OMG FUCKOFFANDDIE LOL OMG

There isn't anything to say. It had to be this way. Like any catastrophe, there is nothing to say. Moving on, etc. The last twelve months or so of sports has been a soul-castrating mess. Fuck it. My last and only complaint, in two parts, is that it's really fucking lame when somebody adopts a hometeam at age 30, doesn't watch many games until the playoffs, doesn't get upset when they lose and then cheers "Yay!" and twitters how happy they are. Bust out the chardonnay, we'll stick to malt liquor and memory. Ready vices to welcome the apocalypse.

Playoff Time!

If one were have asked me at the beginning of the season, what is your worst possible nightmarish mindraping disaster scenario for the playoffs?
I would have said, "No way could it possibly boil down to the four biggest stains on my life and sports in general, personally, ethically, godless fate coming down to strangle me while watching my house burn down...etc. etc." I would have just hit the bong again and forgot about it. I mean maybe three out of four teams in the League Championship series' at the very worst but no way all four would be my least favorite.

Lo and Behold, you motherfucking asshole world!

I can care no longer, I seized all feeling in early August so the way it has turned out is almost comical.

We're supposed to decide between the Yankees and Rangers. So the fascist guard of sports, the microcosm of all that is wrong, the raping of the Bronx, the billion dollar payroll, Steinbrenner somehow still smiling while he gets head from Satan in hell. Not to mention the complete lack of personality. At least stormtroopers are iconic and fictional. This is fucking bullshit.
And it's them against a team that, despite their lower payroll, lack of past success and Vladimir Guerrero, these assholes can't be cheered for because it makes George Bush think he did a good job. As he struggles with a 10 piece jigsaw puzzle, he probably thinks in his genocidal child's brain that he had something to do with this. So fuck him! And fuck suburban Dallas, megachurch, Fuddruckery cuntrags who didn't know who was on the fucking team until September. Rangers and Yankees on TBS. YEAH!!!!!!(sarcasm)

And in the National League, which is where I'm emotionally invested and the hatred lies more palpable, we have the two biggest pieces of shit in the world going at it.
For very obvious reasons, a Dodger fan might as well just put a gun in their mouth right fucking now and end it before it begins. But even when I somehow crawl out of my brain and look at the match up, I still want to vomit all over a teenage girl but Phillies fans got that covered.
See, because although exceptions abound and generalizing is an ignorant way to roll, in sports, especially when it comes to fan bases, stereotypes are often correct. Trust me, I was in San Francisco yesterday.
The Phillies have a bunch of assholes I don't like and a notably trashy and racist vibe to the organization. Ask Curt Flood. Plus, they whine and are darlings of the East Coast bias over the last few years, National League-wise, so they get Halladay and that whiny hick, Oswalt. Big deal. I'm just pissed off because I have to cheer for them. THEM! It's disgusting. It's Sophie's Choice. I think I should just drown myself in a piss puddle in the L.A. river.
And then the Giants, who will probably win it all just to spite every thought in my head. They are the fucking worst. I love when fat, redfaced stock brokers from Marin call my girlfriend a cunt at a game and then call security instead of back their shit up when I go after their throats.
Or the bleach-tipped yuppie scumbag who, three microbrews deep called my friend an Indian faggot.
These pieces of shit will be smiling at season's end as they listen to Sting in their Saabs and relax in their condo, on the ruins of the working class.
Giants, you are the yuppiest team around. Some of your fans are not but that's the face of it. All that's soulless and wrong with the world. Die yuppie scum. Fuck your fat seal mascot and orange fisherman hats for dumb cunts who started giving a fuck in the middle of the season.
The world will not stop gangraping me. Perhaps the apocalypse will interrupt coverage of the World Series but believe it, it's already begun. I'm fucking as done as I was mid-season.

The only way we win is if Frank McCourt is murdered by a prostitute.

Amen.

Coda

I would have figured on some kind of seasonal epilogue, something somewhat passionate and profound, as much as can all things considered, and while ideally it would be stated in a few weeks, you know, october. But it isn't. This tattered season has done nothing but skullfuck me in a hundred fashions, because it was far more colossal than just a losing season. It isn't worth the words and it legitimately warrants my languid, lazy, fuck off to all things baseball. I'll still write, I still have anger that won't be excavated by me alone. The elements will kill all of us. So look forward to football, soul jams and general fodder for my dilapidated and perpetually shitstained heart. Thank you, Dodgers.

Soon I'll post a recipe for some weed glaze to put on cookies that hopefully have weed in them as well. Fuck all worlds. Wake me when it's over.

Tune in for an off season full of marijuana recipes, football induced depression, character assassination and stories of fistfights with assholes. Etc.Etc.Etc.

Like....

Five records to play loud while you're high on your day off, combating bloodcurdling anger.

"2pacalypse Now" by 2pac.

"The Diary" by Scarface.

"In God We Trust Inc." by Dead Kennedys

"Vengeance" by Tragedy

"Standing on the Verge of Getting it on" by Funkadelic




September, motherfuckers.

Below Rock Bottom

I used to know this woman a few years back. Me being an alcoholic and her being a sociopath, things didn't work out just right. We were real sweet on each other as it goes and then it unraveled and that was that. As soon as the axe fell, which is always slower and gradual than I think it's going to be, this residual bullshit would hang in the air. We weren't done but it was obviously over. It's never quick and certainly not easy. And every time we'd hang out after the point of no return, knowing the inevitable result of the briefest interaction, she'd look at me with these dark and tired eyes and say, "Do you really wanna do this right now?"

