Ryan Bisio: Writings

The night was young and full of clumsy innocence when Virgil and I scampered down the stairs of my apartment to take in the air. Virgil came into San Rafael about a half-hour before from Santa Rosa, and very early the next morning we were going to hop into a rental car and drive straight to Compton.
As we exited the front door of the complex I noticed the couple who lives across the hall from me was sitting down on the steps smoking cigarettes and discussing a topic that looked heavy. I greeted them genuine and brief and continued walking. Virgil was reeled into a conversation by the hook of his grey, Euro-style looking jacket.
“Where do you get a…a jacket like that?” the male neighbor asked Virgil in a weighty Mexican accent.
“I stole it from my grandma”, Virgil answered with a sarcastic chuckle that was taken with sincerity.
I wandered off and was thinking about the trip we had to make the next day—which was the first day of my new job as the Assistant Men’s Basketball Coach at Santa Rosa Junior College. I was supposed to appraise, and potentially recruit kids from a high school AAU team from Tucson, Arizona which claimed to have a handful of players with Division 1 Talent and extremely low SAT scores. My job was essentially going to be that of a car salesman’s, although there’s no way a car salesman would drive 7.5 hours to Compton for that type of action.
But Virgil already knew that. He knew the exact reason we were going down there, and that it required no plastic surgery whatsoever.
He then gained enough ground on me to whisper, “He couldn’t wear a jacket like this, not like I do, not with this bounce.”
I nodded in total agreement. “And besides,” I muttered, “If he believes you got that jacket from your grandma, he couldn’t guess what country you’re from.”
As soon I finished that statement I looked over towards the corner across the street and saw the biggest creep I’ve ever seen in my life. He was walking towards us at an alarmingly steady pace with his hands in his pockets looking straight down. It was hard to tell his real height with his deliberate ascending lean but he looked a little chubby, especially as he drew closer.
By that time Virgil knew exactly what I knew. We didn’t have time speak about it but I’d sensed he’d been sizing this guy up. The man’s path was that of a missile whose mission is to strike a target and obliterate everything around it with its energy.
We veered back towards where the neighbors were still sitting unassuming without even seeing the whacko yet. Once we got there so was he.
“You know what you look like?” The stranger pointed his finger at me with a shrewd grin.
I could tell now that he was extremely short, and besides the size advantage I knew athletically I could outmaneuver him. His energy was so foul and menacing that I didn’t know what to say. I clenched my fist and readied the side of my hand in the event that I would have to employ a swift and punishing karate chop across the side of his neck.
“No, I have no clue,” I responded as everybody tensed up.
He fired “take it from me since everybody for years has been telling me I look exactly like Michael J. Fox although I know I’ve put on quite a few pounds over the years especially in the face area but that doesn’t mean that people don’t stop me on the street and tell me I look like him because I was into acting for a while and I know what actors look like I you look like a mixture between Tom Cruise and Keanu Reeves.”
Everybody erupted in nervous laughter, including me as I slowly started to gain my distance from him. He really did look like Michael J. Fox, and he also was an extremely close talker who wouldn’t take his hands out of his pocket. He steadily came near and continued, “No, I’m serious man—you’re a bastard child of Tom Cruise and Keanu Reeves even though I haven’t seen them in a while or anybody in a while since I just got released from San Quentin yesterday and was looking for some crack, do you have any?”
My nerves felt like they had been sanded down to the nubs. He began moving closer and closer to me as I pulled my keys from my pocket and proceeded to attempt a leap inside the complex. The act of slowly taking my keys from my pocket spawned a mass exodus
“Where the fuck are you guys going?” He shouted with deep despair and aggression.
“We’re going in man,” I tried to say casually in tone and in pace although I was terrified of turning my back to him.
My neighbors moved the hastiest inside out off us all as they lunged for the door and shut it behind them as they raced upstairs.
“Oh ok I see how it is,” he stuttered with anger. “This isn’t the last time you’re gonna see me. You’ll see me every day. You’ll see in your nightmares. You’ll see me in your apartment. You’ll see me…”
“Have a good night man”, Virgil interjected with a confident and dismissive tone. I knew Virgil was as terrified as I was with this crude and dangerous encounter, I could feel it.
I opened the door to the complex with my key while facing him. Virgil was hot on my tail as we entered the glass door, closing it, then peering at him as we made our way upstairs. He stood there motionless with a look of pure evil. We rounded the corner and leaped the stairs up to my room and locked the door behind us.
“Holy Moses!” I shouted as I took a seat at my desk. “Bro, I’ve never felt energy like that before. That fool wouldn’t take his hands out of his pockets. I thought for sure he was gonna’ stick a shank in my rib-cage.”
“I thought so too,” Virgil established. “He got really close to you. I can’t believe he came through like that I just called you out.”
“I know”, I responded with a questioning tone. “I felt the whole time that he was coming towards me, and that strut, that prison yard strut…and that outfit, those basketball shoes with khaki colored pants and that fleece…that’s probably the outfit he committed his last crime in…good thing the neighbor didn’t ask him where he got his fleece…”
The room fell silent for a few minutes as we reflected to ourselves. The window was open and down below we could hear mariachi music coming from the Mexican restaurant down the street. The night felt cold, heavy, and stale.
“Let’s get out of town man”, I said as I abruptly stood up—trying to shake off the incident. “Let’s go somewhere safer, like Compton.”
Virgil let out a deep moan and leaned his head back on the couch and put his hands over his face.
“Settle down”, I warned. “After all, we’re going down there representing one of the biggest Junior Colleges in California. What could possibly go wrong?”

