If I were in charge of the Michael Brown protests in Ferguson, MO...

... I'd immediately move them to downtown St. Louis, Missouri.  Specifically right outside the game day main entrances of Busch Stadium (Cardinals) and Edward Jones Stadium (Rams).

This accomplishes several things.

1.  You take advantage of the fact that you're a close suburb of a major Midwestern city with two professional sports franchises.  And you have public transportation (inexpensive city buses) that can be utilized to efficiently move large groups of people.  According to google, the drive to the baseball stadium is 19 minutes from Ferguson.  The drive to the football stadium takes 16 minutes.  Just enough time to properly rally the troops during your brief interstate excursion.

2.  It better harnesses the power of the First Amendment and uses freedom of assembly provisions to your advantage.  As the Scorpions would say (before they sucked) - Big City Nights, you keep me runnin'.

3.  The newly instituted curfews would have less of an impact.  It diminishes the state's ability to impose their brand of control.  If the police extend the curfew to other areas, it makes them appear overzealous and acting with no discretion.

4.  Whatever the message, it's heard by a larger audience.  And it enhances the possibility of large quantities of people unexpectedly JOINING the protest.  Both stadiums draw strong crowds.  Busch Stadium has a capacity of 46,000 and is general filled.  This is especially relevant because they play on weeknights.  Edward Jones Stadium maxes out around 70,000.  Adds to the perceived ethnic diversity of the protesting group as well, thus giving it greater credibility.  Now it's just not the residents of Ferguson, it's the citizens of St. Louis.

5.  It makes for even greater media exposure from unexpected sources.  If the sports announcers fail to reference the ongoing protests outside, it makes them look indifferent or biased, or at the least, unprofessional and approaching a level of borderline incompetency.

6.  If the governor chooses to call in the National Guard OR mobilize local SWAT teams... all of a sudden, they're seemingly harassing wealthier, mostly whiter individuals that just wanted to enjoy America's favorite past times.  Any routine demonstration of excessive force and militarization has a much greater possibility of being greeted with utter disdain.  When the militarized police are made to look bad (gas masks, tanks and k-9 units, etc.), you look good.

And not only that, but now the police have additional considerations which requires more planning and a fresh overall assessment.  Different crowd variables call for varied approaches, more overtime pay, strategy meetings, strained government resources, etc.  Bleed them from within. 

7.  It takes time to properly mobilize all those police units and command/control systems.  Their effectiveness is diminished if you start to ping pong between different locations.  Who's ultimately in charge of maintaining order becomes open to bureaucratic debate and law enforcement rival egos.

8.  Not only is it a mess for high profile politicians in a recognized swing state, it also pisses off some very wealthy individuals.  There's a guy worth about 4 billion that owns 1/2 of the Rams.  His name is real estate mogul Stan Kroenke and he owns a bunch of other sports teams --- (Denver Nuggets (basketball), Colorado Rapids (soccer) and Colorado Avalanche (hockey).

See!  You just superempowered yourself and made a multi-billionaire even more unhappy. 

Here's what is important.  It sets a precedent.  It puts him and other team owners on notice that their organizations could get drawn into future "ugly publicity" events, skirmishes and civil unrest.  There's even the possibility of looting or senseless automotive vandalism.  Think about it... what if a bunch of protesters go on a window smashing spree?  Who the hell is going to park their car in the nearest stadium lot?  What if there's the perception of possible violence.  Who would knowingly expose their children to this? 

9.  And in keeping with the spirit of the #8, three simple words.  BAD FOR BUSINESS.  Emotions are one thing, but if you hit 'em in the pocketbook, that's where it really hurts the most.  In that same vain, I would encourage people to make signs about police brutality and bring them INSIDE sporting venues.  If the stadiums and ballparks begin to crack down, they'll be opening themselves up to litigation.  Personally, I find an unarmed person being shot by the police 6 times more offensive than a sign that reads, "WE WANT JUSTICE."  Make that a hundred times more offensive.

10.  Some fans might start to feel actual guilt or remorse.  These people are out here protesting in the hot sun and then there's me... venturing from an air conditioned SUV into a climate controlled dome so I can drink overpriced beer and watch black people brutalize each other.  It sends a clear message --- this problem is everyone's problem, not just an isolated crisis in a poor, minority suburb.

BONUS:  After the Michael Brown shooting saga comes to a close and the media's interest dissolves, you can morph the reason for protesting into a different cause... oh, I dunno...  maybe artificially generated stampedes.

ALS Ice Bucket Challenge? How about the AGS Panic Challenge?

These ALS Ice Bucket challenges are sweeping the nation.  I'd be willing to wager that only 15% of the participants know that ALS is an acronym for Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis.  I'd bet that 50% of them probably know it as Lou Gehrig's disease.  And I'm pretty sure that 35% are just dumping buckets of ice water on their head so they can put their footage on facebook or youtube.

Here's an ice bucket challenge from a local Wheeling celebrity and his hound.  He nailed it w/ a Moonshine > Bud can > Bucket > Hulkamania.  I'll post the video if it becomes available.  Until then, this picture will have to suffice.

Next up... NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell.  More polished and predictably less interesting.

There's another viral video sensation.  It's a little more "low brow," but it's even more mesmerizing.  Yep, that is correct.  The "fuck her right in the pussy" spontaneous diatribe - it's helping to bridge the gap between obnoxious bravado and mainstream idiocy.

If that suits your fancy, here's a more substantive compilation...

As usual, my mind tends to wander toward preventing human stampedes --- specifically, raising awareness regarding obsolete venue emergency evacuation protocol.  Newsflash: many football stadiums have between 50,000 - 100,000 active cell phones.  If someone had the nefarious intent, he/she could easily infiltrate enough of these miniature supercomputers and reek absolute havoc.  Ahhh yes, the unexplored downside of NFL commissioner's superconnectivity "living room" experience.

SO.  Here's my spin on the ALS "Ice Bucket" Challenge.  I call it the AGS "Panic" Challenge.  For those of you who've been living underneath a crick rock, AGS stands for Artificially Generated Stampede.

Here are the requirements.  You'll need 3 people and 2 cell phones.  All 3 individuals must be in a large, confined crowd (stadium, ballpark, motor speedway, amphitheater, etc.).  In my mind, this scenario unfolds at an NFL stadium, but any crowded venue will do just fine.  The first person will be filming the interaction between "panic victim" and "voice of reason person." 

