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.