Kong And Heartbreak

“To be alive is to have scars.”–John Steinbeck

Recently, I visited a friend in Los Angeles, and in a drunken haze (and remorseful weakness) I decided to buy a pack of cigarettes. It was an odd and not well-thought-out move as I hadn’t wrapped my lips around a cancer stick for almost five years. You see, the threads of anxiety started that evening when I had, by happenstance, walked by a movie theater that my ex-girlfriend and I used to go to quite often. And as I passed by, it gave me a lurch in my stomach and dislodged a small pebble that had been stuck in my unconscious.

What makes the scene even more fortuitous is that very morning I found a forgotten baseball card of a side glancing, smirking Dave “Kong” Kingman tucked away in a notebook that I hadn’t laid eyes on since I’d first received it in our shared mailbox many, many years earlier. We had lived our own manufactured, domestic dream on a cactus-strewn, sun-bleached, quiet street and were running late– rushing to the very same theater where the entombed memory would be unburdened many years later. 

I used to play a game in this darkened movie house where I would press my mouth to her ear during a lull in the film and whisper I love you and hold the ouuuuu sound. She would laugh and push me away before subtly holding her face close so I could kiss her cheek. I’ve always had my own tensions, but they seemed to melt away when she was around during that summer of 2012. Of course, I’m going to remember these little things because I’m nostalgic by nature and they could perhaps be the most tender moments of my chaotic and ludicrous life. Perhaps when you recall similar moments you realize that the little things were the big things, and as you age you will lose them in small increments like paper cuts. 

The breakup was terrible, heartbreaking, unmerciful and all the other devastating words. As a writer, (or at least someone who moonlights as one) shouldn’t I be able to confront difficult topics without having my psyche shattered? This was an indelible moment that I had hidden for years until that quiet night when it met me on that corner while the illuminated marquee stained my crippled in disbelief body. (In a suburb made famous by the Rose Bowl and a Jan and Dean song: the little old lady from Pasadenaaaaaaaa!) I, unfortunately did what unhealthy men seem to do: I pushed it deep down and forgot about it until the unwanted revisions (this time stoked by a visual thing) rose to the surface in a myriad of emotions–mostly sadness, shame and regrets. 

Will that baseball card still exist in 50 years? I haven’t a clue…I will be long dead, but I do know that the future owner will never know about the history behind it, or the two lovers sharing popcorn and playing footsie on that sticky theater floor while the card sat with us as the projector whirred overhead. The inanimate object of paper ephemera with the mustachioed man and his scrawl would be forever unvoiced about where it had been in that darkened room with two people sharing a silence. A single, thin and insignificant piece of cardboard being held in the purse of a girl who once loved a boy and who once loved her back, fetched from the connected mailbox. 

Sandlot Baseball, BBQ and Hangovers

“Baseball must be a great game because the owners haven’t been able to kill it.” –Bill Veeck

My hangover was so bad that it seemed to have its own scent and even its own material existence. It was putting me in a mood of general malaise, and I decided it was time for an evening Labour Day stroll to get the ‘ol ticker pumping. My head felt like it had been punched repeatedly by pre-Mao-reading, prime-1988 Mike Tyson and I closed my door with the line of thought, Please God, Shiva, Zeus, Vishnu, Ganesh, or whatever the hell lies in the celestial mist…send the doomsday asteroid right away. 

In my neighborhood, there are quaint middle-class homes next door to gaudy, three-story million-dollar compounds. The outgrowth of native greenery feels almost wild–let nature live!–the buzzing and rattling cicadas high in the trees and scurrying lizards summate that untamed vibe. With a wistfulness and stillness, the streets seem to carry their own built-in stream of consciousness accompanied by the pink wildflowers and insect sound motif. I kick around the naive idea that the vegetation here will always prevail over homogenized, domestic appearances. These walks give me time to pay attention to my mind and surroundings without getting lost in the ceaseless static and talking points. Sometimes you just need to simply tell your brain to shut the fuck up. 