Thinking on this now because the hesitation, as it goes, and necessity to say fuck it and take the next train out of this shit hole is more palpable than ever. There was a time this summer, (while doing some traveling, drugging, drinking, etc.) that I regretted the distraction because I promised myself to be consistent on this blog, solely for myself since nobody reads this shit anyways. It was supposed to be a way to keep writing and to have constant material because these seasons are always full of the age old familiar and the new and improved BULLSHIT MACHINE. So in the beginning, when the Dodgers were struggling, it was a way to productively vent my frustration, about these assholes and the assholes at large. It went well for awhile. Then the Yankee meltdown happened and then the chance to right the wrongs and the constant lack of power. It was supposed to be a pitching problem, remember? Something was always broken and that is all trivially excluding the McCourt disaster. Universally labeled now with affection, the McCunts. Then they went to Philadelphia and fucked that up beyond repair. They lost in every way imaginable. They were at the very least creative in their fuckedupness. Worst part about the entire season is the constant chances they fucking up. Despite this and despite that, gutting the farm system to get Octavio Dotel, etc. the Dodgers had countless opportunities to just win a few fucking games!!!!!!! And so, with a depleted shit bag team and owners who should be crucified upside down at a barbecue, in a backyard in El Monte, the season is gone. But still not over. These motherfuckers are playing the Giants and nothing matters. They've deemed themselves the most redundant aspect of my life.
And like I said before, I've avoiding this goddamn thing because, Do I really wanna do this right now? In public, going on and on about the same stupid shit that everyone else knows?
People are so tired of the Dodgers bullshit and in a more depressing way than usual. There have been statistically worse seasons and more disappointing moments(I think)but the future has honestly never looked so bleak. And to exacerbate(baseball analyst asshole's favorite vocabulary word) the situation, the cyclical genocide, large scale money laundering and general flatlined morale of american society has never been worse. Nothing it seems can balance this debt. And every time you think you see some glimmer slicing through the pitchblack shades, as you lie there on the flophouse floor, it's nothing. You're left there wondering why you ever gave a shit in the first place.
And just like the slow blade of a bad deal concerning a woman or man, anything you give a shit about, you wonder the same thing. I don't want to do this right now. Or ever. But I do. I hang on for a little while, walking to her house, up the stairs to a certain death. And death it surely is. But I'm here now. I'm still walking there and I don't know why. I'll probably do it again next year.

An Easy Rider-style road trip

I haven't written anything in awhile. It has to do with a number of factors, mainly the lack of internet which is another story, but also because of beer, basketball, laborious tasks, apathy, anger, for a little while contentment and being in and out of town.

All that can be said now is that the Dodgers have developed an acute allergy to first place. They get there and back off, one step ahead and two back, for two days last week we were an elite group of ballplayers. A fucking team. In one boring weekend, where the Dodgers played baseball like walruses fuck, they reversed the charge and played like shit.
A sweep of the goddamn Cardinals and first place in your hands, momentary best record in the league, Angels in town and you lose in three different annoying ways. Ethier and Kemp in their promotional bid to make the All-Star team have decided to stop playing, which is nice. Kemp hasn't hit the ball since Mother's Day and Ethier has been hitting like he has two broken pinkies, one broken thumb and glaucoma.

Once again, nice fucking life.

I'm trying not to worry or feel done so wrong by all this, it's only June and we're still only a game out of first. But they pissed and shit all over their longest home stand of the year. And here they go stumbling into Cincinnati and Boston, then Anaheim. And the Giants get Baltimore at home. Giants fans are almost as excited about this as they are about free WI-FI at their rustic yuppie mall ballpark. This will be a hard week. I'll resist the urge to take a hundred hits of LSD and fly into the sun. At least Padilla's coming back. He's been incredible. Wait, actually he sucked, got hurt and gave up a bunch of runs in the minors the other day. The bullpen has become reliable, minus George Sherill, but reliable in the way my Uncle is reliable. He'd do anything for you but he's a fuck up. So he does well for a little while and then shits on everyone's life one day, when it counts. Uncle Bullpen, I'll still send you money when I can.

Cue the heroics, motherfuckers.

Radio Tirade

The past week, I've had to listen to quite a few Dodger games on the radio. And it was pure hell.

On Saturday, in traffic on the 110, I had to listen to Charlie "What's the count?" Steiner and Rick "Flagburner" Monday(I know he prevented the flag burning but I've never given a fuck,) call the otherwise incredible game against Detroit. Early in the game when I turned it on, middle of some bullshit story, I just wanted to know the fucking score. I've given up on ever knowing the count when Vin isn't on. Steiner says it's 2-1 Dodgers here, then a minute later, 2-1 Detroit, then again, 2-1 Dodgers. I almost drove my car into a fucking schoolbus. Then before I could, Casey Blake hit a solo shot, crowd goes fucking wild, 2-2 tie. So then I knew. Thanks again fuckheads.

Then, when I was hitching a ride with a truck driver up to Oakland(long story...,) dude had satellite radio which has all the ballgames but only the home broadcast. So I thought, with Vin not in Chicago, it'd be cool to hear a Cubs broadcast. They suck as a team but they're an older, respectable National League franchise from an historically and culturally important American city. I was wrong about everything. Harry Caray's corpse would have been so much better.
Thing is, I respect the dudes as people. Hughes as been around and Santo was such a famous Cub, you have to let him sit there and talk. And I think former players, despite their possible ability shouldn't be allowed in a booth because then they spend more time talking shit and not telling you the count and you end up hating them. I don't watch ESPN games because I don't want to hate Joe Morgan.
Anyhow, listening to a Cubs game on a radio was like listening to two different uncles, different sides of the family, drunk and talking baseball. A home run was hit and it was called as if it had been a Ball one, high. No offense to uncles but if you do construction and have a drinking problem, watch the game at home. These assholes get paid to do this. It was awful.

Digression all the time, apocalypse all the time, hallucination all the time. Because there will never be anyone again who will be hired to call games for the right reason. People who buy shit demographically are boring people who want safe, boring coverage of everything. There aren't enough of us to demand any different. And besides, there are much more life threatening things to worry about.

So enjoy Vin Scully and maybe a handful of others. The artistry in this trade is dying fast alongside most everything else. In other forms of art I try and ask the question before I fly over the threshold, "Are we making music or are we selling soap?" I know what Major League Baseball wants.

Wrigley Fuck

With the turnaround we've had this glorious month of may, it's a little easier to take an annoying loss but not that easy. This sans-Ethier, textbook National League trip we've been on has been a good one. The Dodgers have been carried through the wilderness by stellar starting pitching, decent games by the back-up crew and again John Fucking Ely, whose success can be attributed to Chad Billingsley's personal turnaround, Chad's "Who the fuck is this kid and why's he pitching so much better than me?" attitude has transcended introspection and displayed itself on the mound with victorious results.

The Detroit series, even though I attended the losing game, was a fun one to watch and a good time to drink insane amounts of beer with some friends. Even Saturday as I cruised around Long Beach looking for some place that isn't there anymore, it was an easy time, hearing the roar on the radio and in my chest, amen.

The come down to this high is the losing has been irritating. These games against the shitty Cubs, have really bummed me out. I hate seeing Kershaw lose without an earned run. Furcal needs to take a few extra grounders before the game if he's going to play short stop like I do. If he was smoking dope and playing softball in cut=-off khakis, it'd be one thing. But this is definitely another. And the game where Ely takes a one hitter into the 7th and we can't get one goddamn motherfucking run against Ted goddamn motherfucking Lilly? I know it's how everyone feels and that it's already in the past. But it's no less a stain on my afternoon.