My stomach muscles were knotted, my face was pulsating, and my back muscles were contorted as I slumped down on the bar in heavy laughter and said to my friend Joe, “Play? Me? Tonight?”
I again erupted into menacing and ill rooted belly laughter. Joe was dressed in full basketball attire, and was dead serious about the prospect of me suiting up and playing with him in the San Rafael men’s city league that night.
“Bro,” I said leaning back with both hands on my stomach, “Seriously?”
“We only got five guys”, he quivered. “I promise you don’t have to play any defense.”
“Shut up”, I suddenly scorned. “I never played any defense anyways, why would I start tonight? Plus I’m retired, you know that.”
“I know…” he conceded and looked away.
Joe is a coach at the University of San Francisco—and he knows firsthand about players that look like they’re retired. I didn’t want any part of that, especially since I had a beard, and more so due to the fact that we were leaving a bar that I was the only one drinking in.
I met Joe when I was 16 years old at a basketball tournament in Booneville, California. Our relationship has lasted the test of time, and has created opportunities for both of us in the world of basketball. After my stint in Copenhagen, Denmark, I was the catalyst in parading him to the drop off point of the transaction that led to his success over there. He’s also cornered people into hiring me as a coach over the last few years.
“Listen”, I assured him. “I’ll drive you to the game, I’ll coach you guys and we’ll win in a stunning fashion. Is that alight?”
He tensed up, scratched his arm and said, “You can’t drive, you’ve been drinking in here for hours now.”
“What time is it?” I asked without a clue.
“Shit”! He panted. “It’s 6:15, the game is in 15 minutes!”
I instantly shuddered and felt my forehead began to dampen. I began to chew my pinky fingernail and wondered why I was all of a sudden thrust into another man’s emergency. Joe then hastily handed me his wallet and said, “I gotta’ take a piss, hold this.”
I grabbed it and set it on the bar next to my wallet. I had kept my wallet on the bar as a symbol to the bartender that I was in charge of the tab. The bartender was an amiable fellow who had obviously succumb to a pipe filled with marijuana before his shift.
I zoned out and watched a basketball game on the television above for a couple minutes, and as I noticed the bartender wiping and cleaning the bar near and around our wallets, I was reminded to ask him, “How much do I owe you man?”
“Nothing,” he said with a smile. “Just bounce before my manager comes.”
Just as he said that, the man who I recognized as the manager was lumbering straight towards me right as Joe rounded the corner coming from the bathroom almost matching him stride for stride. I quickly stood up and Joe could see I had a sudden look of concern.
“Let’s go”, I hurried him.
“Well, how are we gonna get to the gym? You can’t drive. Can you even coach?” He asked in a competitive and condescending way.
“You can drive my car. Let’s roll”.

As soon as Joe turned the ignition on I remembered my gas light had been on, but couldn’t remember for how long. This was also the first time riding in the passenger seat of my relatively new car and I was tanning in the glory of unwavering concentration on the music playlist.
“How long has the gas light been on”, he asked out of more strategy than concern.
“Who cares? We only have to go a couple miles anyway. Bro, have you heard the Radiohead song “Climbing the walls?”
He didn’t even hear me as he soberly checked his blind spot while pulling out, guiding us into the upcoming light, and then turning right on 4th street where we would stay until we reached San Rafael High School.
As I fumbled through the playlist I could sense Joe was uneasy about something. I finally found the song I wanted to play him, turned it up and was about to describe some of the tones when he said, “Turn it down you freak. This feels really shaky. I think we’re going to run out of gas. Look at the meter here man. It’s way below the E.”
As I glanced at it I knew he was right. I started to feel a rattle in the transmission. I’ll never forget the look we shared when we instantly both knew we were running down 4th street on fumes.
“There’s a gas station a couple blocks down,” I instructed him. “Put it in neutral and let’s coast there.”
Joe shifted it delicately into neutral and we coasted down the street at a natural pace. There was nobody in front of us or behind us. We had an open road to sail this puppy to the gas station, fill it, get to the gym on time, and still get a win.
Joe masterfully weaved his way off the street and into the gas station which was also empty of cars. He pulled into a stall and shut the engine off.
“Yes!” He shouted with pure essence as we high fived.
“We’re unstoppable! I proclaimed. “That’s one hell of a driving performance by you right there.”
As I said that I reached in my coat pocket for my wallet and couldn’t find it. It didn’t hinder me at all from the joy I was feeling.
“I don’t have my wallet”, I said still laughing from our last exchange. “Let me borrow a couple bucks.”
Joe’s expression then ratcheted up in a cold and dead way, “You have my wallet…”

Judy…

First of all, I understand you have a lot more things on your plate other than the “C” street complex, and whether or not I’m content with my living situation. My frustrations have absolutely NOTHING to do with you personally. I’m sure I’ve been a real pain in the neck for you, but as I’ll explain—I’m living in a very unsafe place right now.
The City of San Rafael informed me that my formal complaint was the fourth (4th) official complaint about hazardous living conditions in this complex. Two of the four were about windows, with a similar “on order” type of excuse. An inspector from the City will be reviewing my unit in a matter of days.
As I’ve tried to communicate to Bayside Management, I don’t think you guys are truly aware of the liability, danger, and gravity of the current state of the unit. As you can imagine, the window has deteriorated since late October, and I’ve had to pick up shards of glass off the carpet on numerous occasions. I have progressively documented all of this.
Water has gotten inside during the rainstorms we’ve had, and I’ve tried to limit the carpet damage as best I can. But even that goes beyond the description of being a responsible tenant.
You’ve on numerous occasions said, “you don’t understand how complicated it is, with the paneling, etc…” What nobody understands is how complicated it’s been for me.
I’ve been sick twice due to the temperature, my PG+E bills have skyrocketed due to the overcompensating, it’s impossible to sleep with the howling of the wind through the unstable glass, and the small children in my family can’t ever come over because the dangers of being anywhere near the ONLY window in the unit are too serious.
There have been three (3) occasions when the shattered window has nearly fully collapsed inside the apartment due to thunder and wind.
I am now 2/3 of the way through my lease, a lease that states (I don’t have it with me, my attorney does) “tenant shall work with the management company in timetable for new window”. If the “several” contractors you were speaking of are the two (2) men who measured the window, I’ve done my duty by being present and not impeding the progress towards getting the window fixed. The first contractor was shocked the unit was being currently rented out given the state of the window.
Another local realtor echoed his opinion, and is also advising me as to how to go about exercising my rights as a tenant in Marin County.
All of the professionals I’ve sought legal counsel from have advised me not to pay any more rent, until the City has finished its probing, or until the window is fixed. After honoring 2/3 of my lease already, they think we should put BSM in a position to legally explain the situation.
Personally, I don’t want it to get that far. I really want to stay in the unit (for logistical reasons) and because I really like the other tenants. But now, after a severe deterioration of an already seedy situation, the rent price goes up? On the shortest month of the year?
This is my last stance in trying to resolve the situation myself. I assure you, that if the rent price stays where it was, I will not complain anymore, and continue to try and work with you guys through this. I understand this is also a tough situation for you.
But there is no way you could rent this unit out (full price) to another tenant without omitting the truth of the timetable, which obviously was done to me.
If $100 off the regular price is your final answer, then I’m going to reluctantly have to involve my legal advisors. I will not pay nearly $800 for a unit that I don’t feel safe in. You will then have to evict me, and deal with all sorts of legal costs that will far surpass the mere deduction I’m asking for, and was receiving up to this point.
In closing, I want to state that my hope is to remain in this unit.
Usually,
Ryan Bisio

In the event that any of my loyal readers took my advice and placed a wager on the Minnesota college basketball game on November 27th and lost their home, savings, pets, etc…
I hope you know that nobody is reeling from that collapse more than me, since after all, I was the promoter who went public with that ill-advised prophecy.
My only defense is that they were playing at a neutral site, and perhaps the room service that day wheeled in some tarnished foods, which made Minnesota play supremely unmotivated.
But all is not lost, at least not yet. C’mon people, even hedge funds are dicey these days.
Read these and weep…

San Jose St. -4
Georgetown -3
Iowa +11
Arizona St. +7.5

If any of you want to drop off my 10% tomorrow morning, I’ll be on Telegraph Avenue in Berkeley wearing blue jeans, a yellow raincoat, and a Santa Claus hat with a massive gold money chain around my neck. I’ll be accompanied by two (2) short bodyguards holding lap top computers attached to two (2) Doberman pinchers. I’ll be there around 10am.

