The Bullshit Disaster continues.

Thursday, April 28, 2011

Month down.

It's a vow of silence or else a vow of perpetual bluntsmoke until the season ends. I'd like to enjoy this corroding world without stupid shit like baseball fucking my head up. But it doesn't always work like that.
One month in and it couldn't be better. Once again I exaggerate my predictions and expectations so that I won't be too suicidal when we can't score more than five runs and when we do, blow a five run lead or when even more positions become "platoons" or "by committee" or more injuries and meltdowns and shitty parking lot beat downs with the light shed due only to public relations bullshit, media ignorance and the ubiquitous baseball soft spot everyone feigns. Fuck it all. And we didn't even mention Bud Selig the repo man. Which I'll only be happy about if it results in the Frank McCourt parking lot stake burning I spoke of months ago. It all kind of sucks and I don't care as much as I thought. But the chemical burn inside my chest is just flammable enough to keep me watching and cringing and writing and dying.
Ethier hits the ball every game and Kershaw can't get run support and if Matt Kemp could multiply, we'd be just fine.
I went to the excruciating 12 inning win against the Braves last week. It was ok. The Police State was in full effect but not too many people showed up. Should be good for revenue. I parked at Elysian Park and smuggled in some alcohol.
It was half off day, noon game, Thursday but due to recent events, beer was full price. Which everyone knows, charging ten dollars for Pabst curbs gang violence. Studies at USC have been done, google that shit. This is sarcasm. It's about all I got left.
Mediocrity is worse than being complete shit sometimes. It provides the illusion that maybe it will work out. Long enough to get you spending your money on said Pabst and Jerry Sands jerseys. And what the fuck is going on with Brox Ton?
My head is a mess. I haven't even written an e-mail in weeks. I'm full of anger and rust. Maybe it's because they played so goddamn bad on Jackie Robinson Night. That was terrible. Or the next night. Or the brittle bones and muscles of Rafael Furcal. Or it's probably just a smaller, more manageable tumor in the great failure epidemic of these states and these times. Something we can deal with a little more tangibly. It sure seems this way but it's all connected. It's the same fucking mess.
Hard times in the junkpile of good times, an eve or two before Chevron and Blackwater team up to protect the mansions from the apocalypse, which means no words from me or you or anybody. Until then, we'll be smoking chronic and holding up middle fingers, wondering why it's gotta be so hard.

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

First place!

All the suspended dread along the path toward Opening Day, more than ever it was out of sight and mind but I'll admit I had no other plans but to watch the shit. A more immediate problem than the Dodgers probable lack of offense and the perpetual frustration merrily carried over from last season was the fact that ESPN had to market this shit in primetime because the Giants are defending champs. What's more stupid than Opening Day at Dodger Stadium being at 5 pm instead of 1 pm was that Vin wasn't calling the game. Cue three to four middle aged, former player talking heads who do nothing but talk shit to each other while we wonder what the count is. A little unnerving but I had the radio on and the TV on mute, which had a two second, or a one pitch, delay but it was worth it. Vin laying it down with ease, with grace, I could close my eyes and see the game and then watch a replay on ESPN soon after. For some reason, Vin calls the first three innings and for this special occasion the last three, which I'm sure there is some bullshit, contractual explanation but I'm too lazy and furious to research that fact. I'd rather sit here and say 'fuck that' because I could completely guarantee that nobody, not one motherfucker, in Los Angeles or elsewhere would rather hear Steiner and Monday tranquilize them in traffic than Vin Scully paint the picture he has for over 60 years. So, this sucks too.

Clayton Kershaw was really fucking good. He, like last season but without any run support, out-pitched Tim Lincecum. It was a classic, National League ballgame. 2 to 1 was the final, the offense looked about as good as expected and so did Jonathan Broxton, where he gets the save but it doesn't sit well yet. Not until he strikes out the side in a one run game. Just once, please. Not a bad series. The Dodgers won a tight one the next day, rested half the line-up (?!?!?) and lost 10 to 0 and then won on Sunday in another shaky but victorious outing. Matt Kemp looks very pre-Rihanna out there, defensively and offensively, there are still a bunch of dudes I can't believe are starting and Clayton Kershaw looks like he'll end the season with a record of 8 wins and 12 losses with an E.RA of 2.00. No run support but if the rest of the N.L. wants to take a cue from dickface Aubrey Huff and make 53 errors, it will help Dodger pitching immensely.

We're only four games into this bitchseason, I'm sure it will be interesting and terrible. It's been a good time smoking dozens of blunts and having innumerable beers on ice, listening to Vin, wearing Dodger gear. The beginning of the season is in itself a fat blunt laced with hope and dreams and jaguars and unicorns in or atop of some lowriders surfing giant waves of psychedelic rainbows as they all crash gracefully into the center of my heart.

Fuck the world.