Panic victim can be a male, but I think it works better if it's a girl.  We'll call her Brittany.  She'll be sitting in her seat, minding her own business, scrolling through her phone, completely oblivious to the action on the field.  Brittany's more concerned about the "real" world.  She's updating her status, telling people how she just bought a $10 draft beer, alerting her followers that she's the #1 Browns fan in the world, posting duckface selfie - you get the drift - we've seen it a gazillion times.  Any activity that complies with mindless self-absorption and ineffective narcissism.

She's staring into that phone like a guy at the DMV eying up a Marlboro Light as if it were a t-bone steak.  All of a sudden, Brittany gets an "emergency stadium evacuation order" from her cell.  It could be a phone call from her bestie.  It might be a message from a hacked reverse 9/11 platform.  Maybe it's the deliberate misuse of a campus text alert system or a twitter post from someone she trusts.  It could be any number of things... even a threat that rhymes with the name "Tom."

Predictably, Britanny begins to freak the fuck out.  She jumps to her feet spilling her cheesy fries and other miscellaneous transgendered fats.  She starts screaming her face off.  Shrieking her head off.  Peeling her mascara off.  I'm thinking something along these lines...

That's a slew of "god your my saviors."  For a second I thought I was at the Chrisagis Brothers Bull Riding Championship.  Brief tangent --- there really needs to be a movie called "The Passion of the Chrisagis."  Note to self: write a rough script.  Brittany could go for any number of "scared shitless" utterances.

• We're all gonna die!
• We've got to get the fuck outta here. NOW!
• OMG!  There's a bomb filled with anthrax!

Alright, now it's up to "voice of reason" person.  We'll call him Toby.  Toby immediately springs into action.  His sole mission.  Get her to instantly calm down.  At any cost whatsoever.

He could be like, "What the fuck's the matter with you?  Legit evac orders don't come from cell phones.  They use the public address system.  Any idiot knows that.  Now shut the fuck up you Britanny brisket eating bitch!"     

Or he might grab his terrible towel and muffle her face, "Listen, you stupid piece of shit!  Yer gonna spook the crowd and set off a stampede.  What are trying to do?  Incite a riot and get us all killed?"  "No competent incident commander would ever issue an emergency evacuation via individual cell phones."

Maybe Toby could dump his beer on Brittany's head (a la ALS Ice Bucket challenge) or stuff a giant glob of cotton candy in her mouth.  Then, try to engage her in a rational conversation about the dangers of herding instincts and "line of sight" theory.

Any of these responses could work, preferably ones laced with profanity and a vicious, tactical berating.  Get creative.  Explore your outer comfort zone and don't listen to this bald fucko.

So that's my idea for the AGS "Panic" Challenge.  With football season underway, now is the time.  If any douchebag security tells you to stop filming, explain to them how you're committed to REAL matters of stadium safety, a realm far beyond tangible weaponry and clear plastic bags.  How you're stepping up to the plate and addressing an asymmetric national security issue.  It's one the NFL, NCAA, federal government and everyone else is too cowardly to delve into.

Most important, post your interpretive video and make it go viral.  Working together, we can prevent the stampedes before they commence.   Mass crush asphyxiation is not an acceptable outcome.  Or even worse, being physically ejected off the upper tier of the stadium rotunda.  Probably the more comfortable way to die, but still rather unsettling.

I give humanity the AGS "Panic" Challenge.  I'm sure someone out there will thank me.

Robin Williams suicide solution to the artificially generated stampede

I've explored countless ways to inform the general public about the prospect of artificially generated stampedes.  Simply put, it's the modern day equivalent of shouting "fire" in a crowded theater.  The notion that someone could saturate a football stadium or large entertainment venue with panic-inducing information or a phony evacuation order is so ridiculously generic, it boggles the mind that it hasn't been attempted in the United States (I say that because attempts have already occurred in India, and to a lesser extent, central Africa).

And still, nobody has the guts to broach the subject.  I can understand why the NFL and NCAA shy away from discussing it --- foreseeable litigation.  And the government --- plausible deniability and the unfathomably high risk/reward return ratio.

But seriously, isn't there someone out there with some common sense practicality who thinks beyond themselves?  Someone who'd be willing to look out for the greater good?  Someone not obsessed with the accumulation of wealth?  Someone who just wants to do the right thing?  Regardless of his depression or mental anxiety issues, Robin Williams struck me as that type of individual.

I referenced Bob Barker's "Help control the pet population.  Have your pets spayed or neutered" campaign in my latest book.   There was a moral justification for uttering those words at the end of every Price is Right episode.  He wasn't trying to profit.  He just didn't want to see kittens and puppies experience abandonment, suffering or needless starvation.  When nobody else was willing to speak on behalf of the cause, he took it to the next level.  He super-empowered himself beyond the status of legendary game show host.

I've considered all kinds of individuals that might be willing to broach the subject of the artificially generated stampedes.  Senator Joe Manchin (D-WV) from the political realm would be an ideal candidate.  From an artistic standpoint, Pearl Jam seems well suited.  From a conspiratorial perspective, former Minnesota Governor Jesse Ventura has a sizable social media following.  WWE President Vince McMahon from the world of sports entertainment could use it as a story line --- how he made a moral decision to protect the populace since the government was unwilling.  I even wrote a piece about Barack Obama stepping up to the plate.  All of this material is on the AGSAF website.

Suffice to say, even if they came across the information, I doubt any of them would be interested.  They'd likely run in the other direction, faster than if there were an actual stampede.  Acknowledging this issue takes a lot of innards (an abundance of guts, courage, temerity, impudence, effrontery, and so on).

There is one unorthodox solution to the stampedes that I'd never considered... until the past few days.  In the aftermath of the Robin Williams suicide, I couldn't help but notice the outpouring of sympathy and emotion on social media.  Everything, and I mean everything, seemed to take a backseat for a couple days.  It was as if time stood still. 

It was hard not to notice how there's always a great deal of interest in whether or not the person left a "suicide note."  Could be a sense of morbid curiosity or just the regular nib-nosiness of Americans, but people seem fascinated by the rationale and justification for killing oneself.  The stardom and juicy gossip angle fuels even greater speculation.   Was it financial?  Exposed affair?  Personal humiliation? etc.  If the suicide note had substantive content beyond the norm, it would immediately go viral.

