The car wreck of American history. Opening Daze. Where the shit are my keys?

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.

It's time for Dodger Baseball!

...some L.A. shit...

Another long mild winter of labor with brief bouts of languor and inside of each no time to think about the bullshit of baseball, the projected batting average of Mark Ellis, the brittle bones of most of L.A.'s offensive players not named Matt Kemp.
These days are dwindling now. I still find myself enveloped in a shit job, shit wage, shit time, not complaining, just laying it down on the concrete, my wares for sale, fuck you america, it's time for Dodger baseball. What is dwindling are the moments, the minutes, counting down the seconds, that speculation and anticipation will rule all. Don't worry, the ESPN baseball cunts will decide the World Series match up after the first week of play and will be wrong as always without any accountability when the time comes. But at least there will be some games on. We can laugh at the Miami Marlins uniforms and hope their owner Dickface Loria is burned at the stake for taking the taxpayers of Dade County hostage. I'll have to hear the dissonance of surly fanaticism and shithead poetry about the Red Sox all the time but what else is new? The Astros will probably suck but sweep the Dodgers at some point.
The Dodgers will suck again but at least Magic Johnson kind of owns the team now. I never thought it would be possible for me to be happy about the billion dollar acquisition by an owner,2 billion actually, high fiving Capitalism and 69ing Satan with commercial transactions for another season. But everyone loves Magic and everyone hates Frank McCourt. If only the ability to enjoy a baseball game was affordable, God Bless America would be banned from Dodger Stadium and Frank McCourt was bludgeoned to death in a parking lot, then I'd be a lot happier about this change in ownership. Oh well. Magic Johnson has been my favorite athlete since I was in the comfortable confines of the womb, getting smoked out to the sounds of Kool and the Gang. No bullshit.
So here we are once again and I haven't given up on living. Time will tell. The future is always dim and we always show up anyhow. Half drunk, that's fifty percent and god damn ready to increase that percentage. Vin Scully's voice is still the most beautiful sound and I still hate the fucking cops. 2012 motherfuckers. Play ball. Or smoke dope and then think about playing ball. Sun and smog and something worth living for until it bums you all out once again.

"...and when the tips of their flaccid dicks touched, Glenn Beck turned to the crowd and rejoiced, America hath been restored!" (Associated Press)

A Season of Promise.

This bullshit winter, despite Cali weather, has extracted any ability for me to articulate or really give a fuck about grammar or punctuation or anything really. This isn't that different from anything else on this blog but my energy to give a shit wanes more each day. Not that I actually thought the Dodgers would acquire a "marquee player" or whatever, and if they did, said player would blow out both knees before or during spring training and would be paid despite their absence for the next decade or so, but I thought after a somewhat exciting and positive final month of the season, in the way cancer remissions are exciting and promising, some cool shit would go down. Of course McCourt is gone but another gutless, greedy cunt capitalist or a group of them will own the Dodgers, in the way we're all owned and fucked forever. Remember, Frank McCourt is still alive. Reputation tarnished, money in the bank. Also, remember he has an address. They all do. Time to bust out the tar and feathers. Or Uzis and AKs.

Here's a run down of beautiful facts, headlines, quotes, a maelstrom of stupid shit that signifies the state of the Los Angeles Dodgers of Los Angeles, the actual city of Los Angeles on the eve of another apocalypse, perhaps the real apocalypse. The last season ever will include A.J. Ellis!

"...20 million off the pay roll, Fox, Loney arrested after car crash, Big Names Not on Dodgers Agenda, Jerry Hairston and Aaron Harang, A Platoon in Left Field, budget constraints make Dodgers get creative(my favorite by the way, redefining creativity to mean shitty) A Platoon at Second, A Platoon at Third, Jerry Hairston and Aaron Harang..."

Fuck it, I think I'll stop there. I think while the Angels were spending the GDP of most African countries combined on two coveted assholes, Tommy Lasorda and Andre Ethier were handing out hams to children or something. I didn't read up on it. I actually think in the grand scheme the latter is a better deal. No sarcasm. Fuck the Angels. And Orange County. And Glenn Beck and the Crystal Cathedral and Mickey Mouse and rally monkeys and fans who call their players "Figgy" because they're too white to do anything otherwise.

