The route was a little different, but I went from The Manse to the top of Palos Verdes again. I didn’t take any pictures today because I just didn’t feel like it. Besides, I was having a blast listening to my soundtrack for the eight miles: Marilyn Manson’s Portrait of an American Family and Smells Like Children, the Liars’ Drums Not Dead.
Doing the podcast tomorrow with Brendan. I can’t wait.
The first five minutes of this game was everything anyone could have hoped for in this series. There were 22 hits, a full-on scrum behind the Kings net after Mike Brown knocked Slava Voynov into Jonathan Quick and a goal by the Sharks after Quick had lost the puck.
It was everything expected and then some between two division foes who are meeting for the third time in four years. The Kings had won in seven last year and the Sharks beat the Kings in six back in 2011, so there was enough hostilities there to brew into a rivalry. This was a highly anticipated series.
Then the first period continued. The stats sheet said that the Kings got the better of the Sharks in hits: 29-26. But those Sharks players who weren’t being hit were busying going on odd-man rushes. The Sharks got off 14 shots that got to Quick while attempting 27 in all. The Kings attempted 11 shots with only eight getting to Sharks netminder Antti Niemi.
Quick played strong and kept the Kings in the game. Then the final minute happened. Tomas Hertl found the open net to give the Sharks the 2-0 lead. 48 seconds later it was Patrick Marleau finding the open net.
20 minutes in, and the Kings had a 3-0 deficit to try and crawl out of, but it got worse.
The Sharks showed that not only were the offensively dangerous, they learned how to be physical. They were either faster than the Kings or knocking the Kings off of where they wanted to be. After Marc-Edouard Vlasic’s shot hit the post in the middle of the second period, noted ruffian Raffi Torres found the rebound and shot it past Quick for the 4-0 lead. Later Vlasic got the power play goal that signaled the end of the game.
Every Kings and Oilers fans will remember the Miracle on Manchester that took place on April 10, 1982. The Oilers had a 5-0 lead in the third period of Game 3 of their five-game series. The series was tied at a game apiece, and the Kings proceeded to tie the game in the waning seconds to the delight of the delirious fans in the Forum. Daryl Evans, current radio color commentator, got the game winner 2:35 in overtime for the improbable win.
The Kings did their best impression of that team. Jake Muzzin got a goal two minutes into the third period, and Slava Voynov got an unassisted goal several minutes later. Trevor Lewis really put a scare in San Jose with six minutes left to make it only a two-goal lead for the Sharks.
But it was too little, too late. Brent Burns sealed the game with an empty-netter with 54.7 seconds left giving the Sharks the 6-3 victory.
Yesterday I told a few people on Twitter that I thought the Sharks would win the series in 7 since they had home-ice advantage. Lord knows what we’ll see in Game 2, but I’ll still hold firm to that prediction.
Anyone who knows me knows that I’ve had a rocky relationship with my mother. What with me coming out to her the summer before my senior year of high school, her subsequent threat of committing a murder-suicide if I ever brought it up, her kicking me out of the house for a weekend for getting a haircut she deemed to be too gay. Even when I was a child things were turbulent (to which she chooses to conveniently forget), but I always give her the benefit of the doubt. She’s my mother, she loves me and even if her methods are fucked up, she still loves me deep down.
One would hope with adulthood coming on things would get better. But, no. Because I don’t have a degree and a clearly defined day job, she likes pointing out what a disappointment I am. And, because I’m fat, she loves to talk about that, too. She opened up her yap last night saying that my pudge is sticking out again and told me that she’s going to have me kidnapped and sent to a fat farm.
On my hike today through the Forrestal and Portuguese Bend Reserves, her words just stuck in my mind. And rather than just allowing nature to absorb me, there was this brewing anger seething just underneath the surface.
I realize that as much as I love my mom, she really is a cunt. So when I hear about folks missing their parents, I can’t identify with that. It’s such a foreign concept.
I was talking with my aunt last week, and we were bitching about my mom. I told her that for the last 35 years I’ve been stepping on every crack I see, but still my mom’s back is all right. I’ve stepped on this particular crack each time I’m hiking on this particular crack. It still hasn’t fucking done anything.
Don’t really have much to say, so enjoy these photos I’ve taken since the weekend.
20 years ago and four days after Kurdt Kobain’s corpse was found above his garage, Hole’s second album Live Through This was released. I couldn’t. It was way too soon.
On April 8, 1994, a Friday, I was listening to my walkman while walking home from Dodson Junior High just after 3 p.m. I had the radio tuned to KROQ when I heard a phone recording which I thought was an odd intro to a song. It was the King County Medical Examiner that positively identified the body as Kurdt’s. I stopped dead in my tracks. You know how people talk about how they remember the moment they heard about JFK’s assassination? MLK’s assassination? John Lennon’s murder? Well, now, I have my moment.