So here's my plea to any high profile celeb who's pondering suicide as a "way out."  If by chance, you were to come into contact with this blog and have a strong hunch that you are going to prematurely end your life --- PLEASE consider leaving a suicide note that comprehensively outlines the dangers of obsolete emergency evacuation protocol for large, confined crowds.  Feel free to reference my site.  The reverberations of such a suicide note would be heard from Los Angeles to New York City and every municipality in between.  And as ridiculous as this may sound, I'd gladly take the heat and collective venom from those who thought I personally contributed to your demise.

Suicide is widely regarded as the ultimate selfish act.  Not sure where I stand on that one, but if you wish to mitigate the exposure to your "tarnished legacy" or "sullied reputation"... well... it's just something to think about.  Hey, why not solve a future, hypothetical asymmetric national security issue?  You may have taken your own life, but were always concerned with the welfare of others.  Call me crazy, but I think that would be one helluva statement.  In hindsight, Robin Williams could have been the perfect "stampede messiah."

The Daniel Snyder "Redskins" Solution

Over the past couple months, I've thought a great deal about the Daniel Snyder's Washington Redskins name change dilemma.  Admittedly, from his perspective --- this is a TOUGH one.

Here's what we know.  Snyder is obstinate.  He won't change the name.  The deceased body of Charlton Heston is more likely to relinquish the grip of a gun from his cold dead hands.  Snyder's probably of the mindset that if he caves, his "adoring" fans would never forgive him.  He'd come to be viewed as the next big traitor of the NFL (a la Art Modell).  As most people with a billion net worth, he's likely grown so accustomed to people kissing his ass that he has a ridiculously inflated view of his position in the world.  I seriously doubt most Redskins fans give a damn about his existence (beyond the media exposure, major personnel decisions and win/loss record).  Nonetheless, his reputation is worth more than say some old lady stocking up on dollar store circus peanuts.
 
Personally, I can see where he's coming from.  The Redskins moniker is steeped in tradition.  Monetarily speaking, you just don't want to tinker with the name.  That's a recipe for marketing gruel.  Hell, the name could be worth hundreds of millions.  The Redskins currently rank #3 on the NFL franchise net worth list.  #1 is the Cowboys and #2 are the Patriots.  Stillers come in at #14.  I would have placed the Skins in the top 10, but I didn't know they were third.  That stadium's an uninspired, cavernous dump.  I say move 'em back to RFK.  Great Dead show 2nd set in 1991 (Help > Slip > Franklin's > Estimated > Dark Star > Drumz > Stella > Lovelight.  * Baby Blue).  And no... I didn't look up the set list.

One of the more interesting suggestions I've heard is to change the logo to a potato.  Not a joke.  In the short term, you're made a mockery of.  Not ideal for his ego, but it's not the worst idea I've ever heard.  Maybe sculpt the redskin potato to look a tad menacing.  Perhaps shift the stadium naming rights from FedEx to McDonald's.  Hey, who the fuck doesn't like McDonald's fries?  Maybe have free large fry game day giveaways.  The downside --- you'd be nicknamed the spuds.  And if your season is a dud?   Well, let's just say that Chris Berman and every mindless broadcaster would have a field day with that brand of unforgiving alliteration.

Don't totally dismiss this angle.  The kids at Scottsdale Community College were given the opportunity to choose the name for their intramural athletic mascot.  Purely as a joke, someone threw "The Fighting Artichokes" into the mix.  Guess what?  The students voted and it won. 

What?

Not only did it win, but it became a big success.  Their garb is a big seller on the internet.  Hey, it's a comical novelty.  Great gag gift for someone who is obsessed with college sports.  My mother often fed us artichokes.  I might hit Jebbia's today and snag one.  Freshly squeezed lemon, melted butter and a pinch of salt.

I'm sure there's a Rockville, MD art student with holes in his ear lobes the size of frisbees.  Maybe he could design the new potato helmet logo.  Perhaps start a subliminal "End the Famine" campaign --- a tasteless reference to their Superbowl drought.  The last time they won the big one was the 1991 season.  Things could be worse I suppose.  You could be a Cowboys fan.

Of course, the other choice would be the Washington Hogs (referring to their offensive linemen of the late 80's).  Not much appeal to the women-folk or general health and fitness craze.  But it is a great slap in the face to the DC pork-bellied politicians.  As a non-kosher, bacon loving, non-visiting West Banking individual, I could get behind this. 

The absolute worst thing you could do is choose an Indian fallback name (Washington Warriors).  You either go big or go home.  Although I do like the idea of the DC Scalpers.  Most people don't know this but my Indian nickname is "Scalping Jew."  I was bestowed this honorable title by Merl out the CRRC (Crick Ranch Recreational Compound).  With the impending return of Ken D. from Australia coinciding with the resurgence of legendary folk band Clan Boone, I might dust off my other nickname as well (band manager Reuben Boone).  Upon reflection, I'll just stick with Scalping Jew.  Two reasons --- historical accuracy and an utter disdain for Thousand Island dressing.  Anybody who's anybody knows that when I order a reuben it comes WITHOUT a drenching of regurgitated liquid vomit.  I prefer a side of hot mustard or Frank's Red Hot.

Back to the Daniel Snyder quandary.  As I've maintained, he seems beholden to the Redskins name and the logo.  So the obvious suggestion is to create a distraction (the Palin debate strategy --- MEMORIZE, DEFLECT and PIVOT).  However, this usually involves spurious accusations or conjuring up something negative.  And it's doubtful that Snyder would wish to speak ill of the NFL or cast aspersions upon his fellow owners.  That dog won't hunt, especially with the good 'ol boys club.

Speaking of "good," this whole thing's a nightmare for commissioner Goodell as well.  His only option is to cowardly inform the public how the entire Redskins matter falls outside the scope of his authority.  It's not "within his jurisdiction."  What bold leadership!  How brave.  If Sacajawea were still alive, she would have sucked his authentically circumcised/merchandised dick.  Goodell is good.  Good at punishing people for smoking a doobie.  Jerk.

So conventional wisdom says, how about engaging in philanthropic behavior?  Surely an act of fiscal benevolence will make everyone forget about this whole mess.  Where did this lead Dan Snyder's publicist and his ego management bozos?  Well perhaps in most imbecilic direction you can fathom.