I could smell charcoal wafting from various grills, and as I turned a corner I lovingly witnessed the thought-to-be-dead, once customary, suburban kids playing baseball in a weed-strewn lot. There was chattering, rough-housing, dirty knees, and cardboard bases: a game for the sake of a game, simply…play. It looked like heaven to me. I could also hear someone booming Kansas’ “Carry On My Wayward Son” somewhere in the distance, the perfect song for both rocking out and pondering complicated feelings while gnawing on a burger and jawing with your chain-smoking, bored and apathetic mother-in-law. Instant nostalgia dopamine filled my veins. 

The rugrat ballplayers gave me the idea to watch a vintage game from my own childhood, the year chosen was 1988, a year forever embossed on my heart. Conversely, this was before baseball was shepherded by a fan-hating ghoul who is intent on destroying the history and whatever integrity the game had left due to supporting and coddling inept stewardship by a wanna-be billionaire trust-fund clown. But I digress…

Bob Welch was toeing the slab against the Indians, and I soon realized that this was the same field (Cleveland Stadium) that hosted 10-cent beer night some 14 short years earlier; a riotous affair that went down in baseball and hooliganism history. I remember reading somewhere the account of a guy who had attended that game and of people vomiting everywhere in the bleachers. Oh, Cleveland…so much to answer for. I popped a few ibuprofen, washed it down with a Bloody Mary, and then sat back and let the annals of hardball history wash over me. Vin Scully and Joe Garagiola were on the mic, and I got swept away in the witty banter and baseball connoisseur insight before Jose Canseco launched a 3-run homer on a 1-2 jam-shot that looked to be a waste pitch. 

Vin Scully tidbit: the Philadelphia Athletics played the first game at Cleveland Stadium in 1932. HOFer Lefty Grove pitched for the Elephants and won 1-0.

 
I fell asleep and woke up in the bottom of the 7th as Gene Nelson, he of the zany, frantic windup, strutted out of the bullpen. He then proceeded to conjure the ghost (and mustache) of Rollie Fingers to pitch the ultra-rare 3 inning save. Tony LaRussa was very meticulous with his bullpen use so this left me a bit baffled. Was the bullpen overtaxed? Did Nelson need work? I love how sometimes baseball creates a negative space where you can project your own imagination. Have you ever nerded out on something so hard that you want to filter it through your own lens? Sigh. I really need to get a hobby.

Dream a Little Dream

“And it is only after seeing man as his unconscious, revealed by his dreams, presents him to us that we shall understand him fully.“–Sigmund Freud

She said, “I’m pregnant, and it’s yours,” but before I could hash out the details (I didn’t even know her) I was jolted awake feeling like I was holding a pinless grenade in a bleary-eyed, malicious fog before habitually turning on some early morning Japanese baseball. Did I just dream that? Next to the bed was a table with a half-eaten banana split and a few other examples of neurotic excess. There’s the culprit…beer cans and junk food. I think my primal, reptilian brain was trying to tell me something, but what do I know?

Ex-Oakland Pathetic Sheldon Neuse (Noisy) stepped into the box batting a cool .246, just one point below Kris Davis’ mystical and magical average of .247, which he batted an astounding four years in a row. Baseball is an incredibly strange sport, and sometimes you need a sherpa to escort you through its seemingly endless weird-ass peaks and valleys.

Neuse now plays for the Hanshin Tigers who were beating the Yomiuri (Tokyo) Giants, both currently battling for first place in the Central League. I then recalled that he had tore up the PCL in 2019, sending 102 hombres home and sporting an outstanding .939 OPS. Of course, his numbers were inflated by the warm and humid air in Las Vegas, presumably why Neuse didn’t win the MVP. Ty France of the Mariners holds the honor. It took a few years for the A’s and the Dodgers to figure out Neuse lacked power and was a AAAA player at best–-so off to The Land of the Rising Sun he fled, seeking riches and sushi he could never dream to obtain in the bush leagues. 