Good news is that Ethier is rehabbing with the Isotopes in Memphis town. He should be back. The worry going down now has to do with this series in Colorado having to be in our favor. With the Padres still winning games somehow, The Giants occasionally not being shut out and The Rockies just a Blakebeard hair behind us, victory is an absolute necessity. We need to come back home with the comfort and confidence to keep this motherfucker rolling. And then Andre comes back. Now if we can trade Troncoso and Belisario for a ten year old who can throw strikes and a couple used VCRs, then we'll be in business.

Otherwise, I'll have to get a mile-high just to forget these assholes exist, once again.

Ascension

A bad game is bound to happen, especially after a nine game winning streak. After several weeks of bad games, bad trips and bad shit altogether, a good, long row of victories have The Dodgers clawing up, arriving tattered and hungry nearing the top of the division. While they are at home the rest of this week, while the pitching is hot, save for last night's bullshit disaster, and while it will be a couple of weeks before Andre Ethier graces the line up again, it would be a good time to keep it up. Hopefully Furcal will be back at the top again, relieving Russell Martin of lead-off duties and facilitating a bench that's deeper than the formerly great Garrett Anderson.
While The Dodgers have finally looked like they are trying to evade dreadful underachievement, last night was a grand exception. The writing is not just written on the wall, it's splattered all over the motherfucker in pigs blood. Ortiz shouldn't be starting and maybe not pitching at all. Monasterios could use a chance. What the fuck is wrong with George Sherill? Some of these relievers still have earned run averages higher than me right now post-desperation bong.
This is all very obvious and there isn't too much to say that time won't scream at us soon enough. Casey Blake's beard has returned and so had his power. This is good news.
I think I might try and catch a game this weekend against Detroit. Party in the parking lot.

Weapon X

Wrapped inside some restless times is a current wait-game that's hard to stomach. Tonight we can see if John Ely can wheel and deal again. But after seven straight victories, some room to breathe and a moment to feel good about the tattered pitching of April, it's not the performance of the rookie pitcher we're waiting to see about. We're waiting to know how bad some dude from Phoenix whom I've never met's finger is. Although The Dodgers are still only a returning Casey Blake beard hair above .500, this road sweep against division rivals should provide a mild form of angst suppression, one tiny shard of reason and rhythm, an evasion of certain death. And it certainly has.
But until tomorrow afternoon when we find out if Andre Ethier will be out, the all-encompassing echo is only that of, "What the motherfuck?!?"

It was like a jinx provided by the national media. Finally shown the love and appreciation of the Philly and New York jocking baseball world, Ethier is injured during batting practice. And not his nagging ankle injury or a hyper-extended knee. Fuck no. The first knuckle of a goddamn pinkie. All we can hope for is that it's not so bad or that he'll play with the injury and still be a triple crown threat. And with Furcal still gone and the rest of the offense showing up some of the time, we can only rely on our recent phenomenon of not pitching like assholes.

I'm very happy with the last week. Not the Ethier thing. When I yelled at the sky last weekend, "Give me a fucking break!" I hadn't meant Ethier's finger. Thanks again.

Go Ely, Go Dodgers, Go superhuman healing powers. Something exceptional must now arrive so we can keep up this winning thing. The deprivation of such things has been a real drag.

Russell Martin and John Ely shotgunning light beer, postgame, (Fuck AZ y los putos del gobierno)

Without the haunting specter of superstition staring down at me with eyes fixed to unravel and destroy us, I think I can take a deep breath this week. I don't want to jinx the fuck out of this winning streak but I probably will. Living in the present completely I can say, despite what happens tonight, that I'm happy The Dodgers were able to enter enemy territory and clean house. I wish we could all go into the capital in Phoenix with Dodgers jerseys and baseball bats and really have an eight run inning, if you know what I mean.
Anyhow, we took advantage of a spiritless franchise last night and I have to say my scathing, rhetorical question to the world a couple weeks ago was answered. That question: "WHO THE FUCK IS JOHN ELY?"

Out of bitter frustration and straight up heart attacks during an early demise I had to pose that question, with the pitching staff falling apart at the seams. Then this kid, John Ely, whoever the fuck he is, had a bad game. Then a good one. And then last night, a nearly great one. No walks. Six strikeouts. He's young and weird and I hope this all just isn't bullshit. Now that I've said it, it probably is.

But I must live for today to keep from dying. This John Ely, straight from the Southside of Chicago. Please win some more goddamn games. Be cool. Suerte, bro.
If everyone can pitch consistently well and Ely can stay in the rotation, it doesn't seem too bad. If the bullpen can resist incineration when they take the kid out and if Monasterios can be the rookie journeyman, making some starts, picking up slack, awaiting Padilla's return, then it doesn't seem completely hopeless.

What the fuck? This is baseball. It more than likely won't turn out like this. The beauty and the bitch mother. I'm not saying shit. Good game, dude. I'm glad we won in Arizona. The Fascist State. Let's hope Belisario isn't driving around. He's an illegal, you know? Those hate mongering fucks have now banished ethnic studies in Tucson. They can't stop sucking. Down with the government of Arizona! Up with Los Doyers!

I just hope I'm not cursing the Gods again when we're blowing it in San Diego. That park and those fans, it's all unnerving. Baseball's a motherfucker. My only true prediction.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

In the only positive light I can even begin to conjure, we could look at a game like last night's like we look at a burning building, a sad collapse with many possible dead but onlookers in awe nonetheless. That's if they charged you fifty dollars to watch a sad display you thought was going to be some kind of escapism from the cruel world of burning buildings elsewhere. Fuck no.

I'm thinking about a mother or a father taking their kid to the game and having to reluctantly pay for tickets and parking and all the tiny tragedies that can erode the experience of taking in a ballgame before you even have a chance to do so. The pigs telling you can't have a pre-game anything in the parking lot assists in this experience. Oh well, it's the Dodgers and it's Dodger Stadium and it's a mediocre Milwaukee team underachieving this season not unlike the Dodgers. But it's a fine evening in Los Angeles. Then the fucking game.
Before said mother or father or whoever the fuck else can find their seats after the larceny of buying a beer and/or a Dodger Dog, the score is 9-0. And it gets worse. And it's our ace. And we're all raped again.
Three straight against the Pirates isn't much but I really thought we would win a few more before we bent back on the road to lose them all.

If the game wasn't such a goddamn chore, the prices, the fascism, the state of being in Los Angeles is you're among the working class, then a game like this is the greatest exclamation point after a long month of fuck yous. A whole fucking lot of them.

LAMBO: FIRST BLUNT PART TWO

This news is a few days old but I have to say something about it. Andrew Lambo, a possibly future left fielder when Manny departs, judging by the incredible season he was having in AA Chatanooga thus far, was suspended for 50 games for violating Major League Baseball's drug policy. I admit that when I heard the news I figured it was Steroids because why would players today do something cool like LSD? Or if they popped pills like in the days of yore, we'd have a Willie Stargell instead of an Alex Rodriguez. And wouldn't that be terrible?
Anyhow, a stoned friend of mine corrected my assumption by saying, mid-inhale, "Naw, bro. He was getting high on bud."