Cheli…

I have a vague and suspicious memory of you now that I think about it. I’d have to look through my files, but I think you’ve sent me a personalized email before…
But if you did--there’s no possible way that its contents were anything like your latest email. This one is real comfortable, and this one is well informed…
The songs on the MySpace page that you’re speaking of, the songs with “no drums” that you “think would sound better” with drums—what exact songs are you talking about? Out of the six (6) songs posted, five (5) of them HAVE drums…
The only song that doesn’t have drums is a song titled “Till I Awake”, which is a delicate song that drums would absolutely ruin. Drums would penetrate and violate every orphus of that song like a seasoned criminal on shore leave.
I’ve come to understand that you want me to, and I’m quoting, “take for a positive way”, and that you think “you (I) could be more famous if you (I) change a little bit of your music, like ex: with your voice I liked with the kind of music of The Police, The Outfield, you know what I mean.”
Well, I’d rather draw my own conclusions then hear you elaborate any more on what you mean…Let’s see how close I come.
A.) You think that my voice DOESN’T match the instrumentation correctly?
Not likely. There’s a variety of instruments played in those songs. There are DRUMS, bass, acoustic guitar, electric guitar, slide guitar, piano, violin, and vocals. In just glancing at those instruments, that’s not much different than the before mentioned groups that you think I should sound like.
B.) You think the genre of music I play is ILL-ADVISED?
Possible. Each song has a bit of a different feel. There isn’t one genre that get’s repeated on the MySpace playlist.
C.) You think I’m NOT writing the correct type of songs?
Highly likely. To be honest with you, my mind has strayed there in the last few months. But at the end of the day…I’d rather be myself than be in “The Outfield”…
The point here really is this: I don’t think you listened to all the songs. In order to give somebody advice, you have to have some sort of solid footing to stand on. You can’t tell me I need drums if you’re standing on a peg-leg…
You should tell me that I need to become a better songwriter—then I would absolutely agree with you.
Stay in touch,
Ryan

Ominous cloud coverage and a rise in the barometric pressure foreshadows a storm that’s brewing off the coast which should make landfall today—probably right after I step out of the shower on my way to monitor the score of a college football game I was hoping to give gambling advice on--which has ramifications that will undoubtedly effect the two (2) teams vying for contention in the sacred National Championship Game held in Pasadena this year.
Yes folks, we’re talking about College Football, and no folks, I shouldn’t even call it gambling. Gambling is a roll of the dice, fate, chance, luck, etc…But after a 2-0 (parlay) week of “working” college basketball games—this advice should be taken as a sound investment, and/or the potential of starting a trust fund for your children or pets.
These picks go out to all the women in unsatisfactory marriages. These picks will give them the courage to leave their husbands, take HALF, and know that they can survive on their own…
These daily screeds of mine will soon start including the “Pick of the Day”, or maybe we will call it the “Rake of the Day”…Gambling in a recession is obviously the only way out for some of us, and as for the rest, conventional employment or trust funds will have to make due.
After all, it is “Black Friday” today. The day when hung-over husbands get drug around by their spouses who set the alarm for 3a.m with hopes of getting the best deals at stores like Kohl’s, Wal-Mart, Mervyn’s, and even Borders.
Indeed. People working retail today will be running up a hefty tab at a local tavern tonight, telling crude and unspeakable stories of men, women, and children being run over and pan-caked as the doors opened to the before-mentioned stores. Its America’s interpretation of the Spanish tradition “Running of the Bulls”; the only difference is the bulls don’t carry wallets and purses in Spain, and have never been sent to collections in the repayment of predatory loans and credit cards.
Not even close. The local newspapers and well respected National Publications will feature headlines tomorrow morning that read, “Woman Exposed after Stealing Mirror; Bloody aftermath shocks Amish Community”, or “Starbucks Issues Apology after Manager Collapses during Mocha Pump”.
But the major Collegiate Athletic Departments need not worry about attendance to their sporting events today. They’re busy running a racket of their own. It’s not a coincidence that some of the most savory football matchups coincide with “Black Friday”, and carry into this shopping-orgy-of-a-weekend in America.
As of right now, the storied Alabama vs. Auburn game is shaping up to be a beauty, and tomorrow, the perennial “Civil War” matchup showcasing Oregon vs. Oregon State is slated to be a barnburner as well. With all this money people throw around this weekend out of tradition, you can’t fault these College Programs for getting in on the action too.
This is a time of year that’s Deep in American tradition. Your driveway will ice up, your furnace will explode, and you will be rammed in traffic by an uninsured illegal alien in a stolen car. You will also use your credit card…
But what the hell? Enjoy your shopping today, your football and basketball games, and enjoy the fruits of my winning sports picks.