As the final words were uttered by the doc, KROQ launched into Tori Amos’ cover of “Smells Like Teen Spirit”, but I was in too much of a state of shock to process any emotion. It wasn’t the same feeling as finding out a year before that my uncle was shot in the head during a robbery attempt of his liquor store, but it was sure close to it. I felt tears starting to come out, but I couldn’t. Kurdt wasn’t family, and here I was in public just having turned onto Western Ave. from Toscanini Drive. So I trudged on home and spent the weekend processing things.
On Tuesday, after the teary recitation of his suicide note, after going out to the mourning fans gathered right outside of their house and giving away pieces of his clothing, the new Hole album came out, Courtney Love front and center. Maybe it was because I didn’t have cable and the internet was confined to those being geeky on BBSes, but I managed to avoid the album. I didn’t want to hear it for fear of some emotional reaction. The fact I managed to avoid it for so long is quite surprising since I did listen to a lot of KROQ back in those days.
It wasn’t until sometime late that summer as I was preparing to go to Narbonne that I finally heard “Miss World”. Holy shit it was genius. Before that I never heard anything from Hole. Having read articles about the band, I expected something more like Babes In Toyland, something a lot more punk and screechy. But “Miss World” was polished yet still raw, defiant with a hint of saccharine. I went out and bought the album.
Two songs jumped out at me immediately: “Violet” and “Rock Star”. There has never been a more fitting abstract to an album than “Violet”: blistering guitars, great hooks and Courtney Love screaming “Go on take everything/Take everything/I dare you” then sweetly teasing “I told you from the start/Just how this would end/When I get what I want/And I never wanted again.”
Then the album ended with “Rock Star”. It wasn’t until recently that I found out that the song is really called “Olympia”, that a last minute change after the art work was completed contributed to the misnomer. I knew there was a music scene in Olympia, but I still had no idea what all that entailed. All I know was the Courtney felt boxed in, and this was her form of rebellion. Besides, which tenth grader doesn’t like to rage out to someone screaming “Don’t! You! Please! Make me sick! Fuck! You!”?
It would be a couple of years before I would finally be able to deal with being gay. But Live Through This was something that helped me get to that point, to help me be true with myself and deal with having to live through whatever I would have to end up living with.
It was odd seeing Courtney being a whirling dervish of drug use and drama during this period. She embodied chaos in 1994 and 1995 with punching Kathleen Hanna, interrupting Kurt Loder’s interview with Madonna after the VMAs in ’95. I guess I should have connected the Courtney doing all of this shit and the Courtney who created this wonderful piece of art. But Kurdt’s death helped me start separating the artist and the person. Also, I was 15-16 at this point, not 11 when I first heard Nirvana.
So no matter the heinous things Courtney did, the stupid things she would say, I will always love her for Live Through This.
Flavorwire posted a feature where musicians and writers wrote about the 12 songs on the eve of the album’s 20th anniversary. That’s what got this started, although I really didn’t intend this being as wordy as it has turned out.
My grandmother wanted to get a perm today, so I figured I’d drop her off then head to the Portuguese Bend Reserve for a little hike. As I was heading down looking at the landscape that had become so familiar, I decided to take the Kelvin Canyon trail that heads over the Filorium Reserve next door.
The change of scenery was nice with the eucalyptus grove as pictured below. There was also an even bigger hint of pine smell than in Portuguese Bend that made everything seem sweeter.
What was also refreshing about these trails is that it’s not as popular as the Portuguese Bend trails. You sort of feel like you’re out here alone.
As I headed up Rattlesnake Trail back to Crenshaw Blvd., I realized it was pretty hot and I was really panting even though the ascent wasn’t too challenging. I sat on a rock to get myself together about 2/3 of the way up when that unmistakable feeling of needing to throw up hit me. I wasn’t too dizzy, but I was quite light headed. Duh. It’s a hot day, I’m sweating like a greased hog at a county fair and I’m probably dehydrated. So I stood up and drank some water. The nausea-feeling passed and I slowly made my way back to my car.
I knew this wasn’t the longest hike I’ve done. I knew this wasn’t the steepest hike I’ve done. But man did my ass get whooped today.
After I picked up my grandmother and gave her her lunch, I went to Del Taco to treat myself and got their Surf and Turf burrito. Holy motherfucking shit was that good.
Let the descent begin! This ungodly creature was unceremoniously dumped on the Dodger fans this weekend. Steve Dilbeck of the LA Times talked to Lon Rosen, the Dodgers VP of Marketing.
“It’s not a mascot,” said Dodgers executive vice president of marketing Lon Rosen. “It’s a unique performance character.”
With that level of rhetorical gymnastics, I wonder if Lon can verbally suck himself off?