Despite the obvious bummer, the setback, the mindless backlash on his career, at least it wasn't steroids or I don't know...date rape, manslaughter, shit like that. I also learned from my fellow burnout that it wasn't his first incident with something like this. Joe Torre, Mariano Duncan and Larry Bowa have probably hit a baseball in the past, thinking it was a slow and glorious ball of strange energy that found its way from the infinite universe to enter the confines of this world only to be carried away with a Louisville slugger...

...What I mean is, while most people either understand personally or generally don't give a fuck if people smoke dope, the squares in the front office are never going to understand something like this. They're function is to make cattle out of men and force poor communities to pay for baseball stadium-shopping malls. So Lambo, you fucked up and shouldn't have. But if you make it to the Bigs, me and my friends will superficially buy your jersey. We like your style.
I just feel bad that you had to get busted with the resin of shitty Tennessee weed in your stream. You actually have time to go back to Cali, get loaded on chronic and then you'll have the rest of your suspension time to flush it out, camp out in a batting cage and await your day in the sun.

...the perilous ascension from the bowels of mediocrity...

When you get down to it, the worst part about this season thus far is not their shit play and dismal record. That's the second worst thing. The primary cause of the Dodger fan's suicidal thoughts should be that there have been so many goddamn away games. And while there is no excuse to lose all your games to shitty teams, it's even more eye gauging that we haven't been able to hear Vin call any games. Most teams in our division have had an outstanding home stand or two. We've just begun. While I banned last night due to their stellar play last week, I think I will finally be able to listen to the voice of Vin Scully. Our honorary saint. When they were at home last, I had gone to Opening Day and then was out of town for the rest of the week.
So tonight it's just me and Vin and a bluntwrap or two. It's up to Carlos Monasterios who I really want to like so, Don't fuck it up Carlos.

And as far as the offense goes...Hey assholes...remember when you bowed down to the mighty pitching of the Washington Nationals? Well, these guys are even worse. Inexcusable, bros.

Let's Get Radical

(May Day. Ruthless times. The racist assault on our country and culture has openly seeped into Major League Baseball. And for good reason since struggle and plight has always been woven and forged into the people's fabric that is sports in America.)

Take it to the streets. It's time to eradicate these culprits. We know where they are and how they feel. This isn't isolated inside the confines of that police state. Racism in general and this neo-fascist ignorance in particular thrives on the division and perpetual conquest of the working class. The truth is always deliberately suffocated. Money and might, courtesy of the U.S., are used to displace people in other countries in the name of capitalism, (rural conquest, drug war, maquilas) and the people who flee out of desperation and necessity are blamed and fucked even further. And now, it's open season for an unprecedented assault.
Since racists don't know how to think(their brains are full of naziworms and diarrhea,)I want to run a few scenarios by them...

One. A crew-cutted pig pulls somebody over for driving under the influence of brown skin, which they've always done but now can do legally,and the driver who has lived in Arizona his entire life, longer than the pig who transferred from Iowa, but is told to show paper work and then "What's that smell? Cigarettes my ass, wetback, I'm searching the car." Any reason to incarcerate and destroy.

Two. What about immigrants from Europe? Does that mean that some backwards cap, Ed Hardy motherfucker drinking Coors Light and dateraping co-eds at A.S.U. might just look like a German or an Irishman? I mean, the light complexion, the blue eyes, freckles... "We better run ask him for his paperwork, Skip."

Three. The first time a Maricopa County SS soldier pulls over an Pima or a Navajo or an Apache and accuses them of being an immigrant. Ignorant fucking scum.

It's a call to genocide for all undocumented people in this country and a blow to any American citizen who is now doomed with connotation to this behavior until we work to together to fuck their plans up good.


Now on to baseball...
While the Player's Union isn't the radical bastion I wish it could be, I'm happy they openly oppose this horrible law in Arizona. All the attention that it is getting in sports, especially concerning the Arizona D-Back boycott is necessary and will hopefully lead to an exacerbated consciousness in the otherwise mind numbing universe that front-page sports media usually is.

Call to arms. Words like bullets. Blood on the page. Let's roll suckas.

-Smoke dope, put in the clip, play ball.

Do all the drugs you can

Fuck sailing. This ship is sinking.

And sinking.

And sinking.

Rock bottom could be losing to the worst fucking team of the last decade and a half, while at home...nothing more needs to be said. It's not a "skid" as they lightly put it. It's a horrid shit stain. Tomorrow they will lose to a pitcher with an earned run average that's a disgusting pubic hair over sixteen. Sixteen! And they will lose. They really keep outdoing themselves. At this point I can only be entertained by how much worse it can get. I'm saying fuck it. And fuck them. If anyone reads this, expect weather reports and shitty poetry. This baseball thing is a metastasizing tumor on my goddamn soul.

Sinking.

And sinking.

And sinking.

NIGHT TERROR

had this dream last night where I traveled around some small town that had one of those dead relics called main street, void of a jamba juice or a taco bell, it was a vague and murky setting but i was wandering around with some faceless friend of mine and who do I see but right-handed Dodger pitcher hiroki kuroda, this year's ace on the eve of a pitching duel with johan santana and hiroki, he's being lead around by this well-to-do white woman and i walk up to him and say what's up, my dumbfounded excitement under a thin veil and my bro's goin' off about how he's the man, etc. and kuroda smiles and says hello and whispers to the white woman, something i assumed was for her to translate to us since kuroda looked happy to see us and speaks japanese but the woman kind of whispers back to him in muffled japanese and looks at us menacingly and says, we have to go and she grabs his arm and they recede into the end of the night and the dream and the world and me and my friend, we wander into this antique shop where they have an array of antique revolvers and we're insulted by the elderly proprietor but i'm not sure why or i don't remember what the fuck he said and that was it.

in an ignorant analysis, i say that hiroki kuroda is going to pitch a no-hitter in new york but some rich white lady will lead him astray and turn it all to shit. maybe she's the bullpen or maybe she's david wright. i don't know. all i can say concerning my relationship with baseball these days is, "stay the fuck out of my dreams!" At least allow my mind some hours to recover from the shit you've stained it with. please and thank you, amen.

spring training

so now the offense sucks too. what a bunch of goddamn losers. not worth another word today. good luck in new york and with the rest of your season. by summer, i might start hitting crack pipes to ease the pain and frustration. fun times for all.