I've got it!  Let's randomly pick some native American Indian tribe and build them a "skate park."  This endearing roller derby-like commitment will never be forgotten.  The reservations will shower us with affection.  Smart thinking!  Because whenever I hear racist terminology, I immediately think of the obvious remedy.  Let's build a skate park for their weirdo faction youth gone wild.  You know --- the ones with the pierced noses, neck tattoos and gaping ear lobe holes.  Let's bury the hatchet.  We smoke 'em peace pipe.

Even more absurd, it was for the Quechan (Kwatsan) tribe based in Yuma, Arizona.  East Coast >>> West coast, bitches!  How ludicrous would it have been if he unearthed some unknown tribe from the DC beltway.  Maybe the Alexandria Apaches or the Chevy Chase Choppers.  I dunno, McLean Mohicans.  That's a pretty ritzy suburb.  Call me crazy, but why do I think Snyder resides in McLean?  Just call it a hunch.

Needless to say, the Kwatsan tribe rejected Snyder's most generous offer.  He should have built them an on sight methadone and alcohol rehabilitation clinic.  Betty Ford, eat your heart out.

Obviously (and fortunately), I don't live in the head of Dan Snyder.  I can't read his thoughts.  But common sense tells me he won't change the name.  However, that is HIS choice.  He owns the team.  He's likely disinterested in Native American sensibilities, so it would be very unwise for him to suddenly feign concern.  Unless he has an exceptional public relations team, he'd probably come off looking like a pompous, out-of-touch phony.  

Considering his stature, Snyder probably thinks he can defy the current wave of political correctness.  Newsflash: the pc onslaught is here to stay.  It will ebb and flow, but it's never going to magically dissipate.  Do I think that someday the name will change?  Yep.  But while he owns the team.  Nope.  He probably thinks it will irreparably tarnish his "legacy."  And what a proud legacy it is.  I have a gazillion dollars so I bought something.  Impressive.

So Saf, enough blathering.  What's your solution to the Dan Snyder Redskins mess?


As you might have guessed, it involves the stampedes.  But hear me out.  LISTEN!

Snyder needs to fight back.  But it's imperative that he substantially alter the conversation.  PIVOT!

Normally, I'm anti-Friends humor... but that was pretty funny.

Alright, here's what we know.  Snyder is in a uniquely powerful position.  He owns a team that represents the nation's capitol.  And he can do whatever the fuck he wants in "his" stadium.  That means he can legally start telling people that "if they're in a large, confined crowd and receive an emergency evacuation order and/or panic inducing information from their cell phone, it's almost certainly a hoax designed to create an artificially generated stampede."  He can spill the beans.  Be the first one to tell people the most basic, common sense, public safety information that the U.S. government and the NFL are unwilling to acknowledge.  LEGITIMATE evac orders come from the public address system in tandem w/ the jumbotron.  There you go.  How hard is that?  More difficult than you'd think.

But he can take this superior moral position.  And the other teams would be forced to follow.  This instantly places him ABOVE every NFL owner.  He'd be in a category unto himself.  Even better, this makes Snyder an agent of CHANGE.  He could be the Bob Barker "have your pets spayed or neutered" representative for the artificially generated stampede.  He can write this information on his tickets, put it in the programs, have people recite it outside the venue and run PSA announcements on the jumbotron.  There's nothing anyone could do to stop him.

Why is this so brilliant?  Because if any self-righteous politician (Hillary, Obama, etc.) starts to weigh in and tell him that he should change the name, they know they might come face-to-face with the undiscussable stampede issue (which is a lose-lose proposition from a political perspective unless you were totally committed and the original source for exposing this civil rights issue).  High profile politicians wouldn't dare even mention the name "Snyder" or "Redskins" because they'd fear potential discussion of the unresolved stampede issue.  The plausible deniability aspect is a death sentence.  Just ask our very own U.S. Senator Joe Manchin.  He screwed up even worse --- he put it in writing (not once, but twice).  If you decide to acknowledge the issue, you go "all in."  Once again, go big or go home.

Plus, as an NFL owner, one could argue that Snyder has the ethical responsibility to bring the problem to the forefront.  This buys him the TIME he desires and would easily overshadow the accusations of racism.  That's a tall order in this day and age.  More important, it ALTERS the narrative.  Snyder shifts from alleged bigot to enlightened humanitarian.  From promoter of resentment, to forward thinking agent of change.  Not the hopey-changey kind either.  This is the big leagues.  We're talkin' generational warfare.  Yep, bigger than the NFL!  He probably didn't know that was possible.  Of course, him and the Jerry Jones-ilk view "size" strictly in terms of seating capacity.  Shallow minds, limited vision.  They only see the dollar $igns.

Breaking news:  I just saw that Snyder has started a foundation to address the real-world needs of about 40 different Indian tribes.  Apparently, he was "moved" by the fact that we slaughtered them in droves.  That's a helluva learning curve there Danny Boy!  Way to go.

Money can always buy you time.  But it's not always the solution.

A message to Snyder and his minions --- if by chance, any of you read this, gimme a ring and we'll figure out the specifics.  My consulting cost is cheap.   A one time fee of 3.6 million bucks.  Why 3.6?  I have no idea.  It's the first number that popped into my head as I write this.  Considering the magnitude of the dilemma, that's peanuts.  Or you can greedily steal my methodology and apply it haphazardly.  But you probably won't get it right.  It's too high stakes.  Either way, let's do this.  I'll be calling your director of security and stadium operations in the next week or so.  I'll try to address the real issue of obsolete stadium emergency evacuation protocol.  Not the relatively benign issue of political posturing and hurt feelings.

philanthropic hitchhiker scenario

Back when I was 19 years old, I used to hitchhike for a few weeks.  Mostly due to the fact that i was carless.  Not careless, just carless.

I had an excellent strategy too.  I didn't just casually stick my thumb in the air.  I would literally clasp my hands in prayer and act exceedingly desperate.  I'd even move off the sidewalk and mouth the words, "I need a ride" or "please help me."  Worked every time.  If you really want to get somewhere, try swallowing your dignity.  Works wonders.

My best advice is to have a sign which tells your destination.  And be specific.  Not just Zanesville... but "Olive Garden in Zanesville, Ohio."  This seems far less threatening.  Ohh - that dude probably just wants the endless soup and salad for $5.99.  Their Italian dressing is a bit heavy, but right on... I can dig it.  I should pick him up.  When he gets in my car, he's family (despite the bad breath).