I know I sound sore and should reserve my hatred for the Giants or better yet, the owners, the bankers, elected officials, white supremacists, Christian fundamentalists, etc. I actually dislike the American League, the Yankees, Red Sox fans and wifepunching starting pitchers much more than the Angels.
But hating the Anaheim Angels of Anaheim blindly and belligerently is good for the world. Like when you make a wish to the stars and send telepathic unicorn vibes outward beyond the infinite cosmos.

Case and point:

*These dicks, retarded on Coors Light, will be chanting whatever stupid nickname Angels fans give Albert Pujols. For a decade.

I hate baseball.

666~CLAYTON MOTHERFUCKING KERSHAW~420

Clayton Kershaw was the best pitcher in the National League this year. Any old, white East Coast nostalgiacunt who thinks otherwise is a bunk bitch. And a dummy. Roy Halliday didn't win. Fuck you. Kershaw pitched for a team that had a seizure inducing shit year, a shit offense besides Matt Kemp and a shit owner who will hopefully die of syphilis before he can build anymore parking lots. We'll all miss you Frank. And most of all, no run support. Ask Hiroki Kuroda. It ended up being a promising season. For now, I don't even have to think about their bankruptcy or even more depleted offense. "No run at big names," "pay roll less than it was last year" "Kuroda might be leaving." Seems promising.
Party on, Clayton. However your kind parties. Doesn't strike me as a blunt wielding whoremonger. But he's still just a kid. His beard isn't even coming in at full force. Nature will take its course, friend.
Clayton Kershaw has risen the ranks, sky-high above the runner-up to My Favorite Christian Athlete from Texas Award. Normally I hate all of you. Except Clayton Kershaw for now. An impressive season among seasons. That beard will come in just fine. Perhaps one day, 30 wins. And a mustache.

spray paint the walls

It wasn't a deliberate vow of silence. I was watching the Dodgers lose to Milwaukee sometime in early August and decided it wasn't worth talking shit about. It never is but usually I have nothing better to do. In August I wrote two zines, High and Outside #2 and #3, adderol, caffeine, bluntsmoke. Then I had to move abruptly, find a place with bad credit and a yuppiecidal pit bull. Two red flags when you live in Shit City. All this while having to resist throwing my now former landlord down the stairs. I might just dedicate this offseason and therefore this blog to listing all the methods and reasons why, concerning the eradication of said landlord and wealthy, property owning gentrifying tyrants in American cities altogether. Kill them all. They're constantly waging war against the working class and belong to the same scumbucket as the owners of professional sportsteams, the high cardinals in the Church of Cunts.
Frank McCourt still owned the team in August and now he does not. Until the Dodgers are sold to another rich piece of shit who pillages our pockets and souls, this is good news. This lone, lost era of wonder where we resigned Matt Kemp and no one is injured yet. Dee Gordon is the real deal, Clayton Kershaw will win 30 games, A.J. Ellis will hit .244! Until the season can turn to shit, we have a few months to bask in the end of the McCourt era and 2011 as a whole. It was a shit year. In the end, we had two of the best players in the major leagues and the chaos of young, potential futurestars was enough to feel better in September than you did in July. Maybe some great players will want to come to L.A. and get paid 100 million dollars to start 35 games. The weather is really nice.
Oh, well. Smoke ten blunts and listen to UGK. Write Matt Kemp on police cars and bank windows. No reason, just say fuck it. Tear some shit up.
World Series Twenty Twelve!

The Trade Flatline. I mean Deadline, no wait, I do mean Flatline. Because there is no fucking pulse. "p.s. sick arson photo, bro."

This photograph is about all the articulation I can conjure this week. It sums up how I feel about the insipidly hyped Trade Deadline and the remainder of the season. Somewhere down the line I'll pontificate further. For now, just watch it burn. I think this is a boat house on fire on some place called King Island. I think it's in Australia and Arson is suspected. It's too bad Frank McCourt wasn't inside.

High Notez.

Rafael Furcal has successfully raised his batting average to .189. Congrats on this stellar achievement. This is the kind of shit that wins championships. At least Dee Gordon would get some practice and get ten to fifteen more people to come out to Dodger Stadium.










But let's not forget the greatest news of all:
Javy Guerra now leads the team in Saves, surpassing Jonathan Broxton with 8!