Somebody give these motherfuckers some steroids

It feels like October. The weather is cooling down, a chance of rain, a pleasant caress of the wind enveloped in the glorious changing of the seasons and also, I want to cut my wrists with an broken beer bottle. But it's not October. It's April. Real nice. I keep exaggerating about how much this season sucks so far and before any loved one or stranger on the street can tell me to shut the fuck up, the game rolls along and I'm excruciatingly correct in my disgust. I don't want to be right. I want these losers to stop melting down against a shitty team. These assholes can make a Big Red Machine out of anybody so far...the Pirates, Reds and soon...the Washington Nationals. Can't wait to see more players I've never heard of score go-ahead runs in the 8th inning. So far, besides that bullshit loss to the Giants, every loss has been a bullpen blunderfuck while wasting a shitload of runs. Pretty soon, these dudes and their bats are going to say fuck it. This is beyond problematic at this point. It's just annoying and somehow worse than a regular loss. Everyday is the same. Usually, the great thing about baseball is its unpredictability. Even if your team sucks, you never really know how it'll go down, day to day. Well, so far this year I know how it's gonna go. Unless we score 14 runs, we're fucked. Can't wait to lose to the Nationals. Think of all the people coming home from ten hours of doing shit for some rich asshole and turning on the game to escape the madness for a moment or two and...well, nevermind. Go ahead and kill yourself, workingman. I want to feel like an asshole and be proven wrong but every day feels a little more fixed and a little more ridiculous.

Holy shit, we fucking suck at pitching right now: A play in two acts

Act One: Int. Visitor clubhouse. Great American Ballpark. Cincinnati, Ohio



Joe Torre, Manager: Hey kid, we're gonna need you to go pretty deep today. We're really counting on you to step up and pitch well, give our shitty bullpen a rest, and you know, make a statement, emotionally and otherwise.

Chad Billingsley, Starting Pitcher: No problem skip. No need to doubt me. I've owned these mediocre fucks in the past.

Torre: Well, you had a tough time last time on the mound and before that, we all had a tough time on the road, so...knowing what we know...you think you could...I don't know...go three innings without giving up seven goddamn runs?

Billingsley: You got it. I can't wait to dickslap these losers. Would it be possible to get some run support?

Torre: Sure thing, Bills. We'll give you a three run lead first thing. Try not to fuck it up. Also, if you do we'll give you more, so don't fuck that up either.

Billingsley: Thanks, coach. One more thing...will I be facing a...you know...(gulp)...ace? Like a Cy Young kind of guy.

Torre: Fuck no. Homer Bailey? Even Homer Bailey doesn't know who the fuck he is. His name is Homer though. But don't worry about it. He sucks. Just don't give up seven runs. That's quite a hole to crawl out of.

Billingsley: No worries, Torr-bro. I won't let an incredible offense go to waste.

Torre: All right kid, see you out there. Just pitch long enough so our bullpen can come in and do their thing. I know I can count on them too.



Act Two. Same place. Three hours later

Matt Kemp: Hey pitching staff...

Chorus of Billingsley, Ortiz and Troncoso: 'Sup Matt Kemp?

Matt Kemp: Fuck you.

Me: Yeah, I should have stayed in New Orleans, right Matt?

Matt Kemp: Get the fuck away from me.

Me: Way to go, assholes.

An Incision in Time/Los Doyers Rule All

Due to this break in the chain, this lost time, a blank drawn in-between the week and half since my last post, I could write a hundred thousand words about where I’ve been and the shit I’ve seen along with all the verbal vomit concerning the Dodgers but I’ll try and be into the whole brevity thing as much as I can.

I've been in New Orleans visiting some tight bros but I did go to Opening Day at Dodger Stadium.


Preceding the glorious home opener, The Dodgers were in Florida and all I can say about that series is that it was about as much fun as watching them play Pittsburgh. If I hadn’t of sold a kidney to buy Opening Day tickets, I would have stabbed myself in the chest with a Phillips-head screw driver, dull and rusty and a meaningless death. Another stellar performance from their bullpen. Whatever, man. I had to let it slide or else.


The last two Opening Days, I was on a forklift listening to the radio, headphones in, pretending to work. Dodgers first, safety second. So it was an especially golden time to be alive in the sun in Chavez Ravine. I was happy to attend my first Opening Day in three years. Beers flowing and pre-game weedsmoke to old school jams. A few hours without the invasive realities that strangle us most of the time. Dodger Stadium was Dodger Stadium. A work of art without apology or explanation. I asked this big dude named Hector with a Fernando Valenzuela jersey why Dodger Stadium is the place to be and he smiled and articulated its beauty just fine. He said, “It just is, bro.” The Dodgers won and me and Garcia got wasted, sobered up somewhat then listened to The Chronic all the way back to the I.E, not even minding the traffic.


After a meltdown the following game to the D-bags, I felt fortunate to get the fuck out of town. I needed a break from their bullshit and I was ready for some good times. And those good times were had. New Orleans is the finest town this decomposing nation has. It’s perpetually fucked by nature and man and the people just keep on singing. I went here and there, saw most of the city, drank around the clock, took hikes through swamps, saw snakes and alligators, listened to Eyehategod, Clifton Chenier and The Meters, ate oysters and crawfish and hung with good-ass people. It was a necessary trek into unknown regions, of this land and of my dome. A vision quest through swamps one day and narrow, nearly forgotten backstreets another. Nowhere is everywhere. "We're gonna make it, carnal."


Mixed emotions in hindsight about the Giants series. I could have done without seeing most of it. I’m glad Padilla finally went deeper than 4 innings and hit that asshole Aaron Rowand in the head. I can dig Padilla being a badass and also pitching well. The bullpen was on fire and by that I mean burning alive, turning to ash, being shitty. Saturday’s game can go straight to hell but I’ll take a series victory, especially that rubber match on Sunday. The corrosion of my insides are worth a game like that. I’m back in town now, reflecting on that pinch hit homer by Manny. It was a National League ballgame. While I’m concerned as fuck about the state of the Dodgers pitching, I’m not gonna make a fuss like the broken-record hacks at ESPN or MLB.com.


We’re still in the murky exposition of this mess. As long as we don’t get too far behind. So before my hair turns white over this next road trip I’m going to revel in the victory Sunday, in that sweet swing, the Manny pinch-hit, the sullen look on the faces in the Giants dug-out, in the unyielding roar of the crowd…getting high while playing a Delfonics record, loud and proud, watching that bomb go off and into the left field pavilion…over and over again.

Hell Awaits

Before a few hundred people, in afternoon drizzle, The Dodgers finally beat the Pirates today, scoring more runs than in their first two games combined. Now, it's time to get the fuck out of Pittsburgh. On to South Florida to play the Marlins in their shitty stadium, in their weird city and with a possible mountain of cocaine awaiting. Although, at this point, I'm sure these party animals just want to the fuck out of the humidity and on home to Chavez Ravine. Win some fucking games and come home so we can party.

