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.