Rake of the day: Minnesota -6.5

Steroids can sneak up on us in a buffet of different ways in this day and age. From lazily gazing anytime on ESPN and seeing 350lb savage linebackers in the NFL, to being a loyal Giants fan and watching re-runs of Barry Bonds’ plate appearances--and even the National Political Arena when Governor Schwarzenegger is on the stump addressing a crumbling E- Coli Spinach situation out here in California. Arnold recently acknowledged his steroid use in his prior career of “body-building”, and he was very matter of fact about it. Why would steroid use make a difference in politics? That’s a question you shouldn’t ask yourself, unless of course you already know the answer.
It was in my “desk” today that steroids snuck up on me from a creepy and sinister distance. A tall, overly swollen, very generous man of Hispanic descent who we will call “Lou” came in for a work out, and work-the-fuck- out is exactly what he did. I’ve noticed progressively his physique being altered every time he’s come in, and this time his presence was overtly beastly. I’ve been implored by close associates and reliable sources that “Lou” didn’t always have an ox-like trapezium. Not even close. By most accounts, this 25 year old had seemingly developed into a SUV overnight, which raised suspicion in many circles of the gym’s loyal patronage.
As I was sitting down comfortably at my desk, Lou approached with elongated strides, looking down toward the ground which he hasn’t seen in six months due to an enormously altered pectoral cavity.
“What’s up man?” He muttered in a deep droning voice.
“Not much man, just watching Giants re-runs, wondering why Bonds’ head is so swollen…”
“Yeah man,” he said surprisingly committed to our passing dialogue. “His head is huge. I guess you get cocky when you hit all those home-runs.”
He then grabbed a towel and lumbered away.
I wasn’t talking to Lou about Bonds’ confidence level; I was talking about the watermelon sized head he now has to carry around after he “unknowingly” took performance enhancing drugs over the course of three (3) or more years. It’s speculated that Bond’s head grew 2 two (2) hat sizes.
But who cares, right?
Wrong. Steroids are dangerous people. Although most of us have probably done worse (……..) you can’t trust anyone to tell you different, especially our Governor. You must trust me. People have died. Ask the friends of Lyle Alzado…
“I started taking anabolic steroids in 1969 and never stopped. It was addicting, mentally addicting. Now I'm sick, and I'm scared. Ninety percent of the athletes I know are on the stuff. We're not born to be 300 lbs or jump 30 ft. But all the time I was taking steroids, I knew they were making me play better. I became very violent on the field and off it. I did things only crazy people do. Once a guy sideswiped my car and I beat the hell out of him. Now look at me. My hair's gone, I wobble when I walk and have to hold on to someone for support, and I have trouble remembering things. My last wish? That no one else ever dies this way…”
That was a published account in Sports Illustrated from Lyle Alzado not long before he died.
But who am I to judge what another person wants to do? Lou has every right to do what he wants, and I have no concrete evidence that would hold up in any part of our Judicial System other than possibly Guantanamo Bay.
I used to be an avid weight lifter in my athletic days, even past the point of doing it for its main purpose, to strengthen and tone the muscle fiber for quick recovery, endurance and avoiding injuries sustained throughout the course of a season. It’s not meant to be a freakish exhibition. We have the WWF for that…
But Barry Bonds broke the All-Time Homerun record in the history of Major League Baseball, and the disgrace of his guilt sends historians of the game towards the purchase of razor blades, gin, and cheap hotel rooms.
I’ve heard the case made by a Danish publication in 08’ (which I can’t reference, my apologies) that if athletics has progressively become more about ENTERTAINMENT rather than FAIR COMPETITION, why would we chastise these athletes who are merely trying to enhance their performance for entertainment value? I don’t see anybody boycotting Jimi Hendrix albums because he used “performance enhancing drugs”…just as I haven’t seen anybody boycott the show “Baywatch” due to Pamela Anderson’s breast enhancement which spiked ratings in the 90’s, and also has carried them steady into the 21st century…
Although to sports purist and historians--steroid prevalence and accessibility is a damper on the future of sports. Meanwhile, there are paid advertisements aimed to STOP America’s youth from smoking marijuana during Football games that flaunt 350 pound beasts violently bashing each other over the span of 4 quarters. Why not a steroid commercial?
Sports are an integral part of American youth across the land, including rural areas and inner cities, breaking through all racial, fiscal, and religious barriers. Those are the people tuned in. But so are the stoners.
Everything is getting bigger though these days. The money is bigger, the cars are bigger, the egos are bigger, the price for peace is bigger, and so is the industry for cosmic expansion of the biceps, triceps, quads, calves, pecks, and war debts.
And penis’.

Ryan,
I clicked a mouse, so there should be 4,162 people at the show, 76.2% of them girls. I’m going to make sure my hair is brushed properly, and that I sleep with a teeth whitening mouth piece in the night before. How many people are you clicking?
I’ll be in the back VIP dressing room of the coffee shop wearing a designer umbrella. If you can’t find me, call my press secretary. If she’s on the other line talking to me or Rolling Stone, you’re going to have to buy a CD at the front door to get in. Don’t be alarmed by the amount of 15 year old girls, they’re gonna be there to see me.

Thanks for Headlining,
Martel Mustard

After numerous long afternoons of consulting with my team of advisors, lawyers, and bona fide professionals-I’ve decided to move forward and sign a 1-year contract with “Royal Ground Coffee”.
Those who have been along for my journey of finding a coffee shop know that this choice wasn’t an easy one. They also know that a few days ago I couldn’t even remember the name of “Royal Grounds”…
As I was sitting here this morning, a Hispanic women who appeared to be in her late 50’s, slowly and deliberately made her way toward the table I was hunched over. I saw her appear in my peripheral vision moving right to left across me as she settled into the vacant table on my left. Although I was concentrated on applying for a job online I didn’t even want, I couldn’t help but notice/feel that she was looking at me. She anchored down next to me and opened a plastic, purple, and see-through purse which was filled with a wide variety of sleep inducing medication and sedatives. She fumbled around in her purse for a long period of time, then pulled out a small pencil with a dull tip and what appeared to be a chewed off eraser. She set the pencil on the table and went in for the kill.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Me? Um…I, uh…I’m writing.”
“Oh…you’re a writer huh?”
“Yeah”, I said confidently.
“Do you write books?” she slurred
At that point I realized I would have to give her some honest face time if I was going to continue on doing what I was doing. Her speech was very slow, and between inquiries she would take a hit of coffee, spilling a little each time on her chin, jacket, table, or the floor.
“No…I don’t write books”, I continued. “I’m a musician…a songwriter.”
“I love music!” she exclaimed.
“Me too, isn’t it great?”
An interruption occurred as a man seated three (3) tables down to my left shouted to another man at the register that he dropped some money on the ground. I looked down and sure enough, a five ($5) dollar bill was lying there helplessly on the ground crumpled and injured.
I continued on trying to get some thoughts down when I noticed the woman pulling an envelope out of her purse. She then gradually began writing something on the envelope and was apparently proofreading it after every letter (alphabet) she produced. She then said, “Here’s my phone number, its right here on this envelope, and here’s my address too.”
“Wow…that’s great”, I said acting very pleased. “I really appreciate that”
“Now give me yours”, she said rather firmly.
I didn’t know what to do. My initial reaction was to give her my friend Virgil’s number. I had just recently memorized it, and had no problem recalling it in a natural manner which would prove valid. As she handed me another envelope with her address on it, I knew whatever number I wrote down would be written with haste, insecurity, and even shame. I wrote my name down to buy a little time before I had to give up my digits. I delicately and introspectively wrote down my name in a type of cursive handwriting I’d never seen before. After my last name was done I knew this was the moment of truth.
“Did you say you wanted my phone number? I asked.
“Yes, and put your address down too”, she mumbled.
I then started to panic. I’ve sought after women without asking them those types of questions for months…
“Well, I’ll just leave you with my phone number this time…”
The pressure was on. I needed to concoct a number. I again ran through the scenario of giving her my friend Virgil’s number, but as I remembered his outgoing message, I knew I couldn’t do it because he states his name. I knew Virgil wouldn’t pick up a number like hers, and I also knew that she would probably want to leave a massage.
Suddenly a rush of calm passed over me, and in that instance I wrote down my real phone number, and passed it along to her. She put the envelope in her purse, smiled as she viewed it, and began to gather her things to leave.
As she was laboring to get out from her seat she said, “It was nice talking to you Ryan, if I don’t call you tonight, give me a call okay?”
“I got your number…” I said with a wave as she shuffled away.
After she left I thought to myself-this is the coffee shop I want to give my money to.