Gangbanging. The un-fun kind.

Well, game two and they're already gangbanging my soul. Not in the suicidal tradition of October in Philadelphia. Just the anticlimax of this baseball season thus far. The absence of Vin Scully's voice making their lackluster dickmoves out there seem even more annoying.

The blind allegiance to a team and therefore a town is a beautifully inexplicable thing. A natural pillar of life to spite its rigged deck.
It's an unhealthy and abusive relationship, I say it all the time and certain people agree or at least humor me and hold me while I vomit and weep. It is much like being with someone who fucks around on you all the time and then you keep coming back. It's not easy to explain or understand, it just is. But the game yesterday against future Cy Young award winner Russ fucking Ohlendorf and the mighty Pittsburgh Pirates was like trying to explain why you paid to watch your girlfriend/boyfriend fuck someone else in a motel parking lot. And the all the vicious anger is usurped by a feeling of sheer boredom. But you stay and watch until it's murder suicide time.

Seriously, it was a waste of time. It seemed like it was on for seven hours. Both teams looked bored and horrible. In the ninth when they stranded Carroll at third after having no outs, I thought they deserved to lose. I came to terms, got real drunk off innumerable beers.

Sometime around one in the a.m. I was getting another can of beer out of the refrigerator and it slipped out of my hands. I tried to bobble it and then one last save before it hopelessly fell the the floor and fizzed and made a mess. I called it a Blake Dewitt. And I didn't clean it up. I laughed to bury the anguish and grabbed another. This one was fielded perfectly. And victory was mine.

P.S.

Two people at the Pirates game who should be drowned in the Allegheny River:

-Fat white woman with the Phillies jersey. Are you fucking kidding me?

-Asshole with the camouflaged Yankees hat. These people need to be stopped.

Can't wait to see what today will bring. Billingsley and a line-up of mostly bench players. Since we don't really need to win anyways. Fuck it.

nice fucking game

I'll give it to Pittsburgh on their opening day since the rest of the season will sadly be as predictable as the last 18 years. It's a fine baseball town with a great tradition and a storied past that much like everything else has crumbled and died. Sure, sometimes it ends with a whimper but sometimes it's a horrible goddamn explosion. Opening Day victory for them. Ok.

But, if the Dodgers don't win tomorrow it's truly no excuse. Win a fucking game so I don't feel like I've waited several months to masochistically piss away my time once again from now on through summer. It was fun to anxiously turn on the game in the middle of the morning only to be kind of bored and angry the rest of the day. The runners left on, the shitty team we were playing, etc. Any excitement about the season was usurped and soon replaced by the familiar feeling of dread. One game in. No big deal. Tomorrow's another deal, right?

Because if Clayton Kershaw, our pocket ace, can't beat Ross fucking Ohlendorf (?!?) then I'm jumping out the goddamn window. And I'm only on the second floor so I'll probably just break an ankle and have an amazing hospital bill. Hey Clayton, don't fuck this up. Ok?

one toke over the line.

(...sweet, sweet mary...)

This is my last weekend of mild sanity before the season begins. Last time to watch an exhibition and marvel at Kershaw's mad curve and Reed Johnson's shiny dome with little emotion beyond drunken awe. In the coming months, the same drunken awe will be balanced with the occasional dreadful horror coinciding with whatever bullshit this world hands out. With the state of this failing nation, the racist and sexist assault that will arrive all summer, much more predictable than any one team winning the fucking pennant. It's these perpetual bullshit things I will evade every time the Dodgers don't lose. Or else, it's a hundred knives to the chest. Been there before and I'll be there again. But the drunken awe will be there too. Only it will have more purpose, philosophically and otherwise. Those are the fine times I can't live without. Reason why I'm still in this abusive relationship. This is the last Saturday I can drink coffee without the possibility of wanting to throw my Dodger at the fucking wall. Or else fill it with whiskey and drink, drink, drink until the world turns black and I'm blind forever. Play ball.

La Raza rant

If I have to read another bullshit columnist go on and on once again about how "they" need to purge Dodger Stadium of its "thug element," I'm gonna fucking snap. And what do they mean by that? Sorry if white people can't come to see their Phillies or their Giants without getting shit talked to them. It's ok in Boston. In fact isn't that what makes the old, conservative Baseball Writer of America asshole cream in his dockers? How Red Sox or Phillies fans are the greatest? The truth is there is nothing like seeing a game at Dodger Stadium. It's one of those stadiums, like Fenway or Wrigley, that should be left alone until they sell it to some fascists and tear it down. Until then, back the fuck off.
And if you're down to rid this cathedral of all its beauty and singularity, than you probably complain when you can't find a Jamba Juice. The Dodgers aren't going to apologize for their Chicano fanbase. Fuck that. Go to Anaheim if you want family fun. Disneyland or Angel Stadium. Have a good time. "But be careful, Ethan and Tyler. Orange County has Mexicans now."

Company Town

The other day, me and Garcia were walking down the street and she says, "You gonna watch Vin call his first game of spring?"
"Oh, fuck yeah. I forgot. Tomorrow's the day. We'll be hungover, it'll be one p.m., sounds perfect."
"I'll cut up green chiles and you fry up some tortillas."
"Life is not a pointless bullshit disaster," I said. "I think Sunday is going to be a fine time in my life."

It's Sunday now and two days after Vin Scully was hospitalized. It had scared the shit out of everyone. So I'm about the watch the game on my computer because I can't afford cable and since Major League Baseball's slimy business dick raped me for Spring Training coverage even though I didn't think I'd watch many games, I was set to watch some familiar bros and hear that familiar, angelic voice. Sixty years down and ready to roll.
But then, I realized I didn't have the "Premium Package" to watch the game. For twenty dollars more this goddamn month, I could watch it. What I have instead, even though I never asked, is Charlie fucking Steiner on KABC!

And so,
Fuck you Major League Baseball. I hope Bud Selig fucking dies. If I had I time machine, I'd use it to abort his fucking fetus.
No Vin Scully. No green chile. No motherfucking ballgame.

A surliness arose with the breeze of early spring. I started drinking but not with the inexplicable pleasantness I had imagined. When I was drunk, the sun was still high and warm. And Garcia and me, we were high and warm. So it was ok.

But I re-realized once again that being poor and being a baseball fan is like living in a fucking company town. They have you. You work and work and work and when the time comes to escape the madness for a slight moment in hell, they still have you. They own you. So, until we take it all back, I'll wait for Vin Scully's voice to caress my soul sometime next month. Burn the hacienda down. Don't forget it's always been a people's game.