I always think it's peculiar when you pass a hitchhiker, particularly at an on ramp.  You glance in your mirror and the person has physically turned their head, giving you that glaring stare of pissed off admonishment.  It's like, "Hey asshole, you had a ton of room.  You don't know me!  Judgmental jerk probably thinks I'm a murderer or something?"

I'll willingly concede --- I generally do not pick up hitchhikers these days.  The last time I can  remember was probably about 6 years ago.  I saw this woman crying at the Elm Grove I-70 ramp.  I pull over and she starts hyperventilating, crying up a storm about how she needs to get to Canton, Ohio.  I finally get her to calm down and explain the best option would be for me to zip her up to the Dallas Pike truck stop.  Truckers are always the best interstate option.  I also advised her that she was trying to hitch a ride going eastward, when the objective was to head in a northwesterly direction.  She didn't seem particularly interested in my thoughts on destination strategy.  

She was a bit haggard, but not really that offensive.  Sure enough, when I pulled into the lot she asked for some money for food.   I gave her a $20.  I normally don't do handouts, but I had some extra cash on me and she just seemed to "need an emotional lift."  She blathered about 4 "god bless yous" and likely walked off to buy some Marlboro reds.

Anyway, here's my idea.  These days, everything on the news is about random murders, stabbings, rapes, child abductions, the knock-out game, etc.  The media (especially Fox) would have you believe that everyone you see on the street wants to rob you blind and then stab you with an HIV infected needle... just for kicks.  

Wouldn't it be a fascinating sociological experiment if an exceedingly wealthy individual decided to hitchhike from the East coast to the West coast?  But here's the twist.  Start with a $1.00 tip for each driver that picks you up.  The next driver --- you double the amount.  $2.00, $4.00, $8.00, $16.00 and so on.  Maybe set the maximum limit at 100K or something.  Or you could just give everyone a flat grand.  My hunch is that word would quickly spread.  The concept has greater viral exposure potential than a chlamydia outbreak at the local strip club.

Maybe you could document the experience on twitter.  As the social media explosion begins to cement itself, routine drivers who never dreamed of picking up hitchhikers would give their automatic dismissal a second thought.  Hey, that might be "traveling benefactor dude or "hitchy chick sugarmomma."  Americans all over the country would be forced to reconsider their "human expectations" and "routine social judgements."  Of course, you're just appealing to ol' fashioned greed.  But so fuckin' what!

You always see these "mystery Santa weirdos" and "anonymous big restaurant tippers."  Instead of going the boring, traditional route, how about altering the "way of things?"  Changing perceptions and de-terrifying the population at-large.   You could permanently alter the way people think... their entire thought process.

Downside --- you pick up someone who rambles incessantly about the inevitability of artificially generated stampedes.  Or even worse, starts singing that crappy 4 Non Blondes song.  "And I said Heeyyyyyy, aaaaaa, aaaaa, Heyyyyy, aaaa aaaa, What's going on?"

AC Milan vs. Man City > Jack White (7-27-14)

Gigi and I zipped down to Heinz Field yesterday for the Champions League match.  We desperately needed a rebound coming off the heels of the Paul McCartney fiasco.

The crowd was exceptionally colorful.  Plenty of soccer jerseys.  Nice change of pace from the steadfast diet of regurgitated black and yellow.  Tickets were surprisingly sparse.  Not a lot of extras.  We made a sign, but never bothered to use it.

Near the start of the game, this guy overheard me yapping and dug 2 comp tickets out of his wife's purse.  Club level seats (Section 212).  Not too shabby.

Just before the half, some rumbling thunder could be heard.  There were about 4-5 major lightning strikes in the distance.  The ref let it go til the 45th minute and immediately blew the whistle (no extra time).  Sure enough, this ominous message appeared on all the widescreens.

Not really that scary, but most people aren't familiar with obsolete issues regarding emergency evacuation protocol and the potential for "artificially generated stampedes."

We ended up running into our benefactor in the lounge.  Turns out he's an agent for one of the Man City players (Alvaro Negredo).  Of course I took the opportunity to strike up a stampede conversation.  He had some fascinating insight and even mentioned the infamous 2010 Bangalore, India cricket match.  This completely blew my mind.  For those who have no idea what I'm talking about, there was an incident where stadium attendees started receiving "panic-inducing" information from their cell phones while the match was in progress.  The crowd "herded" toward an exit where 2 low-yield car bombs were detonated.  I forget the death tally.  I think it was about a dozen.  It literally blew my mind that he knew about this obscure event.

Heinz Field attendance was listed at 34,347.  A pretty good improvement from the 25,000 the last time there was an international game (Chelsea vs. Roma) in 2004.  The game itself was highly entertaining.  Great end-to-end action for what was basically more of a hyped-up exhibition game.  Man City scored 4 quick goals. and ended up winning 5-1.

In the 89th minute, two raggedy-haired kids jumped onto the field from the Northeast corner.  These Milan fans ran straight toward the midfield.  A larger security dude jogged after them, but they were way too fast.  Anyway, these two made a beeline toward striker Mario Balotelli.  Balotelli was completely unfazed.  Much like his unresponsive, statue-like goal celebrations.  Complete bad ass.

Anyway, the two kids snapped a quick selfie and posted it.  Fascinating how you can make shit go viral in real-time.  Even though they probably got arrested and maybe had their phones confiscated.  Hmmm.  Makes you wonder if there could be severe consequences for more extreme activity... like say I dunno... bomb threats or deliberately false emergency evac orders.  Just stating the absurdly obvious that nobody (except myself) is willing to acknowledge. 

Fun stuff.  The crowd erupted.  Far be it from me to endorse this brand of yinzer hooliganism.  I'll just say "Salut."  So here's a killer 1st season Sopranos scene that encapsulates my appreciation for these two Italians that made the trip dahn-tahn.

So we hung out for awhile after the game ended.

Now, onto Jack White.  The crowd was lined up around the entire Stage AE building.  We milled around for an hour and a half but couldn't seem to find any extras.  The show was completely sold-out.  It was a little after 8pm and we were starting to think we might get shut out.  Not a huge deal as we could have listened to it from outside, but seriously how often do you get a chance to see Jack White.  I dunno --- maybe about as often as Paul McCartney.  Some eerie parallels were beginning to surface.  Earlier we ran into our scalper buddy Tim.  We told him about the McCartney incident and he mentioned that it was the exact same asshole cop who cuffed him as well.  He even mentioned how the cop purposely puts the cuffs on sideways to cause maximum discomfort.  And then he goes into his patented screaming tirade/bullying session.

