Hang Time: A Sincere Thank You From One of Bastian’s Boys (Sept. 1, 08 – Roaring Sports Magazine

For a year now, I have scrambled over, maneuvered around, schemed under, sped past, and bribed decent people in order to file my story, knowing that Jon would find a spot for my ramblings. Through Hellish Waters (“Behold the Chicken Raper”) and High Wanderings (‘For Whom Three Belles Toiled”) I have been given free reign over subject matter and firm management when my column was running out of time to meet deadline. Inevitably, I have had to make that Sunday morning call to Jon from some storage closet that I had somehow squirreled myself away in while at work so as to complete the week’s offering on time. Each time Jon has given me the deadline plus grace and stuck with me as I crank away at the thing in a frantic fashion. To fail to meet Jon’s deadline is a sin to me. As a newly published writer, the only thing keeping me apart from a million slack jawed, drooling bloggers is the real estate that Jon has entrusted to my mind every Monday morning, and I dare not give that up. Now that I have found my calling, to slip back into the realm of the unpublished sports man is a horrifying thought.

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Hanging By A String in a Brutal Heat Wave – Hang Time with Corby Anderson

As I wait for the Otis man to arrive and deliver me from this high, hot hell, I am left with little to do but text message this belated, beleaguered column to our fearless editor, Jon Bastian, as my crisis unfolds. But, despite my assigned masthead as a “sports writer,” there is no time for sports when you are hanging like a lead battleship by a fraying bungee cord.

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“Speed is Reality at Laguna Seca”

Hang Time with Corby Anderson 7-24-2008 Speed is Reality at Laguna Seca “Datsun, and Nissan…Ain’t it the same?” Ain’t it the Same – Brad Manosevitz In early summer, when most children begin to slump in their unibody deskchairs, overcome with the dull heat of lower education, tired of the constant tedious uploading and low downing, [...]

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Going Once, Going Twice! (uh oh) SOLD to the Riff Raff in the Rose Hill Drive Sweatshirt!

Darla wants the ‘Vette. It is low-slung, sleek and black with matching numbers. A grey bearded country crooner once owned it, she has heard rumors that he used to drive it naked down Sunset, it’s cockpit spilling over with the immense talent that LA has to offer. But more importantly to Darla, it matches her Otter purse and Dammit Jim (her husband – full name, apparently) she wants this ‘Vette!

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(Bucket)Heads Up at Second Base! Kicking balls at High Sierra Music Festival

Wading through squirming throngs of hippified tweakers, twisted hipsters and beskirted manly men is not an easy thing to do in a golf cart, no matter how many strobing lasers, uuugah horns, gongs, or bells that you have on board to run interference like some kaleidoscopic ice barge. The crowd at this years High Sierra Music Festival here in smoked out Quincy, California is an odd bunch – a post-future retro grade of bugged individualists, uncommonly averse to moving out of the way of a slow rolling vehicle. They move in funky syncope, free radicals vibrating off of one another and me, pouring down the fire lane towards the main stage, where their oracle holds sway.

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Get a Whiff of This! Plastic Loving Dirtbags Descend on Carbondale

“Every year it’s something. I would bet that we are the only league that can say that our championships have been cancelled or delayed due to a toilet overflowing, a dog mauling, or an immigration raid,” Gazebo tells me. “A few years back, the final had to be called due to lack of balls,” he adds, referring to the now-infamous 2004 tournament, when the last usable ball split in half on a hard swing by one player. That was the same year that the league’s founder was dragged off the field by immigration officials, who tracked him down at Miners Park and deported him back to his native Colombia, where he later died in an industrial accident.

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Sports Fans: Don Your Raincoats! The Sports Bubble is About to Burst!

The books are cooked, and the fools manning the buckets keep trying to douse the fire with gasoline. Soon enough, they too will all catch fire, and flee for the pool.

The real question is, what happens when the car company and financial sector sponsors disappear, when discretionary income becomes a novel concept reserved only for those with long memories and Mexican drug czars?

Who is going to go to the games, swill the beer, buy the shirts, the sushi-dogs, or even stay home and watch the games, when joblessness sweeps the nation like a vague plague and broadcast and internet advertisers can no longer justify the expense of footing the network bills?

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Fear Not the Starch Infested Waters…

After all, once you have amputated the very heart of your soul for the right to work endlessly in pursuit of irrational profit, nothing can be worse, and in fact being mercilessly ripped in half by a giant gnashing guppy seems a far better fate than the emphasemic choke of company tie wear and the humiliation born from forced sweater vesting.

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The Anderson Brothers Chase the Whole Herd

On the way to our meadow, we turned a corner, nearly running into a fearsome sow bear, which turned tail and ran. Not one to be left vulnerable, and just in case I had to take the point, I took out my Leatherman tool, calmly sorted through the fifty two options, selected the two inch blade, and strapped it to the front of my gun with a shoelace. If we were going to be mauled in hand-to-claw combat, I was going to inflict some damage, by dog!

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For Whom Three Belles Toiled

The Mardi Gras Pub in Redwood City is no place to be sharing inventions. The place is small and loud and overrun with down turned techies blowing off their disintegrating retirements with a little bit of song and libation. Arnold has black eyes around his circles and the karaoke mike sits on his ballooned belly as he rasps through “Gimme All Your Lovin” The guy before Arnold had to promise that he wouldn’t fall down again to get the microphone from the karaoktrix. Barack Obama sits down next to me. I swear. He sang “Chain of Fools” to a rowdy reception and then claimed that his name was Charles.

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