Welcome back to Shit City. Hope you didn't get too comfortable elsewhere. Here's your beverage sir, strong and cold, just how you like it. It is a delightful surprise to see you, sir, I figured since you went into hiding after such a slew of peril that you would have taken to your surroundings well enough to blow your goddamn head off. Well, we're certainly delighted you made it back here in one piece. Drink up, it's not even August.

All Star Breaks

It will be easy for me to boycott the All-Star game because I've already boycotted the season. The Dodgers were very helpful in this regard. Even if it was being played at some other monument to thieving corporate cunts in another failing city, it would still be just as hard to watch Matt Kemp, Andre Ethier and Clayton Kershaw have the time of their lives inside a dark and empty season that already necessitates amnesia, dementia, any available form of escapism. That said, I hope they have a good time. Curtains drawn tight at the Comfort Inn in Glendale, they gotta stick around to face the D-Backs in a few days anyway, throw an empty bottle of Ten High whiskey at the TV screen, fuck that stupid cunt on Sportscenter, "You don't know me,you don't know shit!" ...All cokesweat and teardrops, "I'm an All-Star you stupid bitch! I am an All....Star...."
Enjoy it boys. Enjoy the mother fuck out of it.

All I can do to keep from thinking about those luxury suites at Chase Field in Phoenix as those wealthy bags of shitscum sit around and stuff themselves with piles of your money dressed in Ranch and Buffalo sauce while a deliberately manufactured plague of racism and ignorance perpetuates outside, is smoke a mountain of grass dipped in PCP and tears and listen to Z-Ro records. Like many great MCs from Houston still holding it down, he can rap about being sad and lonely and hard as fuck better than anyone. Better than Bon Iver or whatever shit people are listening to. Normally, I'd be partial to some L.A. shit, especially for this blog but this song is more appropriate than ever. The Astros do have the worst record in the league. They suck. And they beat the Dodgers. Chop and screw my mind. Anyhow, fuck the explanation. And this blog. And the All-Star Game.

May Gila Monsters be released into the luxury boxes where Ken Kendrick and Bud Selig french kiss during the game. While sitting there watching, they will be making more money off more people's backs than any of us could even exaggeratedly imagine. Perhaps they could invite Joe Arpaio or Russell Pierce over to the box for some Nachos. Let the fucks get real comfortable before the Gila Monsters are let loose. Hundreds of them. Remember, Gila Monsters are venomous. And if they're too slow and their bite doesn't get the job done, Rattlesnakes will accompany. Diamondbacks. Oh, how ironic. Fuck baseball. Cue the music.

Sarcasm and murder suicides.

It's becoming more annoying when they actually win games. Or a game. That "historic" 15 to 0 blankjob on the Twins really rallied the troops. Two days later, they lose the series on a 1 to 0 reversed shut out. One to fucking zero. Solidifying their rightful place at the bottom of the standings. Well done, motherfuckers. Hear the roar of 15,000 fans sarcastically clapping, rolling their eyes, sighing, sunken, stumbling out to the half empty parking lot. Going home now in a nightmare of traffic and a mindless maze of indecision and fear.

Trying the radio to strangle your thoughts, welcoming any dissonance that everyday life can provide. But the radio just sells lapbands and then plays, Play That Funky Music Whiteboy for the 300 millionth time. And you've always hated that fucking song. Don't worry though. McDonalds is now open late.

Onward to a shitty apartment in El Monte, Pomona, Rialto, wherever. It just doesn't get any easier. The TV is on now and rich, Armenian cunts are whining about bikini waxes or something. Pray to some shadowy nonsense that you have a little weed left, a can of Bud Light, a Tylenol PM to crush up and snort, anything. You wish you hadn't sold that handgun to those teenagers last month when shit was rough and rent was due. But maybe there's a high note. A silver lining but you'll take bronze, nickel, whatever. Your one bathroom apartment has a decent sized bathtub to drown your children in. And/or yourself. That's today's good news. Go Dodgers.

*An additional high note: Jonathan Broxton still leads the team in Saves.

These fucking pieces of shit lost to this fucking piece of shit.

