Opening the Box?!

My wife doesn't like clutter. Hates it. Her feelings stem from growing up in a big chaotic family and household where the homes for the random household items were rarely, if ever, found by those items. "Everything has a home," she tells our kids.

But our kids are also my kids, and while not quite being a hoarder, I do exhibit mild hoarding tendencies. I am a packrat when it comes to paper waste--I'm perpetually collecting artifacts for some artistic display later, and my kids share this tendency with me.

Over the years I've gotten better at tossing stuff and clearing out my loads of crap. Sometimes the things aren't crap, but clunky yet. Sometimes they may be able to be sold. And sometimes my kids want to play with them.

Lately, I've said, "Aw, the hell with it..." One thing I had in a box labeled "Pat's Collectibles" was the following toy:

It turns out Carles Barkley was the only non-MJ player to get a figurine. My son said, "Can we open it and play with it? I know you love the coyote..." He does know me well. I told him once I checked the value of selling it eBay, if it wasn't crazy high, he could definitely open it and play with it.

It's now being played with by my son while I regale him of stories of Chuck's game. 

I figured it made it easier to be one step closer to the trash, which would make Corrie happy.

Other items were duplicate bobble-heads---one set are being played with and broken in my house while one set stays in the "Collectibles" box---of, get this, Lance Berkman and the fictional Rojo Johnson, a character played by Will Ferrell, when he came to the Round Rock stadium one random night in 2010. 

One step closer to the trashcan...

Little League is Upon Us

When I was a youngster, I played two years of little league baseball. Technically it was not Little League, with the capital letters, and any team I was on would never make it to the Little League World Series. I played in the Pony League, which was an organization that was big in Sacramento in the '80s.

I played one year of "Coach Pitch," and one year of "kid pitch." I don't remember too much from Coach Pitch, but I do remember walking a whole lot in Kid Pitch...and getting hit a lot, too. I remember only getting a single hit, and making contact twice in the same at bat, fouling a pitch off before lining a single to right-center. I think my OBP (on-base percentage) was in the upper .800s. I remember just wanting to swing for a change...

Anywho, Cass has joined a fall-ball league, and around here (Long Beach), fall ball is a short season with kid pitch until ball four, then coach pitch, and they switch turns in the field after the fifth batter no matter what. These are a couple of good rules. This way no one get's too zoned out out in the field and there's not an avalanche of walks.

This is also not technically the Little League, this is the Long Beach Cal Ripken League. But both Little League and Pony Baseball have a presence here, too.

I love that Cass and I can talk about baseball, and watch baseball, and have meaningful conversations about my baseball cards that he's claimed. Check him out above: rockin' the high socks and Don Mattingly's number.

The other day, Saturday, he found a collection of DVDs I bought years ago, my Yankee dynasty collection, a series of sports programs and year-in-reviews for 1996, 1998, '99, '00, and '01. There's also pivotal games from each year as well. Last Saturday we watched Game 4 of the 1996 World Series. There were no commercials, but it wasn't a series of highlights. It took a few hours. I showed Cass how to read the box score, so he knew which innings had the action, like Leyritz's homer in the 8th. 

I've been showing him Jeter highlights, too, like the flip play against the A's (RIP A's, pour some out for the homies) or his many tumbles into the stands.

Cass even caught the first pop-fly of the season for his team while manning 3rd base. So glad we spent all that time talking Mike Schmidt and George Brett.

Anyway, funny enough, all this baseball talk on my dad's birthday...so, happy birthday dad! Playoff's start today, too, with the Yanks getting a bye in this first round.

Shohei Ohtani: Prepare for Hyperbole

Whoa.

I've written here in the past about baseball things. In 2012 I lifted a bunch of lists of eras with Hall of Famers who were in their under-25 year old seasons. (I should revisit that gimmick...) I once explored a conversation my dad and I had about Derek Jeter being the greatest shortstop ever. I even once pontificated on books about Pete Rose and A-Rod in a post I didn't remember until right now.

I once added a half-joking meme to my Hank Aaron remembrance about how he should have been in the conversation for Greatest Of All Time. The end of this Hank Aaron piece is something like: I'm looking for arguments to who's better than Henry, and if you're arguing for anyone not named Willie Mays or Babe Ruth, you can kindly fuck off. 

But it's obvious I was wrong. Well...now it's obvious I was wrong.

I was thinking of a few things earlier this week. What if back in September of 1994, a month after the STRIKE ended the season and the days were dark for baseball fans, someone came to us (er, baseball fans) and said: Look, I know this sucks, but in 30 years, there will be a dude who'll---get this---go 50-50! And us baseball fans would've said, What, like 50 homers and 50 doubles? I think this Albert Belle guy can get that next year (as long as they play). 