I suppose writing this was trying one’s hand to make sense of things in that darkened room, and even if that sense was in monochrome, at least I have an incredibly stupid, albeit funny narrative. The game was fun. I made coffee. Life was ok with the understanding that it only takes a small drift of wind to push our ship this way or that, often with a subtle and elegant mystery slowly revealing itself.

John Fisher And Rob Manfred Can Go F*ck Themselves

I saw the “reverse boycott” as the last hurrah and a moment of desperation from a fan base that loves a team and has loved that team for over 50 years–owned by a soulless grifter who didn’t earn one red cent of his fortune, and who couldn’t give a rat’s ass about baseball, the rich history of baseball, or the Athletics legacy. Nevada receives a franchise that will continue to be a conduit for the amateurish, corrupt intuition of an absolute nitwit trust-fund baby with limited social skills and even more limited business acumen.

That being said, I can’t see a 30.000 seat stadium on 9 acres, (located on The Strip, where locals hate to tread, has limited parking, and horrendous traffic) with a supposed retractable roof being successful. When the “honeymoon” in Vegas is over, I believe the attendance will be similar to the Marlins or the Pirates. In the end, Las Vegas is a Dodgers-loving town and doesn’t even really fancy the A’s anyway. In a recent public poll, a whopping 80 percent of the population said they didn’t want the team in Vegas which makes them slightly less popular than having a pitbull gnaw on your testicles. I can’t wait to see it fail. And it most definitely will, but presumably not before John Fisher sells the team at peak net asset value in a shady, backroom “pump and dump” scheme. Socialize the cost and privatize the benefits seems to be the mantra of the insanely wealthy…essentially, theft from taxpayers through illegal lobbying and the improper use of public money.

And you know who really suffers? The children of Nevada. The educational system in Nevada–the second-ranked least educated state in the U.S.–declared they just didn’t have money to give teachers a raise, but then immediately bent over backward to give 380 million to a BILLIONAIRE. Mind you, Nevada was the only state in the country to receive a failing grade in every area of school funding according to a national report. The taxpayers essentially bend over to get reamed and the children are told that they and their futures don’t matter. God Bless America, huh? Bravo, Nevada.

Baseball Is Kind of Awesome

“Marcel Lachemann may be the greatest pitching coach in the history of the game.”–Jim Leyland 

I’d like to give a cheerful and warm thanks to Mark over at Retro Simba for sending me some various Oakland A’s baseball cards in the mail, although one piece of cardboard was more conspicuous in a particularly nostalgic way–the Marcel Lachemann pictured. I remember him fondly as the pitching coach for the then-California Angels in the early 90’s. My grandparents lived about a 10-minute drive from Anaheim in nearby Buena Park, so my grandfather and I attended quite a few Angels games. They enjoyed going to flea markets on weekends and would sometimes drop me off in the “Big A” parking lot where I would buy tickets from scalpers (who my grandpa taught me to lowball if it was close enough to game time) and then once inside stand around under the S. California cornflower-blue sky chatting with 90-year-old bench coach Jimmie Reese–who was once Babe Ruth’s baseball roommate–on the third base line. I was always tickled by Reese’s answer when asked what life was like rooming with The Babe. 

“I roomed with his suitcase.” 

***

I usually don’t watch Pirates/Cardinals games, but I love early morning “get-away” baseball and these two teams squared off the other day as I was enjoying my coffee and rubbing the crud out of my eyes. It was impressive to watch 43-year-old Dick Mountain (who had sucked in his previous 4 outings, so he must have eaten his Wheaties and balanced his chakras) baffle the Cardinals hitters with an array of off-speed pitches. Mountain grunted and groaned his way through 6 ⅔, throwing everything but the kitchen sink, giving up 1 ER, and helping the Buccos complete the sweep of the RedBirds.

I have a friend (a Mariners fan) who would always sing the praises of Jamie Moyer, and this game brought me major “Moyer Vibes.” We decrepit old guys love it when old farts succeed on the ball field as we can live through them vicariously and exclaim, “Well if he’s still got it then so do I goddamn it!” And that morning was one of those days for Mr. Mountain–a successful day on the hill that gave me renewed hope in crusty old dudes everywhere with back problems, fussy wives, and a 9 o’clock bedtime.

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Here’s a short Vida Blue vs Hank Aaron video. Do yourself a favor and check it out.

Baseball Cards With Curious Stories to Tell

“No artist tolerates reality”–Nietzsche

My girlfriend told me that a man had tried to hang himself in the tree out in front of her house with his tie. Apparently, he had decided that his life was to be consummated right then and there in front of her 1940’s, white stucco, Spanish-style bungalow until someone called the proper authorities and he was taken away wearing what I’d imagine was a starched shirt and a face full of confusion. 

“Look, the tie is still on the branch,” she said.

The culprit was gray with blue vertical stripes and dancing in the breeze as the sunlight glinted off the synthetic fabric. Eventually, the tie created a life and mystique of its own, ceasing to be an inanimate symbol of economic good faith and encouraging me to acknowledge its insistent sadness–as I did almost every time I walked by.

I pointed out that the branch (which was about 8 feet off the ground) was inadequate for such an undertaking as it would break instantly under the weight of even an average-sized man.  The scenario was like trying to hang a piano from a piece of string – it’s a fool’s errand and doomed to fail from the start.

“How should I know what he was thinking…just another weirdo,” she said in a hard and detached manner.

We were headed to the Mexican swap meet where I was to find myself as the only gringo who had even bothered to show up that broiling day. The girlfriend was tickled by this. She bought an elote (corn) with chili powder, and I bought a random, mysterious, and seductive box of baseball cards and a Mexican League (Toros de Tijuana) baseball cap from a large, sweaty, ungainly man who clearly didn’t want to be there. He grunted in an undistinguishable language, too remote to be interpreted. I wasn’t sure if we were in accord with the price so I just held up a 20-dollar bill and he nodded in agreement. I took a cursory glance at the cards and then shoved them under my arm. 

Later that night we were at home watching a Charles Bronson movie when I decided to thumb through the dusty, frail cardboard. 

“Will you look at that…a Rickey Henderson rookie card!” I said, startled that dizzy with excitement is no mere phrase.

“Is that good?” 

She didn’t even look up as Bronson blasted another scumbag in the chest with his metaphorical cock, a .475 Magnum. I was elated to discover the all-time greatest thief as the other thief on the tube was getting his life snuffed out by a chain-smoking germophobe.

“Yeah, it’s good I’d say…real good.”

***

Hey guys…please give Disaffected Musings a look if you get the chance. it’s an interesting blog written by a “Moneyball” pioneer with a focus on baseball, cars, and opinions on other various topics.

More Baseball Stuff That Makes Me Lose My Mind

“I opened my eyes and saw the real world, and I began to laugh and I haven’t stopped since.” — Kierkegaard

Statistical guru Bill James recently laid bare that Tony Phillips has a higher career WAR than Braves poster boy Dale Murphy in a shocking (to me at least) expose. To be fair, James has said that the WAR statistic has its problems (personally, I think OPS is a far superior stat) stating that “the REAL problem with WAR is that it is a Comparison Derivative—thus, highly sensitive to small errors. The problem is that when working with Comparison Derivatives, a 1% error can manifest itself as a 20% error, a 50% error, a 90% error, or a 200% error.” It’s like the old saying: a chain is only as strong as its weakest link. A single error in the statistic can have a huge effect on its overall accuracy. Nevertheless, I found it cool that Phillips was on James’ list of highly underrated players and I agree that he didn’t get the recognition he deserved. To whom it matters: Murphy had a higher career OPS– .815 to .763. and no, I don’t think he deserves to be in the HOF despite seemingly unending arguments to the contrary.