Rosen told Dilbeck that three more of these nameless genderless “bobblehead characters” will be unveiled in the coming weeks.
Ten years ago Rosen tried to do the same thing when Frank McCourt bought the Dodgers. Fortunately for fans, he was fired soon after. But that wasn’t before he dumped longtime broadcaster Ross Porter and greatly cut back organist Nancy Bea Hefley’s workload. So don’t be surprised to see cheerleaders hired and Nancy Bea fired in the coming months.
So not only are chances likely you can’t watch the Dodgers even if you wanted to, now you’ll be bombarded by whatever-the-fuck-these-things-are when you attend a game. As their marketing slogan went last year, it is indeed a whole new blue.
Here is our latest podcast offering, our best yet. We start things off with:
The songs in this podcast were the aforementioned Body Count song, Liars “Mess on a Mission”, Trust “Geryon” and Nirvana “Endless, Nameless”.
Tell your friends all about the podcast that will scorch the nation worse than Sherman’s March to the Sea. Sure, you’ll have to cover your children’s ears, but as Pat Benetar once sang, “Hell is for children.”
We are on iTunes or you can manually subscribe to the show via RSS.
Because I enjoy being dirty and a bit subversive, I’ve decided to do a weekly feature to highlight the best performances in baseball. It started on Opening Day on Monday. When I saw Mike Trout’s blast to left field in his first at-bat of the season, I proclaimed that he deserved a blowjob (with swallowing). A couple of retweets later, here we are.
Unfortunately I could not get anyone to model for this feature. Also, since my artistic skills both digital and otherwise are lacking, all I could do were these webcam pictures after I finished my weekly cleaning.
Handjob – Neil Walker. The Pirates opening day was a great pitching duel with the Chicago Cubs at PNC Park. After what was their first playoff appearance since 1992, it was curious to see how they would respond.
The offense looked like last year’s version — pretty damn anemic — as they were held scoreless through nine innings. Fortunately the pitching staff also held the hapless Cubs scoreless through nine.
Then in the 10th, up came hometown boy Neil Walker:
This is your 2014 World Series Champions.
Blowjob – Charlie Blackmon. The 27-year old Rockies outfielder Charlie Blackmon just made his first opening roster for the team after batting .291 through parts of three seasons. In 481 plate appearances through 151 games, only 37 of his base hits went for extra bases.
After an 0-for-4 opening night in Miami, Blackmon heated up. In the Rockies home opener, he went 6-for-6 with three doubles and a homer while scoring four runs. Perhaps the only blemish on his scorecard that day was being caught stealing in the sixth inning.
He followed up his six-hit day by going 3-for-4 with a stolen base on Saturday.
Okay, he did this at Coors Field against the awful Arizona Diamondbacks. But he became only the 98th player in Major League history and 60th player in National League history to get six hits in one game.
Anal – Mike Trout. After the Angels announced their contract extension with Mike Trout, there were some questions about how he would respond to start the season. Would he be tight at the plate trying to be the perfect player? Trout answered the question right away letting everyone know he doesn’t have to try and be the perfect player: he was perfect.
That blast took my breath away. He did that against one of the best pitchers in the Majors: King Felix Hernandez.
Like I wrote yesterday, the Dodger home opener was my eighth consecutive opener I have attended. It was the first one I attended as a normal civilian since 2008. I had to say it was a strange experience.
As a member of the meida I probably would have driven up to the Ravine at 8 a.m., parked in Lot P at the Top of the Park and milled around and done the normal pregame stuff I would do. This time there was none of that.
I wanted to get to the Ravine before noon, so Cathi and I decided to meet up at 10 to grab breakfast then head to the game. I left The Manse at 8:30 in anticipation of horrid traffic from San Pedro to Downtown LA through the Harbor Freeway. Magically there was none of that! I made it to The Homestead in Highland Park by 9:30. Magic!
A pregame breakfast of a veggie omelet at Astro’s, dropping of Cathi’s munchkin, the dilemma was where to park. The parking at Elysian Park was bound to be already full because of tailgaters. Again, there was magic. We found a parking spot a block away from the Sunset/Elysian Park entrance.
Thankfully all of the hiking I have done got me in good enough shape to walk up the hill to our Top Deck seats. Puig was out, the Dodgers lost 8-4, yadda yadda yadda.
I must have annoyed the people around me for laughing through the first two innings as the Dodgers clunked their way to an 8-0 deficit. As I sat watching the game, telling anecdotes of some of the players, I wondered why I was reluctant to cheer for the team. I mean, once upon a time not too long ago I was a bleeding blue Dodger fan. Now? I was a Joy Division tee/black jean island in a sea of blue.
As the game wore on, it hit me. I know too much of these players’ personalities. Until Andre Ethier, Matt Kemp and the rest of this lot moves on, I really can’t see myself cheering for them.
Other minor observations:
