The Bullshit Disaster continues.

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

The car wreck of American history. Opening Daze. Where the shit are my keys?

Somebody named George Kottaras just fucked up my night.

Well, I've fallen back to earth and the screen appears before me. Ink on the page, blood on the street and stupid shit happening all the time. I've been lazy, busy, tired, depressed, all kinds of sad, factual excuses not to write at all, blogwise or otherwise or even pay attention at all to anything. I haven't fully lobotomized myself with the goings on around me just yet. But, as I've said before, this could be my year!

Maybe I didn't want to jinx the Dodgers fast, beautiful start to the season or maybe I didn't want to write a word or scream shit in any direction until Vin returned from his unfortunate cold that kept us in the godless grips of the Steiner/Lyons Bullshit Connection. Which would be tight if they were a 70s style radio friendly folk duo a la Seals and Crofts but that isn't the case. Vin came back, called a beautiful game and then the Dodgers had to go to Milwaukee without Vin travelling, understandably, and play a good game. It was a good game except that they fucking blew it. But it knocked something loose. At least for now.

I had no interest in writing about them at all, even the shit talking, which is usually the easiest part to do but now I realized that maybe I gain some kind of strength through the masochism that is the 162 game season. Every year seems more surreal and a bit more insipid but I end up feeling electric shocks of joy or else I'm gang banged by sadness, more of the latter, every year of my life. That's what baseball is about I guess and this recent and more or less first fuck up of the season has solidified why I follow these assholes in the first place. Either I hate myself, have an innate, inexplicable and stupid sense of historic and geographical pride or I really do love the physical and mental art that the game of baseball truly is. I think it's a strange combination, all of the above.

This dirty game has always been full of traitors, cheaters, racists and idiots. But baseball, in its raw form (not pure form, that's Ken Burns American pastime catch with my dad bullshit, baseball is not pure or clean or anything,) finds a way to excavate something beautiful out of it. The spine of the world, the people who play the game or work the lights or yell shit from the stands or crowded around a TV, will always outweigh the bloodless cunts who own the shit, rape the soul, herd the cattle, horde the money and attempt to write the history when its not theirs to write.

Shards of beauty in a real fucked up mess. Roberto Clemente, cold beer in the parking lot, the Houston Astros and their uniforms in 1981, Dodger Stadium on a warm day. These are the pieces of glass we have to pick out of our skulls after we've gone through the windshield, again and again. This is how the beginning of a season makes me feel. Fuck New Year's Day. I always forget why I can't get my shit together, even slightly, until it nears summer.
And by, October, and often a month or two before, I don't give a shit at all. I'll curse these words I'm writing today and hate myself again.
Tonight we lose hard. The past is a corpse and tomorrow is blind as fuck. I'll get blunted in the backyard and try to think about something else. And then it'll all happen again. Until the world ends, one way or another.

Monday, April 2, 2012

...some L.A. shit...

Another long mild winter of labor with brief bouts of languor and inside of each no time to think about the bullshit of baseball, the projected batting average of Mark Ellis, the brittle bones of most of L.A.'s offensive players not named Matt Kemp.
These days are dwindling now. I still find myself enveloped in a shit job, shit wage, shit time, not complaining, just laying it down on the concrete, my wares for sale, fuck you america, it's time for Dodger baseball. What is dwindling are the moments, the minutes, counting down the seconds, that speculation and anticipation will rule all. Don't worry, the ESPN baseball cunts will decide the World Series match up after the first week of play and will be wrong as always without any accountability when the time comes. But at least there will be some games on. We can laugh at the Miami Marlins uniforms and hope their owner Dickface Loria is burned at the stake for taking the taxpayers of Dade County hostage. I'll have to hear the dissonance of surly fanaticism and shithead poetry about the Red Sox all the time but what else is new? The Astros will probably suck but sweep the Dodgers at some point.
The Dodgers will suck again but at least Magic Johnson kind of owns the team now. I never thought it would be possible for me to be happy about the billion dollar acquisition by an owner,2 billion actually, high fiving Capitalism and 69ing Satan with commercial transactions for another season. But everyone loves Magic and everyone hates Frank McCourt. If only the ability to enjoy a baseball game was affordable, God Bless America would be banned from Dodger Stadium and Frank McCourt was bludgeoned to death in a parking lot, then I'd be a lot happier about this change in ownership. Oh well. Magic Johnson has been my favorite athlete since I was in the comfortable confines of the womb, getting smoked out to the sounds of Kool and the Gang. No bullshit.
So here we are once again and I haven't given up on living. Time will tell. The future is always dim and we always show up anyhow. Half drunk, that's fifty percent and god damn ready to increase that percentage. Vin Scully's voice is still the most beautiful sound and I still hate the fucking cops. 2012 motherfuckers. Play ball. Or smoke dope and then think about playing ball. Sun and smog and something worth living for until it bums you all out once again.

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

"...and when the tips of their flaccid dicks touched, Glenn Beck turned to the crowd and rejoiced, America hath been restored!" (Associated Press)

A Season of Promise.