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Oakland Pathetics Rookie Mason Miller tossed 7 no-hit innings against the Mariners a few nights ago before being pulled by numbskull manager Mark Kotsay for, and I kid you not, Dick Lovelady, (recently plucked from the Braves shit heap…but he’s CHEAP!) who tossed 5 pitches before giving up a game-tying homer to .113 hitting AJ Pollock–essentially blowing the game and all the positive free-flowing, rolling in the mud, hippie vibes. Talk about a buzzkill! And so it goes with the A’s bullpen aka “The Gas Can Squad” as Oakland fandom continues with this maudlin (thanks to carpetbagger John Fisher) baseball season. I guess the saying still holds true: You get what you pay for.

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My insomnia and existential terror returned the other night (go figure) so I decided to watch some NPB and lo and behold, there was the recently disgraced Trevor Bauer on the hill pitching his first game in just over 22 months! The social media creep scattered seven hits in seven innings, allowed one run, struck out nine, and threw 98 pitches in the Yokohama Baystars‘ 4-1 victory against the Hiroshima Carp. I guess it’s safe to say that I didn’t get much sleep and was kicking myself as I wearily watched the post-game Bauer interview before a board of corporate sponsors and clutching a stuffed animal in the Japanese kawaii tradition. I’ve got to say, Bauer definitely had the “Bear” necessities to get the job done. (and there it is…I’ve been reduced to dad jokes. I’m not sure if this blog is uncharacteristically and abstractly cool or increasingly uncool and mentally ill) Sweet dreams everyone!

Mutts Sweep the Pathetics

I spent most of my weekend in a hoppy, sudsy, comatose state on the couch watching the Mutts of Queens take out their brooms and sweep away the proverbial trash. The comedy/capitulation of the situation hit an apex when a recent call-up, “Hulk” Hogan Harris (who had a sparkling 6.23 ERA in the minors) was inserted into the game and gave up 5 walks, 6 earned runs and was promptly put back on the bus to the desert with a benign pat on the ass and a denigrating 162.00 ERA. To make matters worse, Hogan Harris was heard grumbling under his breath, “I guess this means I’m not getting my signing bonus!” 

A friend called me to discuss the matter and the conversation turned to Terry Steinbach.

“Greatest A’s catcher of all time,” he said, noting that he was a three-time All-Star and won the 1988 All-Star Game MVP Award.

“Well, probably the Oakland era,” I interjected. We often contradict each other–mostly politically–but the details aren’t of importance, and I’ve forgotten most of the arguments. I’m just convinced my ideas are more fundamentally beneficial to the general public and to the historical truths of the game. Our conversations are often like a friendly game of chess; we move pieces around, discussing and debating our opinions, but at the end of the day, we still remain friends, no matter the outcome. (and the correct answer would be Mickey Cochrane)

Strangely, I had watched an A’s/Red Sox game from 1992 a few days prior and they were interviewing Steinbach concerning pitcher Dave Stewart’s slow start and he mentioned something about not having control of his forkball (who was taught the pitch by none other than Sandy Koufax) in that delightful, thick Minnesota drawl.  He explained that the forkball is a difficult pitch to control and that Dave was struggling to keep it in the strike zone. This was likely the cause of his slow start.

Back to the present….There was a moment where the ball broke a gnat’s ass off the plate, and the inept umpire (according to StatCast) called it a ball, infuriating the Coliseum crowd who chanted in unison “Bullshit!” Bullshit! Bullshit!” The crowd’s reaction was similar to an erupting volcano, with rage and frustration spewing out in various directions–mostly towards the perpetually unoccupied owner’s box in a moment of glorious ennui fraternization. Suddenly, a brave soul from the stands yelled out, “Hey ump, you suuuck!” and the crowd roared with laughter. They were, alas, still conscious of their own reality (whether real or imagined) and breathing oxygen on this beautiful, sunny day under a cornflower-blue sky, and that’s all that really mattered.

The Oakland Pathetics are now a mind-bending 3-13.