But the futuristic person would say, No! Seriously! I mean 50 homers and 50 stolen bases! And we'd say, You're insane! And then they'd say, And...AND...when healthy this dude will ALSO be the best pitcher in baseball! We'd then tell this person to get the fuck outta here with all that noise.

And they'd say, No! Seriously! The most tantalizing player in the game is a power threat, hits for high average, can steal a bunch of bases, AND can throw 100 mph and can strike out anybody, even his own Mickey-Mantle-clone-teammate in the highest stakes international competition.

We baseball fans in 1994 would stare at this person with confusion on our face. And then the person would say: And, now get ready for this: people seem almost more interested in a 5'10" former first-pick quarterback getting benched after his 18th game.

Shohei Ohtani came into tonight's game on the precipice of an all-timer baseball mark. He entered tonight's game with 49 steals and 48 homers. On September 19th, this is shockingly close to baseball immortality: he had a real chance to reach an unheard of reality: 50 homers and 50 stolen bases. Enter tonight's game against the Miami Marlins.

What's Shohei's line? Just a little 6 for 6 with 10 RBIs, 3 homers, 2 steals, and a double. That's 16 bases and 4 runs scored, to go with those two steals.

He goes into September 20th, 2024, with 51 homers and 51 stolen bases.

And...and are we ready for a 40-40 guy with 20 wins? How is anyone better than Shohei? He's the best hitter and the best pitcher. Is he not the GOAT? I know...I know...it's not the longevity...and we're prisoners of the moment...but HOLY HELL, DO YOU SEE THIS GUY? What if Frank Robinson could give you 150 innings of Cy Young Award-caliber pitching? What if Tom Seaver or Steve Carlton moved to the AL and could produce 30-30 seasons as a DH/pitcher?

Vandalism with a Purpose

Calling this "vandalism" kind of misses the point. The artist in question called it guerrilla public service.

The situation was this: for years, in Los Angeles the freeway signs were, eh, unhelpful. The spur I-110 passes right through the west part of downtown LA's center. The connector to I-5 was a left exit, but the only sign saying so was nearly a mile before, and small, and on the right side of the road.

Angelino, sign maker, and artist Richard Ankrom got fed up. He decided to take matters into his own hands. If you click on the link above you'll be taken to his documentary, "Guerrilla Public Service." He documented himself making a very high quality freeway sign, actually exactly the same as the California Department of Transportation, down to the paint and reflectors. He even purchased an outfit to look like a public worker, and installed the sign in the middle of the day.

The whole endeavor is proof of "look like you belong and no one will bother you." The movie shows all of this, and he didn't release it until the statute of limitations was up on his "public sign 'defacing.'" 

This "vandalism" was left unchanged (it was pretty helpful) for 8 years. 8. Years. Hell yes.

Eventually the DoT came and took the rogue sign down, and replaced it with one of their own. I realized that when I was staying in the hotel in DTLA back in August, I could see the replaced sign:

And there it is: the I-5 marker showing the left lane exit next the 110 marker. (That's the point where the road splits: north of that point and it's CA HWY 110; south and it's spur I-110.)

Of course, I took the picture before I realized I had the sign in frame...here's the original pic:

This is from the elevator landing on the 20th floor. I was familiar with the documentary and realized later that I may have captured the new sign.

Anywho, the documentary is weird and, eh, Lynchian, I guess you could say. As in David Lynch...if a documentary about making and secretly---in the bright sunlight of day---installing a freeway sign can be like a David Lynch project.

I read an essay about it recently, and a point they were making was: wasn't there anything better to do? Like, making a legit traffic sign, and installing it? Nothing better to do? And the answer was...no. This was in August of 2001. It was a month before the 9/11 attacks, with the US at the height of it's global position, invincible and where messing around with trifling things was a totally passable thing to be involved with.

Seems like a distant memory now.

Labor Day with Family

Back in June in Denver we made a date to spend Labor Day with my Auntie Anne and Uncle Val, my dad's sister and her husband, who live in Solvang. Solvang is a Danish town in between Santa Barbara and San Luis Obispo that has become a kitschy tourist town. A trio of Danes founded it back in 1911, when they bought 10,000 acres of land in the Santa Ynez Valley.

My mom told us stories of visiting it back when the majority of language you'd hear was still Danish.

I wish I had better pictures of the picturesque towny atmosphere, but this is what I have. It's always been a little hokey for me, but I get it, and the kids thought it was cool. 

Earlier that day, Auntie Anne took us to the Ostrich and Emu Experience in town. I guess it's not exactly "in town," but everything is five minutes apart around there, so...why not just call it?

Anyway, once you got inside, if you elected to purchase the feed, you could get closer to giant birds than you thought you'd ever otherwise get:

The emus made the best noises: like a large hollow rubber ball was being hit with a croquet mallet. We were there at the best time: the marine layer was still around, so the temperature was mellow, and it was before the crowds showed up in earnest. On later days we'd drive past and see just how crowded the parking lot could get.