As of today November 13, 2009-I am officially a free agent in the coffee consumption business on 4th street in San Rafael, Ca. There are three (3) coffee shops within a block radius of my apartment-all of which can be the lucky recipient of my unwavering and loyal business day in and day out.
I’m in the process of getting a feel before I commit to a long term contract with any of these organizations. Little do they know, that the acquisition of a caffeine freak like myself could propel they’re organization into absolute contention, and at the very least-a spike in their stock for all the shareholders.
The coffee shops in the running for my coveted courtship include “Aroma’s”, a fairly hip joint located next door to a beautiful old theatre which features independent and foreign films. “Aroma’s” harbors such clientele as cigarette smoking hipsters, young entrepreneurs, middle-aged stir-crazy housewives, and a noteworthy Hispanic presence. Use of the internet is $3.95 per day which certainly doesn’t help their cause one gigabyte.
Upon exiting the building, about 100 feet to the right sits another coffee shop, but I can’t remember the name of it right now. I stopped there on my first ever appearance on this street and ordered a mocha. The quick turnaround from placing the order to feeling the mocha enter my bloodstream was impressive. The barista’s seemed seasoned in the notion that the first coffee of the day needs to get there with haste. They offer free wireless internet which causes every seat in the coffee shop to be taken usually. Like I said-I can’t remember the name of this place.
And speaking of shareholder’s, obviously there is a Starbuck’s on the street. It’s approximately the same distance away from “Aromas”, only to the left upon exit. I’ve frequented this Starbucks the most so far, but I’m not sold on its services it provides. Internet at Starbucks in expensive, and although the coffee has a real consistency to it-I’m not sure it’s a place that suits me for the long haul.
The most endearing quality of this Starbucks is its patronage. Two (2) days ago, while walking down the street after being denied a purchase due to insufficient funds at an establishment that will remain nameless, I saw Tom Waits walking out of the before mentioned Starbucks holding two (2) grande sized coffee’s-one in each hand. Directly across the street from him, I stopped in my tracks and watched him as he made his way to his car, a jet black Audi sports car, with a blonde woman waiting patiently in the driver’s seat. Waits was in true form. Ducking and dodging oncoming pedestrian traffic while staying focused on his exit route. He was wearing tight blue jeans, with tapered ankles that suffocated the entry to the brown boots he showcased. A matching denim jacket and a fresh hair cut also accompanied the legend. He made his way to the driver’s side of the car where he proceeded to usher the blonde woman over to the passenger seat. She opened the door for him as he hastily handed off the coffees to her and entered the driver’s seat with full intentions of driving them out of the scene.
The street suddenly began to accumulate traffic near the stop light where his car was parked. Waits turned the car on, and laboriously checked his blind spot proving his flexibility was in question from that angle. His spine appeared to lock up and his neck wasn’t able to hold up long enough solidify a safe departure from the stall. Waits blindly pulled out in front of a white BMW speeding its way toward the light that was due for a change. Waits gradually pulled out forcing the BMW to lock his brakes and lay on his horn in frustration. Waits then immediately signaled for a left turn which caused the BMW to be stuck behind him until Waits could negotiate the turn safely with oncoming traffic abundant. As Waits made the left turn he laid on the horn himself, and continued pressing it all the way down the street until he was out of sight.
But what it really comes down to is quality of the coffee, energy of the occupants, and the fiscal responsibility of the wireless internet situation. Those stipulations are currently being worked out in my quest to find a permanent coffee, writing, and internet providing experience.

Asana Tea House- Santa Cruz, Ca

Jacinta
Say Hey
Dora May
Sail it on the Wind
Blind Faith
Anyways
Man In The Mirror
Buried 'Neath a Dream
Western Avenue
Stay too Soon
Little Fly on the Wall
Backwards Letters
Matchstick Mr.
Airports
Hand Me Downs
Magnetized

“These are the times that try men’s souls”- Thomas Paine 1776

That was the opening line from the first of a series of pamphlets that Paine began writing in 1776 titled “The American crisis”. Certainly that line can be used in the same vein these days- but as I’ve recently come to understand, that line can be interjected into the daily fumblings and triumphs of everyday life.
The last three weeks have proved to be as turbulent as any stretch of time in recent memory for me personally. You can argue that things have unfolded in or out of my control, but the point remains that there has been much left to be desired. Before I continue, I want to make note that I’m aware of the FACT that “things can ALWAYS be worse.” With that said…here is a recent laundry list of events in the last three weeks:
*The closing of Monterey Live- An event that saddened many more people than just me. Any music venue that closes is terrifying for musicians, since we rely on places like that so we can work. More so than that, we rely on places like that to gain more influences in our work, meet other artists, and get cheered up in a way that only live music can provide. Lastly, Monterey Live was where my band would rehearse three (3) times a week…Long live the Live.
*The flooding of my bathroom- Although this was a mild event in the spectrum, waking up to a flooded bathroom can prove to be catastrophic, especially if the toilet is the culprit…
*The cancellation of our show June 16th- This one was tough to swallow. The show was (supposed to be) with one of my favorite bands,” Truth and Salvage Company”. A band based out of Los Angeles who will soon be touring with “The Black Crows” across the country. These guys have recently become good friends of mine, and the cancellation came as a bummer for all of us.
*The murder of my cat- Arguably the anchor of my recent pitfalls. It’s been well documented that I’ve had…”snags” in my relationships with animals over the last 26 years (maybe 27). I’ve always felt like a victim of circumstance on the topic, but this cat changed everything for me. We slept together, hung out, and sometimes it felt like the only one I could talk to. Murdered.
There was no sign of a struggle, and no real evidence of who the murderer was. It’s been speculated that a bobcat was the assailant, but there haven’t been any leads in the case. Further, the body hasn’t been found for a proper burial…
*The demolition of my guitar- This event is completely intertwined with the murder of my cat. After receiving the news about the murder, I staggered downstairs with my figurative tail between my legs. The only thing that would make me feel better at THAT moment was to play guitar. I picked up my guitar, started walking around the room sensitively finger-picking music that matched my distraught state, when the bottom of the guitar strap violently ripped off, ripping with it the whole internal electronic pick-up system inside the guitar…
Within 20 minutes the cat and guitar were dead-forever.
*The damage to the front end of my car- As I was leaving a pizza parlor yesterday, I pulled out of the stall, and between shifting my car from reverse to drive was backed into by a massive green truck with hay bails in the truck bed.
I pulled over and inspected the damage and looked at the guy. He said, “Whatever you want man, I’ll pay for it.”
I said, “I’ll tell you what man, forget about it. Just do something cool for somebody else…?”
He said, “Well, let me buy you a beer?”
I said, “No…maybe you’ve had enough…”
*The legal problems of my drummer- As of earlier today, all speculation as to whether or not my drummer would make the trip to Arcata tomorrow was purely ignorant speculation.

