Man vs. Beast

Things are definitely starting to pick up around here. A sense of momentum, of impending change and movement, has returned to life although the summer is far from over. The future is no longer filled with mere possibilities, and I no longer have to squint to see the events coming up on me at blinding speed. From bored to busy in one week flat, quite the turnaround.

“What does the future hold, Wise One?” I can hear the mortals croon.

“Great things, my son. Great things.”

I will not leave it at that, for I am a benevolent master, and a benevolent master does not skimp on the foreshadowing.

It is a pivotal time, my children, a time filled with excitement and danger at every turn. My friends face great tests, in both the literal and figurative senses, and my heart rides with them even if my ass rides only this chair. Whatever the outcome of these great battles, we will celebrate with much food and drink. Much drink. On Sunday we will celebrate the assured victory of the A’s over the Royals by attending this fine spectacle. Prepare yourselves, midwesterner scum, for you are far from home and you know not the fury of our bullpen.

Just beyond the horizon, even more important events loom. The return of the Man Train to Vegas, a two day and two night burn out across the Nevada wastes into that swirling tempest of neon and debauchery. We all travel with lighter shoulders and lower standards, this time around. For the most part, our hardy band is free of the vicious guilt and unwanted burdens collectively known as “serious relationships”, and so we will no doubt put our previous epic Vegas adventure to shame. Anything is possible out in that void of morals and responsibility, and God has no jurisdiction in Nevada. In fact, that’s the whole reason they built the city out there in the first place. Hours from anything resembling civilization, surrounded only by sage, dust, and baked rock, Las Vegas burns like a torch in the dark desert sky. They put it out there for the same reason they build nuclear waste facilities and maximum security prisons in Nevada, so that none of the bad energies exuded out into the surroundings will do anyone any harm. I mean shit, it’s the middle of the desert, who cares. If I don’t return with twenty grand, a deep knife wound, or a felony conviction by the end of the weekend, I will consider myself a failure.

Beyond that, camping. A trip to San Diego. The Return to San Luis. You are right to be apprehensive, my children, but do not fret. Things are looking up, and all of these have just the right kind of potential we need. Everything might just work out all right, after all.

Also, let’s hope that Andre Ward beats the living hell out of anything foolish enough to stand against him. Do it for America, Andre. Do it for Oakland.

Time to get some sleep. If all goes as planned, I certainly won’t be getting any this weekend. Rock you like a hurricane, bitches.



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