This bullshit winter, despite Cali weather, has extracted any ability for me to articulate or really give a fuck about grammar or punctuation or anything really. This isn't that different from anything else on this blog but my energy to give a shit wanes more each day. Not that I actually thought the Dodgers would acquire a "marquee player" or whatever, and if they did, said player would blow out both knees before or during spring training and would be paid despite their absence for the next decade or so, but I thought after a somewhat exciting and positive final month of the season, in the way cancer remissions are exciting and promising, some cool shit would go down. Of course McCourt is gone but another gutless, greedy cunt capitalist or a group of them will own the Dodgers, in the way we're all owned and fucked forever. Remember, Frank McCourt is still alive. Reputation tarnished, money in the bank. Also, remember he has an address. They all do. Time to bust out the tar and feathers. Or Uzis and AKs.

Here's a run down of beautiful facts, headlines, quotes, a maelstrom of stupid shit that signifies the state of the Los Angeles Dodgers of Los Angeles, the actual city of Los Angeles on the eve of another apocalypse, perhaps the real apocalypse. The last season ever will include A.J. Ellis!

"...20 million off the pay roll, Fox, Loney arrested after car crash, Big Names Not on Dodgers Agenda, Jerry Hairston and Aaron Harang, A Platoon in Left Field, budget constraints make Dodgers get creative(my favorite by the way, redefining creativity to mean shitty) A Platoon at Second, A Platoon at Third, Jerry Hairston and Aaron Harang..."

Fuck it, I think I'll stop there. I think while the Angels were spending the GDP of most African countries combined on two coveted assholes, Tommy Lasorda and Andre Ethier were handing out hams to children or something. I didn't read up on it. I actually think in the grand scheme the latter is a better deal. No sarcasm. Fuck the Angels. And Orange County. And Glenn Beck and the Crystal Cathedral and Mickey Mouse and rally monkeys and fans who call their players "Figgy" because they're too white to do anything otherwise.

I know I sound sore and should reserve my hatred for the Giants or better yet, the owners, the bankers, elected officials, white supremacists, Christian fundamentalists, etc. I actually dislike the American League, the Yankees, Red Sox fans and wifepunching starting pitchers much more than the Angels.
But hating the Anaheim Angels of Anaheim blindly and belligerently is good for the world. Like when you make a wish to the stars and send telepathic unicorn vibes outward beyond the infinite cosmos.

Case and point:

*These dicks, retarded on Coors Light, will be chanting whatever stupid nickname Angels fans give Albert Pujols. For a decade.

I hate baseball.

Saturday, November 19, 2011


Clayton Kershaw was the best pitcher in the National League this year. Any old, white East Coast nostalgiacunt who thinks otherwise is a bunk bitch. And a dummy. Roy Halliday didn't win. Fuck you. Kershaw pitched for a team that had a seizure inducing shit year, a shit offense besides Matt Kemp and a shit owner who will hopefully die of syphilis before he can build anymore parking lots. We'll all miss you Frank. And most of all, no run support. Ask Hiroki Kuroda. It ended up being a promising season. For now, I don't even have to think about their bankruptcy or even more depleted offense. "No run at big names," "pay roll less than it was last year" "Kuroda might be leaving." Seems promising.
Party on, Clayton. However your kind parties. Doesn't strike me as a blunt wielding whoremonger. But he's still just a kid. His beard isn't even coming in at full force. Nature will take its course, friend.
Clayton Kershaw has risen the ranks, sky-high above the runner-up to My Favorite Christian Athlete from Texas Award. Normally I hate all of you. Except Clayton Kershaw for now. An impressive season among seasons. That beard will come in just fine. Perhaps one day, 30 wins. And a mustache.

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

spray paint the walls

It wasn't a deliberate vow of silence. I was watching the Dodgers lose to Milwaukee sometime in early August and decided it wasn't worth talking shit about. It never is but usually I have nothing better to do. In August I wrote two zines, High and Outside #2 and #3, adderol, caffeine, bluntsmoke. Then I had to move abruptly, find a place with bad credit and a yuppiecidal pit bull. Two red flags when you live in Shit City. All this while having to resist throwing my now former landlord down the stairs. I might just dedicate this offseason and therefore this blog to listing all the methods and reasons why, concerning the eradication of said landlord and wealthy, property owning gentrifying tyrants in American cities altogether. Kill them all. They're constantly waging war against the working class and belong to the same scumbucket as the owners of professional sportsteams, the high cardinals in the Church of Cunts.
Frank McCourt still owned the team in August and now he does not. Until the Dodgers are sold to another rich piece of shit who pillages our pockets and souls, this is good news. This lone, lost era of wonder where we resigned Matt Kemp and no one is injured yet. Dee Gordon is the real deal, Clayton Kershaw will win 30 games, A.J. Ellis will hit .244! Until the season can turn to shit, we have a few months to bask in the end of the McCourt era and 2011 as a whole. It was a shit year. In the end, we had two of the best players in the major leagues and the chaos of young, potential futurestars was enough to feel better in September than you did in July. Maybe some great players will want to come to L.A. and get paid 100 million dollars to start 35 games. The weather is really nice.
Oh, well. Smoke ten blunts and listen to UGK. Write Matt Kemp on police cars and bank windows. No reason, just say fuck it. Tear some shit up.
World Series Twenty Twelve!