We even drove out to Jalama Beach, a small SB County campground and park outside of Lompoc. We took Anne and Val's dogs, and they enjoyed the hell out of it:

That's Cass off in the distance

One of the few things I felt nostalgia for was, maybe weirdly, the way the morning air smelled. Turns out I missed the smell of the morning air on the Central Coast. Also, once that marine layer burns off, the green rim that surrounds nearly all views in the area is back in view, clearly seen from the front yard space at Auntie Anne's:

There place was very nice and cute, and the kids loved being there.

Ann and Val never had kids themselves, so for our kids and for my auntie and uncle, this was like a grandparent visit. It was very sweet and special, and our kids got so much attention and gave so much attention and love of their own.

Uncle Val put on loud action movies (Dead Reckoning: Part 1) and showed Cass how to play Call of Duty.Val shared with both kids cowboy hats and sunglasses. They loved Camille's flight's of imagination-fueled stories, chatted up Corrie about work, and helped out in the kitchen, absorbing a few tidbits I offered.

The drive back, on Labor Day Monday, was less than three hours, which was remarkable considering the day and drive (US 101 to I-405? Seriously?), and added to the magical time the visit really was.

Love you guys, and can't wait to do it again!

Found in our Underground Parking Garage

What bizarre stuff awaits us in the bowels of our building? Mostly soot and gasoline fumes, galvanized rubber odor and the sounds of a creaky chain-operated door.

I park up against a chainlink fence, but next to Corrie's Subaru. It was a trade off: you can park next to each other, but it also means that you won't be able to get in on the passenger side. We worked it out.

Anywho, each day when I reverse into my spot, and each day when I drive away, I glance over at an old Star Wars poster right behind the chainlink fence:

On the top it reads: "The Original is Back," which I took to mean that it was an advertisement for a re-release of the OG Star Wars. The poster is on cardboard, so...cool. Maybe it's worth some cash, but being exposed to the quality of air in the garage is probably less than ideal. 

But eventually I had the time to read the gray slashing marquee on the bottom righthand corner:

Can you read it? Do you see it? The original was being released to keep attention high for the upcoming third installment called "THE REVENGE OF THE JEDI."

This poster was made back before they'd changed the name from REVENGE to RETURN. Lucas decided that Jedi wouldn't be seekers of revenge, so he opted to change the name.

So...this poster would be worth even more...? I'm guessing? I just don't have the energy to pursue anything like that...and to do it for my nominal landlords would be annoying, because I wouldn't be ripping them off...

Anyway, pretty wild little bit of history that I'd been looking at for years before realizing what exactly it was.

Last Bookstore Discovery

On my days staying in downtown LA I made sure to swing by the Last Bookstore. It's LA's baddest biggie indie bookstore (like Powell's in Portland or The Strand in New York) and as such, as a personal rule, I tried to find something to purchase. This visit I made with about twenty-five minutes before closing, so walking around was mostly rushed.

I came to a spot and saw the following binding:

Stars...of the New...Curfew? I read sideways. Ben Okri, as the author's name, had me thinking Africa, and I pulled it off the shelf.

It was slim and inexpensive, and Ben Okri was a celebrated Nigerian-British author whose works were finally getting published in the US (the blurb said---this book was from 1988). I'll say...Ben Okri is now Sir Ben Okri, a poet, screenwriter, novelist, and activist, and winner of Booker Prize in 1991 for The Famished Road. (The Booker Prize is the one other writers perk up for.)

That was all research done after I had read the stories contained inside. Where has this dude been, and why am I only finding out about him now? I guess that's true of so, so many fantastic writers, but still...

The stories take place in and around Lagos and some cities in the interior. The city is war torn, people are hungry, angry, and desperate, and a connection to the occasional magical realm is natural and realistic. In the second story after a car crash things go so sideways in Okri's descriptions (people's feet are on backwards, their arms bend the wrong way, the huts in the village all have mirrors on the outside, et al) that you start to think it's turning to sci-fi. It doesn't, but it opens the world up similar to Murakami.

In the titular story, Stars of the New Curfew, there are occasional sub-headings. The first is "The Nightmare of Salesmen," in which our narrator explains how his nightmares came about: he sold fake meds to needy people that mostly mad them worse-off. Another section's subheading is "The Salesmen of Nightmares," in which the new wonder drug he's selling causes a wild, placebo fueled fracas on a crowded bus, with a bus driver---on the new drug---racing another driver and sending the bus off a bridge and into a river, drowning seven passengers. After this the narrator flees to his home village, only to encounter the ongoing and escalating feud between the town's two richest families. This 60-plus page story goes all over the place in surprising and enjoyable ways.

I'm waiting for some time to pick up The Famished Road. New post-Modern fiction is always exciting, and from Africa! Hell yes.