Not to harp on the Consol incident, but this bowl-cutted mall cop's days are numbered.  We're pretty sure we've got verification of his name.  I rarely make accusations, but this "juvenile pig wannabe will someday be exposed for what he really is --- an authoritarian, power-hungry, douchebag.  Kind of a Pittsburgh version of Kim-Jong Dick Head.

Alright, enough of that tangent.  Onto more important things.  Ticket acquisition.  Just as things were looking pretty grim, Gigi scored a ticket.  BLAM.  About 1 minute later, this guy hands me a ticket.  SHAZAM.

With tickets in hand we headed in.  I'd classify most of the crowd as energized, but respectful.  Seasoned concert goers but still very enthusiastic.  Jack White totally rocked it out.  No concert review necessary.  Everything can be summed up with one word --- SICK.  The rain really poured during the encore.  This was the song I most wanted to hear, but Jack never played it.  But I'm hardly one to bitch.

Here's what's funny.  I went up to the sound guys and asked for a setlist.  A woman behind the soundboard looked at me and giggled, "Oh, don't be silly.  Jack never has a setlist!"  Honestly, I had no idea.  But then I began to reflect on what we had just witnessed.  Seriously, what the fuck was I thinking?  I'm almost as lame as that fake-copper!  He probably thought this was the person on stage.

If we could go back in time, he would have made a fine "honky" addition to the cast of 227.  Alright, enough internet bashing.  I've got other things to do.  I'm zipping G to the airport.  She's going to visit her Sacramento friend for a couple days.  And she will arrive on the West Coast bearing a gift from her garden.  T.S.A. --- be on the lookout for a woman with a peculiar tomato that strangely resembles said cop's genitalia.

Who am I kidding?  The tomato is vastly more endowed.

guntbomb / gockbomb

Many people stop me on the street and ask, "Hey Saf, what's the new rage?"  I pretend to know who they are and respond accordingly, "Well... selfies and that hashtag crap are quickly becoming passe but the photobomb is here to stay.  (medium pause)  "F'in A."

As far as I'm concerned, the origins of the photobomb can be traced back to the late 90's.

Yep.  It was a shirtless Costanza at the Jersey shore.  All other attempts are trivial and pale in comparison.  Still, humanity forges onward, looking for that epic moment when grandpa's in the background conspicuously scratching his nuts.  Grandpappy don't give a shit.  And I don't blame him.  He's still pissed off that the local Montgomery Ward shut its doors.  "This country's been goin' downhill ever since Monkey Ward went bankrupt!"

For some unknown reason, the art of photobombing completely disappeared during the Bush administration.  Probably because 9/11 left everyone a bit cynical and jaded.  A decade later, it came back with a vengeance.  Nowadays, everyone's getting in on the act.

Obviously, the star of this pic is the old lady giving the peace sign.  Even the bottle of ketchup is more interesting than these two "cool for school", hipster Intellivision, thug wannabes.

I'm don't really know what to make of Angry Ginger.  I admire his nasal perseverance but he probably should have stayed home and made smores instead of going to the Renaissance Fair.  However, it is nice to see Paul Ryan's (R-WI) son back out on the campaign trail. 

Call me a skeptic, but this one seems staged.  Don't get me wrong...  I'm still supportive.  Just a little bit leery about the "spontaneity" factor.

Now if you want the real thing...

 
For the love of Palin, that looks more like a young black bear doin' the humpty hump.  How's that "bestie, beastie" treatin' ya?  My take on her "hopey, changey."

These beach scenes are setting the stage for something bigger.  Something new.  Something different.  No... not the introduction of the fruit syrups sold to countless trustworthy morons by the West Virginia Troopers Association Bears Against Drugs Program.

Trust me.  What I'm about to describe will markedly alter the trajectory of society.  Everything will change.

A young girl named May approached me last week and greeted me with a "Hey Saf!"  That's right.  She calls me Saf.  Anyway, she said, "Hey Saf... you sure like to invent new words." I replied, "Damn straight, May!  I've coined a few new words in my time.  Among them is "dominipede" which is a reference to multiple, simultaneous human stampedes.  And I have some phrases too.  Let's see --- There's "artificially generated stampede."  And lemme tell ya something, the term "viral blitzkrieg" appears to be gaining some new found momentum.

Cue the drum roll please.......................................

GUNTBOMB and GOCKBOMB

These are the words that will define the next generation.  They're already here.  The masses are just oblivious (as usual).

Okay.  Now here we have something called springbreakin' two, electric gunt-a-loo.  Notice how this woman is going for the traditional "bunny ears" photobomb.  But what really steals the spotlight is her formidable gunt.  It's an unintentional guntbomb.  I'm sure she's having the time of her life but the rabbit ears are not her raison d'etre.  Her purpose is strictly gunting in nature.  I call this "goodwill gunting."

Now here we have a classic gockbomb.  Was there just a smidgeon of malicious intent?  Hard to say.  I'd have to do some lengthy interviews.  Maybe Ralph Barbieri from the Maury Povich show could lend a hand.  "John (for some reason he looks like a John)... when their friend snapped the picture, did you intentionally try to gockbomb these college chicks.  You said no.  The lie detector determined... you are telling the truth." 

As I was saying, it's all about the intent.  Now would I be supportive of this?

Not really.  But it's close.  Ideally speaking, the kid in the background would weigh somewhere in the 300 pound range.  We could call it "talk to the gock."  A credible gockbomb would necessitate him "surreptitiously" lifting up his shirt.  That is correct.  A casual yet impudent exposure of the midriff.

I've been searching for the perfect adjective to properly define a guntbomb/gockbomb.  And that word is "surreptitious."

sur·rep·ti·tious

adjective \ˌsər-əp-ˈti-shəs, ˌsə-rəp-, sə-ˌrep-\

: done in a secret way

Full Definition of SURREPTITIOUS

1

:  done, made, or acquired by stealth :  clandestine

2

:  acting or doing something clandestinely :  stealthy <a surreptitious glance>

    
Covert, sneaky, underhanded... this is the essence of a true photobomb. 

So Saffy, in your mind, what constitutes the ultimate guntbomb?   It's impossible to fathom, but I'd be searching for that historical moment when multiple, corpulent Saudi women form a line of protest against the morality police.  A full-on Burkabomb w/ gunting overtones.