I Fought for Sleep and Law Won

“That man is rich whose pleasures are the cheapest.” –Henry David Thoreau

I’ve been dealing with a minor case of insomnia and had finally fallen asleep (I’ve written about this affliction on this degenerate blog before) when I was awakened by a couple of alley cats knocking over some plants on my porch. I knew I was screwed. There was no chance of embracing slumber again, so I layed in my bed for a while staring at nothing and dancing in synapse limbo before deciding to watch a random baseball game–in this case a contest between Oakland and Cleveland in 1991.

Five hours earlier I was half-assed watching the Schwarzenegger flick Commando, falling asleep just as our protagonist was chopping off the limbs of South American mercenaries with garden tools, and now Vance Law was stepping into the box on an early 90’s casual and freewheeling July evening in a city known for polluted river fires, rock n’ roll baseball riots, and other naughty examples of human depravity. 

The announcers made a joke about the spectacled player looking like an Australian golfer, and how he had played in Japan a year earlier. Unable to find a job due to lack of power or anything else valuable to a ML squad, (scratch that–he could play multiple positions) Law went to Japan to play for the Chunichi Dragons, hitting well and being rewarded with a minor league contract. In a moment of desperation, the A’s recalled Law from Tacoma when regular third baseman Carney Lansford (a favorite) went on the IL–and he proceeded to play terribly hitting .209 in 134 AB’s before deciding to hang ‘em up. 

The successful Japanese season was fugazi so to speak. 

What does all this add up to? Well, two happy-as-hell gatos tearing up the neighborhood like a couple of coke-addled Hells Angels, and me witnessing the highlight of Vance Law’s Oakland A’s career–an RBI single down the right field line. So,….not much.

 (I feel the need to mention that Law made a mind-boggling and bonehead (genius?) play when the very next batter grounded to first and instead of trying to break up the double play at second–per usual–he pirouetted and returned to first, interfering with the relay throw. An attempted 3-4-3 penciled-in instead as a 3-4. Alas, there was some squawking and stomping from the Cleveland manager, but no interference was called. Law was released 3 months later.)

The Game

“Eighty percent of the people who hear your troubles don’t care and the other twenty percent are glad you’re having them.” –Tommy Lasorda

“The Game”

The power went out for about a 20-block radius in our neighborhood so a friend and I decided to get out before we withered away from boredom and our muscles atrophied. I was happy to read by candlelight but consented because she had anxiety and OCD and it was impossible to concentrate with all the pacing and agonizingly trivial jabbering in front of me when she became bored of the infinite scroll on her phone. I’d imagine her internal and external worlds were in perpetual battle with each other over perceived micro-humiliations and misplaced mojo.

“I know a really chi-chi wine bar that just opened where we can get free drinks,” she said, “and then we can hop on over to the museum.” Pacifying this incorrigible monster was an overture to trouble to say the least. “When you’re single after 30 it’s like you’re playing a game of hide and seek except no one’s looking for you.”

We wobbled into the museum two hours later when I took notice of this piece titled, “The Game” by David Middlebrook. The artist’s statement is as follows: In this work, the enormous baseball, a symbol of the American pastime, is a metaphor for corporate America. The funnel represents the tunnel vision of this greed, whereas the umbrella is meant to suggest a narrative that the system will protect the less fortunate but, being crafted from wood, will ultimately not keep them dry. 

 Of course, the artist could be using a metaphor about the angst-ridden life as an Oakland A’s fan or even the slow diminishing of the middle-class and social security–either interpretation fits well and I nodded my head slowly in a pontificating “art critic” pose with thumb and forefinger placed expertly on the chin as if I was laboring over unseen details.

“Let’s go…this place smells tragically of lavender Fabuloso and perfume,” said the girl. And we did, returning to the chi-chi wine bar where I spent more money than I wanted to before walking home with my brains feeling like mayonnaise. The power was still out and I lit a candle before quickly falling asleep in a room that had the ambiance of an icebox that hadn’t been cleaned for months.

P.S. Please give Horror Fashion Review a look and perhaps a follow. Grace does a wonderful job of reviewing the clothes worn by the dames in horror movies. Funny and forward-thinking stuff!