Ides of March

Between a broken computer and a train ride from Bakersfield to Stockton, which is another story altogether, I've only halfway paid attention to all the benign information I said I'd refuse to care about until April 5th. But some things have gone down these past few weeks that we can't ignore.

First thing, Willie Davis passed away about a month before his 70th birthday. Davis, who played outfield with the Dodgers from 1960-1973, dazzled fans and spit as much physical poetry upon the brickdust and grass as any player in history. While not a Hall of Famer, He certainly remains one of the most renowned Dodgers in the history of the franchise, especially in Los Angeles where he grew up. Signed out of Roosevelt High, East Los. His career encompassed two Dodger championships and he won three gold-glove awards. I wasn't alive when he played but last week I was sitting in a backyard smoking dope and drinking beers with an older gentleman. He was 72 and a lifelong fan. The sentiment expressed and the tear in his eye wasn't a result of Davis' death but rather his life, his career. I wish I could have seen him play. R.I.P.

Otherwise,
Vin Scully hit his head but is apparently ok. I thought I was going to have to cut my wrists prematurely this year. It's like when my grandfather gets a cold and we have to ask every five seconds with a heart full of gravel, "Is he ok? Oh, fuck what if...?"
So Vin is fine. The Dodgers are fine. Springtime is warm and poised for bluntsmoke.
Dewitt has seemingly hit is way into the starting line-up once again. James McDonald has pitched his way out of the line-up once again. God damn you , James. You're from Long Beach. This is your town and your team. I'm still on your side, man. Get it together.
Other than that nothing is surprising. Gagne's career is over, Giles retired, Kershaw is a fucking badass. No surprises there.

Like everyone else, I'm sick of Arizona. Let's get the fuck out and get into this gauntlet.

l'aine de la douleur/the groin of sorrow: bongs and songs before the storm

It only took about 10 minutes, but The Dodgers already have an injured starter. Russell Martin, after gaining thirty goddamn pounds (an apparent fuck-you to Belliard,)has injured his groin this week and is reportedly out 4 to 6 weeks. I know that the incessant dickmachine of Twitter and Facebook, as well as shitty blogs like this, will be abuzz with questions, commentaries and general shit-talking about his weight. And besides Blake Dewitt batting .800 after three games, that's all there is to talk about. But I must take responsibility for this one. Maybe the best way to get that "pop" back in your swing or whatever the fuck they call it, is not eating cake batter off of French-Canadian models for six months. But that's not the reason why Martin injured his groin. It's my fault.

See, every season I buy a t-shirt jersey of my favorite player or at least someone I want to see do well and cheer for and the same thing happens every year. They get hurt and/or suck. And then get traded. I should have known this would happen. Russell Martin has more or less been my favorite player since his rookie year. I'll be the first person to dismiss his slumped-up offensive performance last season. He's still that bad-ass catcher who calls the game, plays all the time, defensively down, seemingly indestructible. Well last season, I bought the Martin jersey and didn't panic until this week. Then I thought about the last few seasons and what jerseys I got. Nomar Garciaparra, Cesar Izturis, Milton Bradley, oh fuck.
Injuries, Baltimore and attitude, respectively. Now I know what's next for Martin. An injury, a down turn, fifty more pounds and a bullshit season. Or, Russell could come back and prove everyone wrong and start the All-Star game. I hope we're all wrong and all is well.
Lucky for me and everyone else, I can't afford to buy a t-shirt jersey this year. As long as Russell Martin doesn't get as fat as Andruw Jones or hit under .200 like that fucked up loser, we'll be all right. At least with Andruw, we have a rock bottom exhibit A. And millions of dollars to throw in a fire. As long as Martin plays more games than Andruw Jones did in 2008, hit above .200 and not somehow exceed 350 pounds. One time in the parking lot, I heard a grandmother refer to Andruw Jones as "a bunk, fat motherfucker." You said it, abuelita.

The beauty of Spring is that while I normally piss on religion, I'm lighting candles and having long, heavy talks with the Earthmother for Russell Martin's groin. I'm excavating dark places inside my soul so that some asshole jock from Canada about the same age as me, whom I've never met, can have his fucking groin back to being healthy and productive. I just hope he's tip-top for opening day so we can do this shit. I say, Here's to Russell Martin's groin! Take a deep breath from the bong and put on some Coltrane. This is your last month of sanity.

Spring Break

I'm still waiting on this goddamn season to start. Trying not to get caught up in the fluff or the fray of pre-season banter. It has about as much consistency and quality of a Dodger dog. Baseball is like that. I'll eat one. I'll eat five of them. But I know it's just processed bullshit that's worse today than it was thirty years ago. It's cancer in a bun, wrapped in its nostalgic foil, perfect with an overpriced Budweiser, signifying another fine day in Los Angeles. It's murder and it's robbery. It's just like baseball. I go for it every time.

I couldn't make the trip to Arizona for spring training, not this year. But it's fine. I'll have enough worries throughout the next six months. And besides, you can't smoke dope on the street in suburban Phoenix. I think you can get a life sentence. Then you have to serve it wearing pink and sodomizing Sheriff Joe Arpaio. There's some apartheid shit going down in Arizona. I don't want any part of it. I'll stay home and face other kinds of harassment, on my own time. Needless to say, I'm excited to watch some Spring Training games and await the viscous and wonderful dawning of spring, a new season. A different form of the same old bullshit. Blunts all around.

Vin Scully, Fernando Valenzuela, ghosts of the dead, dearly departed sisters and bros, the echo of every game before lying in a suspended sigh. "It's time for Dodger baseball."

Captain Rigoberto and the Psychedelic Boomerang Ship: A Journey

In order to ignore the stench of lame headlines and boring, bullshit stories circulating Baseball this week and to desperately combat all the negativity and doubt that's always swirling around and strangling me this time of year,
I thought about a few things, three "predictions," as useless and speculative as any other, to get me through this week of worthless shit talking.

-James Loney will fucking rule.
Some might call it a "break-out" year when Loney hits 25 home runs or hits 100 in. The thing is, Loney has been a solid, consistent performer, offensively and defensively and he's also only 25 years old. I think Loney will improve his numbers and establish himself as a premier first basemen but still be overshadowed by the numbers Kemp and Ethier put up again. Fans know what's up but nationally I think he'll be as underrated as he has been the past two seasons. And that's fine with James. The fans will show him love.
I hope I'm not jinxing anything but since I probably am, let's hope Martin and Furcal don't share a consistency of their own and offensively suck again.

