The West Coast Report #1
Happy Thanksgiving: The Turkey Is Dead
By Christopher Cobb
SG&M Columnist

Erica by: BikerCalendars.com

HERR KOMMANDANT:

 Sorry for the delay in response. Some shit happened this week. Someone broke into my car last night.  I am not
surprised. This is, after all, Los Angeles.

More telling than what he took is what he didn’t: my quarters, dimes and nickels are gone, but my pennies are not. My
Discman is gone, but my tape-deck converter is not. He took my Trident original, but not my tropical flavor. He
grabbed my registration and insurance, one handbook for a 1995 Mercury Tracer and a book of ten rare and very
strange CD’s, but he left my two spare sunglasses.

It’s clear I’m dealing with a total LA jerk-off.

My umbrella is safe, strange, considering it rained the night before last. Yes, it does rain here in LA, but like the
opening of the rare Ipanema Moon Blossom, it only happens very, very late for two or three minutes and it smells like
our beloved city zoo when the janitorial staff went on strike earlier this year. HA! THEN IT WAS THE ANIMALS
THAT RAN THINGS! Very Conquest of the Planet of the Apes!

But that’s six of one, etc. etc. and I can’t afford to waste too much time on garbage like this. Crime happens all the
time out here and most of it goes unsolved. The LA police are useless; they need a villain they can beat like a gong. So
when they have no suspect, their first instinct is to lash out at the poor idiot who called them to investigate. Most LA
crimes are “solved” that way and it is never pretty.

So I got off easy and the cops and the robbers didn’t take away my dignity…I think J. Denny Hastert was the first
person to say that, or maybe it was that old bastard who ran over 100 people on the Santa Monica Promenade. I get
them confused so often.

Thanksgiving was last week. It was a day to get together and remember the sweet beginnings of our Manifest Destiny.
It was a day to binge and purge, to wear ugly sweaters and pretend that everything is still hunky-dory on the
home-front. Most important though: IT WAS A DAY FOR FOOTBALL.

I was due at a family gathering in San Marino at four p.m. P.S.T.,
hnd had time to kill. The cable was out so I had to hop out to the
only place in Old Pasadena open: Jake’s, a subterranean pool hall
and sport’s bar you can get to only by braving an alley that
always smells like puke and raw sewage. I didn’t give two
nickels about the a.m. match-up between Miami and Detroit: it’s
hard to mention either team  without using words like “obsolete”
and “embarrassment.” I did, however, want to see Dallas face
off against Tampa Bay. I didn’t think the game would be good or
even close for that matter, but I did want to catch a glimpse of
the miracle boy-child Tony Romo and his good fortune after the
complete and total breakdown of Drew Bledsoe. Romo wiped
the floor with the Indianapolis Colts and he was sure to do the                         Terrell The Terrible: DallasCowboys.com
same with Gruden’s Bucs. I could probably use some metaphor      
about leaky pirate ships, but I’d rather save that for the Raiders.

 Now let me get this straight: I have always hated the Dallas Fucking Cowboys. I have an uncle who has adored them
all his life, and he is a fine man--one who knows golf and wine and many gentlemanly pursuits--but his love for the
Cowboys tells me somewhere deep within him lurks a bent individual who is capable of crimes most humans are not
capable of committing. His love for Dallas terrified me in the way fire terrified early cave dwellers. However, within this
season I have mastered that magic and understand their dark appeal. And who’s responsible for this enlightenment?

Like every life-long Cowboy-hater, I am pure-bred 49er lover. Terrell Owens was a 49er once and he did a number of
impressive, terrible, insane and rude things. He was the first person to autograph his own touchdown ball. He wiped his
ass on the Dallas star. He even did shirtless crunches during a press conference. But most importantly, he ran the ball
after he caught it and he SCORED.

There are only five or so people who remained fans of T.O through all his crazy shit; I am one of them. Pope Benedict
XVI, Colin Powell, and the ghost of Uday Hussein are among the rest. It is a strange fan club to be a part of but one
where news of Owens’ defection to the Cowboys this year came as no real surprise. When you back a
horse as wild as T.O., the litmus for surprise is raised. Considerably.

Besides, Terrell’s arrival in Dallas represented everything Fundamentalist Christians and Texas football fans love to
the core of their being: religious synchronicity. T.O. as prodigal son, learns his foolish lesson, comes home, kisses the
star, and gets his ass in gear. Sure things got strange for a bit with the suicide attempt and the broken fingers, and no,
he’s not 100%, but he’s a dangerous combination with Romo’s accuracy.

 I left Jake’s after the end of the third quarter. Romo had the game in the bag and Owens was performing adequately.
If there is any advice I can give Bill Parcells or the Cowboy faithful, it is to stay on Terrell at all times. He loves to be
adored but he loves it more to be hated. Scream at him and throw batteries if he drops it—he will not drop the next one.

Dinner was everything it was supposed to be. We sat and ate and laughed and made excuses for not doing this earlier
in the year, for waiting until the holidays, for a reason to HAVE to get together before getting together. Conversation
ebbed and flowed. Someone got up to lie down. What we didn’t eat we threw out. And when we left we got plates of
leftovers. Mine weighed about five pounds and is still in the fridge.

 My dad called from the Bay Area Monday with bad news. My third cousin, who had dinner with us and wasn’t feeling
so hot, died of a heart attack Thanksgiving night. Her son went to the store for her and when he got back she was cold
and blue. You think I’m kidding but I’m not.

 How’s that for some shit?

 SUBSCRIBE TO SEXGUNSANDMOTORCYCLES TODAY!