Needless to say, I am supremely excited to be making the trip tomorrow to Arcata for the album release show up there on Friday night, and in fact- I need it. All of the recent events seem to be setting the stage (pun intended) for an absolute bonanza of a performance. I can already sense that the show will put everything back into perspective- and allow me/us to do what we do best.
That wouldn’t be the case if it wasn’t for the support of so many people in my life. I’ve been helped in so many different ways recently and to all those who know or don’t know you’ve helped- I thank you.

I've recieved vague and unsettling information today stating that the shows that were scheduled for 6/17, and 7/24 at the Ol' Factory Cafe have been cancelled. More information when it becomes available...

To everybody who came out to support us in the release of my album. We hope you enjoyed the evening, and continue to enjoy the record.

Today was a day that has taken four (4) years to get here. I’ve been counting.
Today was the day that my second (2nd) album (Rose Side of the Thorn) was finished, and Monday is the day it gets sent to New York to get pressed.
Today was the day that all my songs met for the first time in a room and got a chance to mingle as a group.
Today was the day that the first single “Buried ‘Neath a Dream” interacted with the world.
Today was the day I posted 13 songs on my web site www.ryanbisio.com that didn’t make the final cut of the record.
Today I titled this collection “B-Side the Point”.
Today was the day I decided to write that the CD release show is on April 23rd at Monterey Live.
Today was a day that makes me want to wake up tomorrow.





Anonymous...

At this juncture I don’t even have the courage to investigate the date in which you wrote to me. I’ve had you in my crosshairs since the evening I read it, but the events afterwards…
At this juncture, I also think it would be a wise investment for me to purchase some “official” Ryan Bisio letterhead with the phrase “I’m sorry” written in rather bold font. That way I could just get onto writing instead of apologizing at the start of every letter I attempt to thrust at people (you).
But why would I lump (you) in with other people? I certainly don’t follow other “people” around grocery stores inspecting the type of produce they’re buying…
Indeed, it’s only you. This leads me to my next and most prominent apology to you: the act of stalking.
I really took your previous letter to heart- and you have my word that I won’t “cramp your style” publicly any longer. Privately…I can’t make that promise.
For instance, this email is certainly private- and I’ll be damned if I’m not cramping your style right now.
But who’s really cramping whose style? It goes without saying that the style you’ve adopted is certainly impressive, especially upon further probing into your endeavors as a performer. I might as well just wear a brown paper bag when I’m around you…
But we all know it’s winter time, and paper doesn’t insulate very well. We also know that on the Chinese calendar 2009 is the Year of the Ox, and it would be irrefutably hard to “carry the load” in a brown paper bag.
Just about as hard as it was for me to get out of bed (sickness) last week. Just about as hard as it is to make sense of the show I played last night. Just about as hard as it’ll be to move this piano out of my apartment before March 1st…
But why ramble on your time? I merely wanted to write and apologize for my unspeakable collapse in communication. It turned out I wasn’t stricken with what a close friend of mine speculated was “Legionnaires Disease”, but still…
Ok for now. Ignore me for a week then write me back.

Usually,
Ryan

I received a notice in my yahoo email account earlier this evening that a new video with me included had been posted on “Youtube”. Obviously, my first reaction was to trace my steps for the last two weeks and see where I could have been unlawfully videotaped. I sped to the site and found that somebody hung some concert footage on the Youtube wall. Whoever it was, the next time I’m in Monterey (or anywhere), let me buy you a Stiff drink.
I remember the show vividly- it was in early January. The famous Dave Eaton was a part of the band then, and of course there were Tim and Jasper, that band that should have been called “Trio Bisio” from the beginning of Jump Street.
The cut chosen for its call to the internet was “Hurry up and Wait”. A song that was written about 47 minutes before the song “Go No My Dear” (which was a VERY new song at the time) was penned. “HUAW” was lying around the floor for about six (6) months before it finally got written. The groove was intact, the chord progression was stapled, the way the song would be melodically phrased in the vocal, a general recipe for scope involving the manner it which the lyrics would be written. The only thing lacking in that song was me getting in the correct mood to write it. I wrote those songs last November, and besides the piano ballad “The Clock Waltz”, those are the last songs I’ve authored.
There hasn’t been a single millisecond in the last five (5) years that I haven’t had at least three (3) songs spiraling around my head looking for the landing strip. Songs that hang around like an annoying spouse- the difference is they don’t bother me at all. As my band mates can attest to, I lead songs around the block for months on end, and the only way I can write them is if I have the internal and external freedom to get into (my) weird and menacing moods it takes to write them. Chain smoking, pacing, reading a book, scribbling with a shrewd look on my face, lashing out, and yes, sometimes drinking.
It would be preposterous to say that’s the “only” way I can write songs. I’ve undoubtedly had songs undress themselves in front of me, and have no intentions with fumbling with foreplay. For the most part, those are some of my favorite songs.
If you fast forward ten (10) months (to the day) since last November, you’ll find me smack dab into one of those frenzied songwriting lusts again- and this ones heavy. I wrote two songs on Tuesday, and with a running glance, they seem (to me) as good as anything I’ve written in three (3) years. The song “Sail it on the Wind” had been lurking in the dark for almost a year now. I remember playing it in Elizabeth’s room LAST November. Similar to “Hurry up and Wait”, the song had been done in every way BUT lyrical content. “SIOTW” was written in a fashion that I’m not used to- but will without question try again.
I moved on to a song that was conceived about three (3) weeks ago- when I first arrived to Europe. As I’ve told to numerous people, the song gave itself up to me every day of those first three weeks. It gave just enough to come back to it the next day, which I did. This song had a knack for foreplay, one which I wanted full part of. After finishing “SIOTW”, the juice was boiling to write this one- and it just took off the page. I think when Jasper and Tim hear it they’ll want to be a part of it. “Timely” meets with “Simple as it feels” then starts to hump “Windows”.
I’m starting to lose focus here so I’m gonna’ cut it short. I’m (trying) to stay up tonight and watch the first game of the NFL season. An affair featuring the defending world champion Indianapolis Colts, squaring off against a team I would gamble on a lot, the New Orleans Saints. The game is on at 2am my time, which is 5pm on the West Coast…
The men’s team I’m coaching has they’re first “friendly” game tomorrow against “Herlev”. Apparently this “Herlev” squad is a gang of brutes. I have a feeling we’ll give a good showing tomorrow night- at least for a half…
Ok for now. I have a vague suspicion that I know who put the footage on Youtube, but it might be ignorant speculation. I applaud you, and so do my band members for that.

