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."