Whether or not they have undergarments on is totally irrelevant.  In fact, some Islamic-tempered granny panties would be ideal.  It's not about the nudity.  Never was and never will be.  It's all about the gunt.

Now this Jew (me) has no desire to visit the holy land.  I have no interest in going to Israel.  And that has nothing to do with the recent ban on U.S. flights into Tel Aviv.  Seriously, why the fuck would anyone wish to voluntarily visit the Middle East?  What the fuck is wrong with people?  Qatar - I'm speaking directly to you.  If your 2022 World Cup isn't overturned, I'll just have to take matters into my own hands.

Now since I refuse to travel to the cradle of civilization, I'll have to settle for the U.S. equivalent guntbomb.  After considerable reflection, I have found the perfect lineup of female candidates. 

 

 Honorable Mention:  Helen Roper from the tv sitcom "Three's Company."  Those house dresses make her a delectable candidate.

Call me anything you want.  Just don't call me a misogynist.  Here's the fellas...

Honorable mention:  Newt Gingrich

Did I get to see Paul McCartney?

Many people will ask me, "Saf, did you get to see your Liverpool hero, Paul McCartney, on the "Out There" tour in Pittsburgh last night?"  In what might be the strangest, smuggest, honestly bizarre answer in the history of rock concert-going attendance...

Yes, Yes and a resounding NO.

I'll start from the beginning (as I always do).

G got off work at 4pm and we ate a light vegan inspired dinner of pesto and salad.  Why do we eat pesto?  In the immortal words of George Costanza, "I don't know.  Because it makes us feel important."

In a meager attempt to invoke that sixties "peace and love" spirit I spelled out the word Paul McCartney in Cheez-It Scrabble form on her kitchen counter.

Obviously, I couldn't find a "P"or an extra "C', so we were left with the Hispanic version.  This made sense to me as my picks for the World Cup final are Brazil vs. Argentina.  It would represent an eerie, ominous, foreboding lesson of what would eventually transpire on the cusp of Consolidated Beatlemania Energy Center.  Alas, I would get stopped at the border by the immigration SWAT team.

So we booked on down to Consol on the early side.  We snagged our usual parking spot at the Church of the Moops.  Armed with plastic-infused water bottles of Naked Grape and Stone Cellar, we headed into the fray.  It was a Cabernet cold-blooded kinda night.  And it was going to to be a tough ticket.  This show was totally sold-out.  We needed to summon our A game.

Sir Macca had just returned from a viral illness that side-lined him for about a month and a half.  Hey, that Beatle ain't no spring chicken.  To be honest, neither am I.  My ticket panhandling skills have been Burhgedly-diminished over the years.

Our sole weaponry:  two ghetto signs and an arsenal of spirit.

Front and Back:

And this Maury Povich inspired one I scribbled while watching a paternity test gone wrong.  As you may have guessed, Shameka's claims of fatherhood had gone awry.  Turns out that T-Mount was not the baby McDaddy.

2 Yinzer CHiPPeR motorcycles zipped by us.  The sirens and lights were blaring on Centre Avenue.  Paul McCartney, accompanied by a police escort, stuck his arm out the window of a lone SUV.  As it blew past us, he smiled and waved.  A thin-haired woman resembling Alf's overly-curious neighbor hooted and hollered.  G tried to take a phone pic but was a little too late as the drive by transpired in a matter of 3 seconds.  This marked our first encounter with Sir Paul.  Very kewl.  I've always liked police escorts... except when I'm the one being escorted.

We made our way down to the staging area of Fifth Ave. and Washington.  Like I said, it was going to be a difficult snag.  The scalpers were out in full force but seemed to be having minimal success.  Neither were we.  There wasn't much in the way of extras floating around.   Needless to say, it's inherently more difficult if you're trying to score a freebie.  $100-$200 seemed to be the going rate.

A mighty crowd had gathered.  For some reason, they were reluctant to open the doors at 7 pm.  By 7:30pm the throng had thickened into a morass of Thanksgiving gravy.

But our spirits were high.  Concert-goers embraced our signage.  Many asked for pictures and pseudo-selfies.  Even though I thought we were getting too much credit (the signs were lame), we were more than happy to oblige.

We briefly encountered our hometown accomplices --- Kelly Pizza and Funky Cold Adena.  They seemed eager to fork over some cash and headed in the direction of the "scalper-shakedown-street" across the way.  The regular scalpers seemed to know what was what.  Perhaps we should have known better and stayed across the street as well.  Oh well.

Crunch time (7:30pm) was rapidly approaching.  Two of Pittsburgh's finest approached G and told her to get rid of the sign.  They both resembled "distant cousins" of the Morton Salt Girl.  Both were draped in militarized Kevlar, bullet proof vests.  The female seemed eager for urban combat.  She was physically dense and threw her weight around accordingly.  Resembling a portly, crew-cutted, off-season penguin, he was also prepared to tame the Sewickley-Upper St. Clair rebellion.  

Having been admonished, G courteously complied and threw it in the trash.  Shortly thereafter, some guy handed her a print-out ticket.  BINGO BANGO.  One free ticket secured!  In the words of Alice Cooper --- HELLO, HURRAY... let the show begin.  G handed me the ticket and gandered into the upstairs lobby area, searching for that second McMiracle.

Suddenly, I was accosted by the female cop.  At this point I wasn't even asking for a ticket.  I was merely making conversation about human stampedes with a guy handing out vegetarian pamphlets.  I thought that some of the content was a tad extreme.  The literature invoked a pig having his scrotum and testicles forcibly ripped apart.  The picture was brutal.  You could really feel the anguished oink of pigman.

Although I wasn't panhandling at that particular moment, the salty feminine sodium cop told me to "get out of here."  So I complied and headed to the upper entrance. 

I figured I'd meet up with G in the lobby.  I wandered up top and was quickly encountered by Morton-Man.  He instantly grabbed me by the shoulder.  Beads of sweat dripped off his forehead.  Good sweat.  Nice beads (Elaine Benes).

"YOU WERE WARNED!!!"  I tried to explain that I had a legit ticket and was just going to connect with my woman but he didn't give a damn.  He strong-armed me out the door.  Very threatening.  I ALREADY TOLD YOU ONCE!!!  I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF YOU"  I tried to explain, "I just want to go in.  I have a ticket."  He didn't care and physically manhandled me out the entrance.