The main street was narrowly conceived and steadied onward for miles in each direction. Three to five storied brick buildings settled both sides of the street and when the wind would pick up, the street would serve as a wind tunnel for walkers and bicyclists.
Between the aged auburn colored brick structures stood carefully aligned rows of three oak trees that were transitioning they’re way towards a look of autumn. Golden brown colored flakes danced off the branches and gracefully tumbled down in the brisk morning bluster. The aroma was a mixture of fresh sea air, stale cigarette smoke, and slow growing mold.
The occasional honk of a car horn and the timid ring of a bicycle bell topped the volume level on the main street. The sporadic conversations held between fellow residences would sometimes be transported by the wind to the ears of others, but that was as seldom as the sun showing its face to the town for a whole day.
Street vendors would staple they’re fruit stands to the ground in the early morning hours- and if they didn’t wash the fruit do to a time crunch, they could always count on the rain.
The rain would bring a variety of audio to the sonic capacity of the people. Road Buses would drive by spraying road water off the tires which would sound like 1,000 simultaneous paper tears.
There were two schools located on the main street- both clinging to the opposite ends of the arrow-like strip. At nearly noon, the children would congregate towards a bakery that was on the top right corner of a four-way intersection. They would form a serpent-esque line and wait patiently for they’re call to the counter. Inside they would linger to get warm, while purchasing pastries that would hold them over for hours on end.
On the wooden fence that bordered the school on all sides hung elementary level paintings in a smorgasbord of colors and patterns, and designs. One painting had a dense blue background which contrasted a white Saber tooth Tiger with two full rows of sharp fangs protruding. Disproportioned monkeys surrounded the tiger with olive colored bodies and black pin striped tails. From they’re positioning, the monkeys seemed to be taunting the tiger. The portrait gave the impression that if it was a real time film, the tiger would never be able to capture the monkeys with his savage jaw.
In the very center of Main Street stood the tallest building in sight, a slender church where each sides of the roof met at a sharp point on top. A large bell dwindled about ten feet south of the roofs peak, and gave the inkling that it hadn’t been rung in a significant amount of time. A white cross was engraved from the brick right above the front doors, in plain sight to anybody who would notice it, and the cross gave the facade of feeling lonely. The church as a whole seemed like it could be swept away from the roots by the swift winds of change. The church would open its front doors on Saturdays, as if opening its mouth to speak. Inside the church behind the alter stood an ascending row of organ pipes, that seemed to be minutes away from rusting in the damp dreariness.
Often the same group of two men would sit on a tiny wooden bench directly in front of the church and drink beer from bottles purchased at a liquor store directly across the street. When the men weren’t occupying the bench, they’re proof of life remained in the form of empty beer bottles that would roll towards the street when the wind gusts picked up.
A third grade level education was the only prerequisite for being a weatherman in the town. 300 days out of the year the report would say,” Morning cloudiness proceeded by 30 minutes of light showers, to be followed by a brief break-up of clouds, not after the return of clouds and light rain in the evening.”
It was there that a man cradling a baby in his arms asked me a question in a language that I couldn’t understand. I told him I only spoke English, and he walked away down Main Street, carefully placing his steps while negotiating the child in the wind.

Trying to knock out all the letters I owe people in one (1) night. I’m about halfway through the list right now, but my direction is yanking me towards an email I received tonight from a fellow musician based out of Maine called Christian.
This acoustic blues act contacted me via email in regards to a week long Denmark leg in his independently assembled European tour starting (I think) next week. Being that I haven’t dipped my toes into the Copenhagen music scene yet, this inquiry was gazed upon with perversion and intrigue.
The week I would (potentially) join “them” is during the days of October 6-10. The obvious next question to a primate would be who are “they”?
“They” are a group of singer/songwriter acts who are getting this tour roofed by an Independent label “Marilyn Records” based outta’ Sweden. These three (3) acts (so far) are hoping to cultivate the dubbed “Indienational Tour” into a battlefield of singer/songwriters marching toward respect. I told them I couldn’t do it- I’d be salivating and masturbating over his email for too long.
Things are currently in the works for this assault on Denmark- although my right pinky is useless.
Since I’ve been here, I’ve been grappling with this new song like we signed some contract to make the fight go 124 rounds. Neither one of us is budging on our own ideas for the song, but at some point one of us will have to give in.
Best case scenario- I give in. That means the song has more purpose then what I’ve written off of what it’s given me so far. If the song gives in and I’M right…
It’s an optimistic tune with as simple of a chord progression as I’ve written in four (4) years. A lot of chords in the purposeful harmony, but there isn’t a clear distinction on how the song should be melodically phrased in the vocal. These are the demonstrative crisis’s I DEAL with everyday, and if you’ve never experienced it, for good or ill- good for you.
I’ve been realizing as of late that the borders around the country genre have peaked there heads out at me very friendly, and in listening to the latest Ryan Adams CD, those borders must be a cozy place to chill.
My new song has a real country feel, but when interjected with my guitar style and vocal delivery, the song doesn’t have a borderline location whatsoever. The things that sometimes do are the chord progressions, as was the case in the song “Simple as it Feels” (mine, not Ryan Adams). In fact, strike what I said about “interjected with my guitar style”, my guitar playing can lurk near the border, especially in the shade.
I then realized that the most recognizable acts I’ve shared a bill with own real estate on the border. Perhaps the most notable (although few in my circles NOTE IT) was border tycoon Shelby Lynne. She ravaged The Coach House on a cold November evening for $10,000 large. Not a clear percentage of those attendees were “satisfied” with what they saw that night, but Shelby Lynne undoubtedly…
It’s not necessary given the mood I’m in tonight to go into any REAL detail from that show. The point is she roams the border land.
The other act I shared the stage with was Carey Ott. Ott simply dazzled the audience that I was apart of with his trance-like physical movements as he sang and finger-picked his Guild acoustic guitar. His hypnotic facial expressions while singing were fascinating, as he would open his lids showing his wild-eyed frenzy, or close them in a contorted and painful way although singing in a wizardly country twang. He has a hit song on “Grey’s Anatomy” titled (I think) “I wouldn’t do that to you.” I couldn’t have been more impressed by his act or his personality. His manager went onto say all the country singers in Nashville want to write with him. Its good thing he’s gotta’ career in music, because if he walked into a real company making faces like that, the investors would sell.
The point is: the song I’m writing has a country thrust, and if it would fucking SPEAK TO ME, we might be able to lunge it into an element of shock and unexplored doors that are littered with tobacco stains, denim, and raw hide.

