/Activities/Silliness I would love to see attached to the Olympics? Sure, why not.

A top five or so list of sports I want to see Olympicized

1-Beer League Softball
4-Motorcycle Jumping
5-Shin Kicking
6-Turnstile Jumping

Our lady gymnasts, led by Simone Biles, were a delight. Not only did they take gold in floor, vault, all around and team, they had me watching gymnastics. Not to mention, using delight in a sentence . . . and meaning it. Our lady ballers were just plain dominant as they rolled to another gold while proving to me that someday? We’re gonna see a lady in the Association. Fo Sho. And I would be remiss if I left out the US women’s soccer team. The defending gold medal winners failed to reach the finals for the first time in their history, but Hope Solo aside, they’re golden just the same. Most of the inroads soccer has made in this country over the past few decades is because of the girls.

The NBA won a gold medal, and so now I guess all the pressure is off Kevin Durant. Just kidding. The US men’s track and field team tried to sign Usain Bolt as a free agent, but failing that, still matched Jamaica’s 11 medals. We failed to medal in ping-pong, handball and badminton . . which is actually something to be really fucking proud of.

Rio Scene Stealer- Same dude who has been atop my Olympic marquee since he broke in with three world record times at the ’08 Games in Beijing. Usain Bolt. If there is life beyond this planet, they can’t have him back.

We won our first ever gold in the triathlon thanks to Gwen Jorgensen, and it’s really kind of odd to contemplate the dichotomy of the Summer Olympics events, where a ping-pong champ gets the same medal as someone like Jorgensen . . . so I won’t.

Rio Bravo Moment- US runner Abbey D’Agostino imploring New Zealander Nikki Hamblin during their 5,000 meter race to “Get up!” after the two collided, basically cancelling each other out. Despite being hurt in the crash, Abbey D made sure Hamblin was gonna finish the race with her.

Goddamn, I’ve been talking up America as if I’m Sean Hannity busting a Happy Hour nut at Applebee’s. So lemme spend my last few thoughts on shit that made me go hmmmm.

Like, is Bob Costas ever going to get old and die? . . . And what’s the deal with Rio water? It’s either so antiseptic as to render pool water green, or toxic enough to peel flesh . . . Golf at the Olympics has been a thing? . . . Baseball at the Olympics hasn’t? . . .

And last because it’s least, we really didn’t need “Convenience Store-Gate” to let us in on the fact that Ryan Lochte is a complete fucking idiot. The buzz this story generated really does speak to our astounding inability to separate news from just plain stupid shit. For one thing, he’s Ryan Lochte. For another, he lied to Matt Lauer in an interview. Who doesn’t lie to Matt Lauer in an interview? Did he embarrass our country? Hells no. It’s Ryan Fucking Lochte we’re talking about! Hope Solo was a lot more embarrassing after that loss to the Swedes. And don’t get me started on how this makes Rio look bad, because them peeps do a solid job of that without any help.

Giselle called. She wants her sexy back.