Brett Myers is a punk bitch who punched his wife and sucks at pitching. Especially this year playing for the worst team in the league Houston Astros. We'll see who has the worst record in a month or so. Motherfucking shit. This blog is drowning in redundancies and its ability to suck is an honest reflection of this shit situation that won't end. Brett Myers punches women. I was hoping he would get beaten in the parking lot or at least run over, humiliatingly by a Mini Cooper or something, over and over. But until then, he gets a lot of money and held the Dodgers to four hits. Fuck him. And them.
Yo, Dodgers, you all lost to this piece of shit. How does that feel?

Dee Gordon is tight. Brian Sabean can eat fifty three dicks. Life is sad and slow.

Well here we are. After the road trip. When you play ok sometimes but still lose half your games, you end up remaining several games out of first. There is still good pitching sometimes that goes nowhere, run support sometimes, losses to shitty teams, almost winning against good teams, ultimately when you don't find ways to win, you are a loser. That last sentence was simple and stupid and sounded like something some screaming redfaced ex-relief pitching future sexual assaulter over at ESPN would say. The big leagues. It makes me sick to say shit like it but then again it makes me sick to have an ounce of hope inside this sickening season. What a fucking waste. While the young dudes are coming in and making a case for the future, the veterans (in their late 20s) who are having great seasons, especially Matt Kemp, will be somewhere else soon and then we can rebuild forever. Dee Gordon is tight. I hope he keeps it up. There is still no offensive threat at at least three positions all the time. It's stupid. Fuck it. I wanted to write about baseball fueled by the feigned hope that it can leave you with during a long summer on the grind. But instead I'm left pulling out my mustache with pliers like with the rest of 'em. Nothing more to say about it. I'll still be smoking hashblunts, screaming words out the window once in awhile, summertime now. Work and words and weed. The only ascension remains inside my mind.

Offense. Runners on base who came around to score. Runs. More than one. For consecutive games. Yeah, I don't know what happened either. If you were drunk on Sunday at The Ravine and it felt like you were dreaming passed out on a stranger's lawn walking home, with so many runs across the plate in one day or maybe you found yourself late Tuesday night mind suspended in the strange and distant world of a three game winning streak, with the hopeful assistance of psychedelic dope, it was probably a nice break in the interminably monotonous chain of shit play that your Los Angeles Dodgers have been living in the last two months(and since last summer at least.)
The following evening, they were held scoreless by a winless Jimenez with his earned run average coming in at five. Then, a day off before taking it to the mean and formerly important streets of Cincinnati, beginning a daunting road trip with their shitty line-up, their frustrated starters and the youthful emergency crew of young relievers in tact. These relievers have been touted all week because...they're isn't much else to tout about. (James Loney hit his 2nd home run? McCourt makes payroll?) I hope these kids hang in there, I don't really hate any of them yet. Maybe Rubby De La Rosa can play catcher too.
We'll see if they continue this offensive surge or else lose 2 to 1 the next ten games. Every time they strand runners and pull hamstrings will erase any notion that there was any impulse of positivity in the first place.
But the chaotic wheels of fate could always turn in their favor, however doubtful we are on the outside looking in. A decent road trip, staying afloat in a shit division, anything new, exciting or not resembling the way they've played as a team thus far would be galvanizing as fuck. We'll see on June 12th.
The next few games will be potentially annoying, on top of all the other shit going on in your life. Let's not get ahead of ourselves here, or...

The path lit up in purple neon bulbs leads back to the familiar road of escapism.

Dear baseball, fuck you.

A Champagne Jam to kick off Interleague Play.

(From Cannabissearch.com/strains/champagne)

"A lustful combination of Hashplant and a Kush strain that was pollinated with a male Burmese cannabis strain, Champagne offers patients an exquisitely pleasurable medication. The effect sets in nearly immediately and lasts anywhere between an hour and an hour-and-a-half. Ideal for patients with depression, inflammation and migraines, this 50/50 hybrid is popular in dispensaries all over. Coated with tri-chromes, more experienced cannabis patients often use Champagne to make high-quality hash."

-This photograph reminds me of Pizza the Hut from Spaceballs.


I obviously give a fuck about baseball today.

Fuck it.

Here's another photo of a train wreck. A real good, old tyme one. Soon to come, weed recipes and music videos. Things that win sometimes.