G (what?) Sus…

Your last letter was a god damn masterpiece- I thought about forwarding it to Virg but if you had any idea of the internet speed I’m working with, you’d be shocked if this note finds you within the next 13 working days.
Tough to say where to start this rant. Suppose I could start by saying my right pinky feels like it would be better suited being sold in the deli section of your local Safeway. It doesn’t even feel like it’s mine. I shoved it into some dumpy big man’s belly button when he was bombarding towards the lane, and when I pulled it out they stopped the game to look at it.
After I got back from the “ER”, I knew that whatever the Danish doctor said about it “noot bing broken”, so “dawnt warrie obout tit,” wasn’t all the case. I wouldn’t be surprised if I tore every tendon and ligament in that thing.
As I’ve told everybody- out of the ten fingers I have, my right pinky is the ONLY finger I don’t use when I play guitar.
On other (money) fronts, things out here are outrageously expensive. The Danes pay a belly full of taxes. Restaurants have tax and tip included (you should have seen my face when I saw the first Bill), so the price really jumps out at you. When you break it down, it’s really a little more expensive then California- but being new, you really wonder if you’re getting your moneys worth.
The one person who is getting her moneys worth is the QUEEN. We drove out and saw four (4) of her Castles In One Day. Just in the greater Copenhagen area. I asked Henrik, “What do you get though?”
An obvious answer is Free Health Care. I can vouch for that since my visit to the “ER” was obscenely free. I was looking all over the hospital for a cash register.
The teams I’m coaching seem to be doing well. They are initially committed to playing hard, and show superb attentiveness. I’m working about 14 hours a week, so I have a lot of free time on my hands.
I’ve very recently picked up the book “In Cold Blood”, by Truman Capote. An absolute chiller to the bone- with gorgeous prose. You might recall the movie “Capote” (Academy Award Winner) was about the creative process of Capote in gathering his research for this bombshell. Its funny- Robert Blake plays one of the killers in the black and white version of the film…
I’ve been playing this new tune I’m writing very perversely, for it sings like a dandy instrumentally. One of those tunes where the melody pops right out and you don’t need to go digging for it. It implies how it should be sung vocally already, which makes my job only to fit the lyric and go for the jugular. It’s more of a chord progression then I usually write, which the “connecting” chord for the whole tune ended up being an A7. Tough to say what it’s about yet, but it will speak to me when I quit staring at it.
Switching the topic to depressing music, the music they listen to out here is radically improper. All I’ve heard so far is pop music sung by legendary greats like Kelly Clarkson, and the melodic archer Justin Timberlake. I mean, you can’t even get any Usher out here…
Indeed, and there doesn’t seem to be room for much else. I heard there was a really big jazz scene, but it’s been elusive thus far. Shit, all of a sudden I’m chomping at the bits to hear some jazz. Things are Heavy.
The few people I’ve played my music to have observed it from a queer distance, and considered it from even further. But like my man Henrik said,” If sound good, audience will lllike.”
I hope things on your end are looking fat. Look into coming out here around December 18 or so. If Matt gives you any more shit about it, tell him you accidentally looked down your pants and realized your balls were bigger then his.
Alright for now. Send word- and let me know how your situation is holding up out there in Sacramento.

Yours in sudden abstinence,
RCB

Today was the first day of official practice for the “Junior Boys #1” team, and the “Men’s #1 team respectively. Since I am sidelined right now with a DISCLOCATED right pinky finger (which would be far better off broken since I’m confident without the expertise of my Danish “doctors” that I’ve torn every ligament in it), I am the sole Head Coach of both teams.
The boy’s team did a magnificent job. Magnificent by NO means means that it wasn’t sloppy. Magnificent means they’re effort and commitment to playing hard; they’re attentiveness and listening skills, and the overall coach ability of these 14 + 15 year old horny teenagers was noteworthy. In fact, they played so hard that they seemed too be as some people call, “out of control”.
I usually get things started at practice with some intense running. I make them run a “Deep 6” as it’s called- A sprint to each baseline six (6) times in 33 seconds. You can’t cruise a deep 6, and you certainly can’t run it nonchalant. It makes players vulnerable within two (2) minutes of practice starting. If they don’t make the time allotted to them, they have to run it over (usually there is only one (1) or two (2) guys that don’t make the time). This causes people to work together and come to the conclusion that the day will be a lot better if EVER BODY makes it on the first time.
After they finish they are panting- and I like to start up “full speed, full court passing”. A ball at the baseline in the middle of the floor, and a line of players where the baseline and sideline connect. They sprint up the floor passing back and fourth without letting the ball hit the ground or break a basketball rule called “traveling”. When the middle player comes to the opposite free throw line, he comes to a jump stop and delivers a pass to the streaking wing for a lay-up. After the ball goes through the net, or today, skips off the glass, Hard, the ball still can’t touch the floor. This causes full concentration, and never quitting on the play. After the ball is rebounded by the passer, they switch sides and do it on they’re way back down the floor. With the lack of dribble and rebounding assignment, the ball should NEVER touch the floor. Every time it does, it is counted and will be the # of “down and backs” they run after the drill.
Once they slaughter that, I like to move to a drill called “Full Court 3 Man Weave”. A drill makes basketball players move like hockey players skating down the rink. Three players intersecting interestingly down the floor passing the ball, and obviously, not letting the ball hit the floor. Once the ball is woven down to the opposite hoop, a recipient will receive a pass for a lay-up. The rebound must be negotiated on the run, since the three players need to be in the three respective spots on the floor to take it back. They then repeat the task coming home. I start the drill with a four (4) pass maximum. It is possible to make it down in three, but they will have to do that later. Once every player has done it three or so times, I impose a three (3) pass maximum- which forces players to run much harder since they have to get down the length of the floor in fewer touches. After each player has gone the same amount or so, I dictate a two (2) pass rule- which causes even more grimace to those who are out of shape. I count the number of touches on the deck, and add that to the total of the last drill.
Without hesitation I whistle the drill dead, and strike up a transition drill called “3 on 2, 2 on 1”. A drill where they have to make spontaneous and instinctual basketball plays in transition. Compounded with the physical fatigue they now carry with the previous drills, this also forces players to focus and make good decisions when they’re tired. Three players force the ball offensively up the floor (the ball is now allowed to touch the floor, the dribble is in full affect) where two defenders await on the other end. The offense should make a score within two passes (maybe, maybe three). The player who shoots it, or turns the ball over has to sprint back and defend the former defender on a 2 on 1. If you are on a 2 on 1 fast break, there is never an excuse for shooting anything other then a lay-up or dunk shot. The lone defender who previously was on offense, must now outlet the ball to one of the two new offensive players waiting on the baseline, and keep playing. This always proves to have at least one player getting in extra cardio during the drill.
Once that drill is massacred, I reminisce on all of the fumbles and times the ball hit the ground in the previous two drills- and make them run as many down and backs as the number states. Today it was 13- which is an unlucky number, but taking into account that it was the first day of these drills, and the fact that they are out of shape, isn’t that bad. I’m sure I missed a few, or didn’t count the vile ones. I state that it won’t be timed, but if they aren’t running hard, I will stop it and time it. After they finish running, I give them the option of picking a shooter to make 1 free throw, or they can shoot 1 each as a team which HAS to add up to 70%. They chose the latter, which ended up at a 54% clip.
They then had a deep 6, in 33 seconds. Upon completion, they are allowed a 5 minute water break.