-George Sherill will look like a cholo.
I don't want to jinx a prediction for Sherill to rule all because we need him to be the best set-up man in the game. We need him to lead the league in that bullshit statistic, holds? We need him to be there in case Broxton's too exhausted from fucking Brian Wilson's mom and forgets how to throw a strike. George Sherill will probably be pretty good. Our bullpen is a definite strength. I don't want to fuck it up.
But I will predict without question that George Sherill will be kind of fat underneath baggy pants and a jersey. He'll have a flatbilled Dodger fitted on. He'll have a good mustache and goatee upon a face of stone. George will look chingoooon.
The funny thing is that George Sherill's kind of a sweaty white dude from Memphis. And he likes White Zombie. Fuck yeah, George. Welcome to L.A., ese.

-Vicente Padilla will be a badass.
Shit, even if he loses his first five starts then needs Tommy John surgery, there's no denying Padilla's badassness. He just took a bullet to the leg and didn't give a fuck. Then publicly said so. Laughed it off, went and had a drink. Apparently Chinandega, Nicaragua doesn't fuck around.
With that said, I think Padilla will have a great season. If he picks up where he left off last season, stares down batters with a glare borne out of a civil war and ends up winning 14 or 15 games, he'll be an absolute badass. Here's to you Vicente.

It's still not spring yet. It won't feel like it until this baseball shit gets under way. The winter will subside and we'll all move on again. Then, there might be something worth talking about going on. Something beyond the headline, "Shane Victorino says he feels great about Phils' this season." Who gives a fucking shit? But you'll read on because time is currently stagnant. And work sucks and life sucks but hopefully the Dodgers will not.

Preseason Fodder or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Hate the Giants.

I just read an article in the San Francisco chronicle, the finest paper in all the land, where Bruce Jenkins had a cute tirade about the Dodgers, Manny Ramirez and for some reason, Eric Gagne.

http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2010/02/23/SP6P1C5TFK.DTL

What’s the deal with SF Giants beat writers seeping into Dodgertown a few days into spring training? Is there nothing to talk about concerning their own team?
I know it’s the calm before the storm and there isn’t much to seriously talk about until a cataract plagued umpire yells, “Play Ball!” on april 5th. So, media fodder is going to be inevitable but stick to your own, assholes.
Manny is dividing the Dodgers in half? You say that and then back it up with nearly every notable Dodger, young and old, talking about how they know Manny and it’s not a big deal. The players, Torre, Colletti and the fans aren’t worried. We know what's up.
The national coverage concerning Manny saying this is his last season in Los Angeles is fucking preposterous. The headline should have read, “Duh.” Or at least, "It's Still Fucking February!"

And as far as shit goes with Eric Gagne, I’m still wondering why San Francisco could give a fuck. Gagne is one of my all time favorite Dodgers. He had a great run I’ll never forget. The arm problems, the HGH rehabilitation, his post-Dodger resume. Nobody gives a fuck. Eric Gagne signing with the Dodgers is about as important as Shawn Estes signing with L.A. before last season. At best, if he makes a surprising comeback, he’ll be a middle reliever and the fans will cheer. So what? It still doesn’t explain the fascination with two nothing stories that have nothing to do with the Giants.
They could talk about how Tim Lincecum will win his third consecutive Cy Young but along with Matt Cain and a few other pitchers combined still make less than Barry Zito. Even with Timmy's new contract. You remember Zito? He's that guy that was real good in Oakland but gets paid ridiculously by the Giants for a mediocre curveball and a cocaine problem. Hey, at least he's never injured.

Dear Giants media,
Save your shit talking for when we’re locked in a division race mid-season. For now, talk about how wild and crazy Brian Wilson’s shitty tattoos are or about Pablo Sandoval’s new and improved 270 pound frame. You could discuss the Giants being the best thing going on in the Bay Area, in the world of sports and otherwise, which is real fucking sad considering the history of things.

You losers talk about yours and we losers will talk about ours. Until that first pitch is thrown on Opening Day. Then it’ll be on.

Shuffle and deal, motherfucker.

My blind allegiance to baseball is wearing thin. I have been informed, in an e-mail buried in a heap of junkmail, that the villainous assholes at MLB.com, because they're so nice, will automatically bill me for my premium viewing package because I subscribed last season. Now, I know I'm going to pay the motherfuckers either way, I always do, but it's the sheer deception and creepiness of it all. It's not, "Hey, don't forget you can pay to watch baseball on the internet." It's, "We have your credit card information, so fuck you."
I'm in, I'm all in, they know I'll spend it all. When you grow up poor and then remain poor, baseball or any sport can be that alleviation, that beautiful world outside your own you're hopelessly addicted to. And these gutless peddlers know it. It's the same deal when I'm at Dodger Stadium. If I was at a bar and I bought a Bud Light and the bartender said, "Ten bucks," I'd choke somebody to death and leave. But it's baseball so all I can do is burn the currency I have and definitely some that I don't have. I'll buy their goddamn beer and pay for their goddamn games with the insane prayer in mind that Matt Kemp will make a diving catch or Andre Ethier will hit a three-run shot to win the game. And then I can be suspended in that fine moment in time when we all look around and feel exactly the same. It's all worth it then. So, every year about this time, as I'm waiting anxiously and uncomfortably for this shit to start, I'm angry about everything, the world outside and intertwined. Everything. But even so, I see my hand and I put it down. I'm all in. For Vin Scully at least. I think I'll spend it all.

Introduction to this mess...

Today is as good as any other. I'm beginning this blog, a Dodger blog I guess, but it's more about the end of the world in a way. Or the seemingly fucked up bullshit disaster we all find ourselves in, as human beings embedded in the failure of these states and as Dodger fans. It's an inexplicable thing we all share. Because whether you like baseball or sports doesn't matter. The plain and awful truth is that whatever interest, art or passion you are into, it intercedes and coincides with the great and grand disintegration of this earth. And that shit is heavy.

But it's not all negative. Let me put my gun down so I can type better.
I can't wait to be in Los Angeles on Opening Day. I'm going to drink 30 beers, 27 or 28 outside the stadium, and hopefully revel but possibly recoil in the outcome of the game. Dodger dogs and pre-game blunts will also be involved. If my friends and I don't get hassled by the L.A.P.D.'s finest(four white males, copstaches and copglasses, all in their conspicuous cop-like SUV, narc-ass goons looking just like "any other fans,") it should all go down as a good fucking day in Dodgertown once again.

And so, with the pain and anguish of baseball inside a more broad and encompassing shit-time in American history, I'm starting this blog to document the 2010 season. The games, players, transactions, etc. But more than that, this blog will hopefully chronicle, somewhat creatively, the demoralizing demise of self that I face every goddamn season. And maybe just maybe, we can bathe in champagne and set fire to some cop cars sometime in October. Through summer's fine breezes and it's inevitably sweltering bullshit disasters, I'll be there. And I sincerely hope that you will too.