So I relented.  Seriously, what was I going to do.  This cop was pissed off - probably taking out all his aggression on me for that one moment in time--- when his date stood him up at the Zelienople junior prom.

I spotted G in the distance.  She gave me the "just lay low" wave.  So I hung out by the Cambria Suites and made small talk with the parking garage attendants.

About 10 minutes had passed.  I could here the slight rumbling of the concert from inside Consol.  Bummer.  I was beginning to lose hope.  But we still had a single.  I told G to head in and I would wait it out, maybe just hang at the hotel bar.  Suddenly, out of nowhere, this dude appeared with 4 (YES... FOUR) extra tickets.  He dished her off a freebie and headed inside.  I guess he ate the other 3.  Ticketmaster tix have a distinct polyurethane tinge... so it's not like fine dining at Meat and Potatoes.  Still, it's hard to argue with a freebie.

G cried out like the kid in Charlie and Chocolate Factory.  "That guy just gave me a free ticket!!!"  She exclaimed to anyone in earshot.  So once again... hello, hooray... let the show begin.

She snatched me up and we made our way to the parking garage entrance (it connects to the arena).  For some strange reason, a Consol usher beckoned, "You can't get in that way!"  Well... I should have known.  I was already a bit hesitant, but this set off a red flag in my head.  A.  He was incorrect and B.  Why would he care?  So we went to the main entrance and they scanned our tickets.  "Enjoy the concert," were the last words of pleasantry I would hear.  Even though I couldn't see them, I could sense the salt cops.  I could smell the swine sweat.

I knew something was askew so I grabbed G's hand and we darted toward the escalator, making a sharp left.  Just as we reached the top, Morton Salt man-cop emerged out of nowhere.  He was enraged.  "WE TOLD YOU THREE TIMES, YOU STUPID SON OF A BITCH.  NOW YER GOING TO JAIL!  PUT YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR BACK!"

He heavy-handedly cuffed me and yelled, "YOU THINK YER GONNA MAKE A FOOL OUTTA ME?"  I tried to explain that my ticket was legit and I just wanted to see Paul McCartney.  He didn't give a shit.  He was profusely dripping as he iron-fistedly pushed me into the elevator.  I was completely deferential and utterly apologetic, but I quickly realized that he wasn't going to let it go.  At this point, I quickly surmised my odds of going to jail were maybe about 20/80.  Even though my only crime was asking for a freebie ticket.  Technically, I hadn't even been successful.  G scored both tix.

The ushers were mesmerized.  I heard them murmur, "What did he do?"  "Why is he under arrest?"  WHERE'S YOUR WALLET?  GIMME YOUR ID!  Female militant salted cod pig emerged on the scene.  They both hollered at me to stop resisting.  Truthfully, I wasn't doing anything.  I was being completely and utterly passive.  Trust me, I know when to kiss ass and throw any smidgeon of self-dignity out the window.  Oddly enough, the song "Let Me Roll It" was playing in the background.  It's one of the few I don't care for.

So G shows up in tears.  "Why are you doing this?  We didn't do anything?  We both have tickets to the concert."  Female sodium chloride threatens to arrest her as well.  To make a long a story short, they kick us both out the door and demand we hand over our tickets (smart move on their part... confiscate any evidence whatsoever).  They give us a stark ultimatum.  "If we see you on the property at anytime tonight, you will go to jail!"  Sensing defeat (along the lines of the Palestinians), but in way, sensing a little relief (like Edward Snowden in a Moscow airport), he proceeded to uncuff me.  But then for some bizarre reason, he started screaming at me to "PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!"  The plump-chunk-clump of mammary cop chimed in as well.  "YEAH, GET YOUR HAND ON YOUR HEAD!"  Believe me, I wasn't doing anything whatsoever.  I think it was some kind of a menacing intimidation, a parting shot if you will... maybe so we wouldn't file a complaint.  I mean technically speaking, these two cops robbed us.  Seriously, what they did was pretty much a strong armed robbery.  It just wasn't a typical "gimme all your money" stick-up job.

Transvaginal mesh cop glared at us both.  She was silently fuming and for some reason, she stomped her boots on the pavement.  I have absolutely no idea what that was about.  Kind of like a Costanza "Koko the Monkey" routine minus the flailing arms.   

On our way back to the car, we lamented and consoled each other.  Like I was saying --- a little distraught, but a little relieved.  G was more upset than me.  My wrist was pretty sore.  The cop had cuffed my wrist sideways.  And it wasn't the only cuff a hurtin'.  My shoulder/rotator cuff has been really bad the past week from a lawn mowing mishap.  I slipped and fell on the hillside by my deck, but valiantly clung to Old Ironsides (Jenn and Justin's lawn mower).

So all in all, I guess we saw Paul McCartney twice in the same evening.  First, he waved out his car window.  Second, we heard him in the lobby.  But there would be no third.  Oh well, it's not like we didn't try.  And at least we didn't pay.  Of course, we DID pay.  But in a different sense.

So if by any chance, you happen to read this blog and would like to pay it forward and give us the opportunity to see Paul McCartney's latest tour, we would be more than happy to oblige.  In the interim, I will continue my efforts to improve humanity.  I will continue to preach awareness regarding the most generically overlooked, hypothetical, asymmetric national disaster of our generation.  The artificially generated stampede.  Unlike the Zone 2 Hill (Street Blues) District Pittsburgh porkers, I'm actually trying to improve the world.  However, the jury's still out.

All I ask is just a teeny, tiny bit of gratitude.  All I wanted to hear was "Listen to What the Man Said."  Is that really asking to much?  In retrospect, I certainly had to "listen to the what the man
said." 

I also had to "listen to what the iodized cunt said," but that's neither here nor there.  Live and let die, I suppose. 

Paul McCartney, 1989, Riverfront Coliseum, Cincinnati, OH (one of my all-time favorite concerts) *
Paul McCartney, 2002, Gund Arena, Cleveland, OH
Paul McCartney, 2010, Consol Energy Center, Pittsburgh, PA *
Paul McCartney, 2014, 4 minutes in the lobby of Consol Energy Center, Pittsburgh, PA *

I doubt he'll be back.

He closes every show with "The End."  Sounds a bit prophetic, ehh?
 
* Oddly enough, every show was a freebie except for the one at the Gunt.  If memory serves me correct, me and G Mo (the artist formerly known as Shirtless Mo) each forked over $20 for some singles.