Thursday, April 24, 2008
The Koala
Life in its infinite improvisation tends to throw nostalgia at one's face at every turn. In George W. Bush grammatically incorrect fashion I say, "Bring them on!"
Today, I walked into the kitchen at work and found loquats (fruit) sitting on our table. There, right before my eyes, sitting in a Crate & Barrel bowl a snippet of my childhood. When I was little, our neighbors had a loquat tree. On warm spring days (loquat trees bear fruit in April and May) I used to sneak out, climb the loquat tree and sit on a branch eating loquats all day while watching cars zip and people walk by and wonder about my future until my stomach started to hurt or I felt slightly sedated. “Eaten in quantity, loquats have a noticeable but gentle sedative effect, with effects lasting up to 24 hours.” – Wikipedia
My grandma would say, “Nino necio, te va dar diarrea o te vas a caer de ese arbol comiendo tanta fruta.” Ah, my very own Eucalyptus tree!
Unless you’re a fruit connoisseur (I can’t imagine anyone being one), you’ve probably never heard of or eaten (or is it ate?) loquats. That’s because they don’t travel well and by the time they’d arrive at your local market they’d look like a Puerto Rican boxer that’s been in the ring with Julio Cesar Chavez for 6 Rounds. Why only 6 Rounds you ask? Well, because that’s all it used to take. That left hook to the body was no joke son! To my Boricua friends, you know this is true so don’t playa hate.
I hadn’t tasted loquats in over 20 years and boy how they shot me back to 1988, just like I remembered too. My old, tangy, juicy, sweet, fleshy, slightly fuzzy, smooshy friend, after all these years we meet again. It’s hard to reminisce while shaking two packets of French Roast (I like my coffee, "Wake a mother fucker from the dead" strong) into the coffee maker at 9:10AM on a Thursday morning but I still managed to sustain a decent level of fuzzy joy.
So there they were, the loquats of my childhood peppering imagines of a tattered corduroy pants, dirt-caked fingernails, white Converse with aglet-less shoelaces, smelly toes, Go-Bots t-shirts and a sweaty Pee-Wee Tigers mesh baseball cap. We all have a first love, my childhood was mine.
Labels: nostalgia
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
YourSpace?
This piece is intended for those keen to MySpace, which should pretty much be all three of you that read my blog. Hi guy, gal and sister. Anyway, should MySpace be foreign to you, great. I seriously seriously envy you for it can be a vicious beast, gripping one from its Tourette vulnerable core spinning it into delusion. The elusive escape is out there somewhere. Anyway, if you're not hip to MySpace (love it or hate) well then, what are you doing on the internets? Enjoy.
I love Top "X" lists. From Top 20 Movies of all time to Top 5 Role Playing Games EVER to Top 10 Miles Davis Tracks to Top 3 Quincenera joints of the cumbia variety and everything in between. And just in case you’re wondering:
Top 3 Quincenera joints of the cumbia variety
3. Fito Olivares – La Yerba Se Movia (This also ranks up there on the “Songs totally inappropriate to dance to with your grandmother, but it’s too fun not to.” list.
2. Celso Pina - Cumbia Sobre El Rio (You know I had to throw in a Mexicano)
1. La Sonora Dinamita – Que Nadie Sepa Mi Sufrir (Granted, you have to be 1st or 2nd generation Mexican, Columbian or Central American to relate to this supposed footnote: We all have that uncle with four, five or six kids (no one really knows for sure) who disappears to (insert applicable 3rd world country here) for a couple of months every year and you end up hearing stories about how he actually visits his girlfriend and not your extended family when he's down there. Well, this drama culminates on the dance floor as our victimized aunt who happens to be drunk at the time peers over to said uncle, fresh off the plane and just in time for your cousin's quince. Before the first trumpet has screeched from the speakers our beloved aunt and hero of this footnote grabs your uncle, drags his pathetic ass to the dance floor and burns a hole on the floor as she pierces into your uncles cheating eyes and as ironic as one can be sings every lyric with the denial and conviction of Hugo Chavez.
(This video is hella cheesy but the song remains the same, chido)
I've had a MySpace page for a while now. I honestly can't remember how I even found the damn site; trust me I tried to remember, I've been sitting here for 10 minutes thinking about it. While it's a fantastic tool for keeping in cyber contact with old and new friends alike, it has its problems. Like, "Hey dumb ass, what are you doing posting pictures of your nalgas split by a T-back thong (Caption: I'm waiting for you!) right next to a picture of your 2 year old sitting on your mother's lap (Caption: Grandma's lil' Angel)" type problems. You think there would be some accounting for taste right? Nooo sir, not on MySpace. So without further ado... here's a list of the Top 5 Stupid Things People Do On MySpace... there's plenty more than 5, but I thought I'd tease the palate with a 1st course. OK, now without further ado and in no particular order.
The Peace sign Puckered lips combo picture:
Nothing embodies MySpace "culture" (if you have the balls to call it that) more than this classic portrait, it's almost on par with the 'side profile with belly showing pose' self portrait. If you're 14 years old, you might be able to get away with this out of sheer ignorance, if you're 26 years old, you're a fucking embarrassment. Do folks actually know what the Peace sign represents? You know who the last genuinely cool person to throw up the peace sign was? Not Biff Wellington from Boise, Idaho or Gretchen Oder from Muskogee, Oklahoma. John Lennon and he's been dead for almost 30 years! Full disclosure: I have friends with who openly post shit like this. Sorry guys/gals.
148,286 Friends:
Unless you're Barack Obama, Tila Tequila, Kanye West or Tom this makes absolutely no sense.
Ridiculous/Stupid/Useless Bulletins:
These are infinite. They vary from "Comment my pics!" to "Naked Pics of your Mom!" to "I love my boyfriend" to "Can someone let me borrow $3,000, I'll explain?" to "Please re-post this totally bogus and misspelled story about an imaginary girl that has been missing since 1963!" Don't you think she would have found her way home by now? If you're not going to slightly enlighten, inform or entertain, please don't make me lower the volume on my Pixies' La La Love You track so I can watch a video of a scary odd kid singing something about Chocolate Rain. Seriously, drugs aside, is this really entertaining?
Nothing embodies MySpace "culture" (if you have the balls to call it that) more than this classic portrait, it's almost on par with the 'side profile with belly showing pose' self portrait. If you're 14 years old, you might be able to get away with this out of sheer ignorance, if you're 26 years old, you're a fucking embarrassment. Do folks actually know what the Peace sign represents? You know who the last genuinely cool person to throw up the peace sign was? Not Biff Wellington from Boise, Idaho or Gretchen Oder from Muskogee, Oklahoma. John Lennon and he's been dead for almost 30 years! Full disclosure: I have friends with who openly post shit like this. Sorry guys/gals.
148,286 Friends:
Unless you're Barack Obama, Tila Tequila, Kanye West or Tom this makes absolutely no sense.
Ridiculous/Stupid/Useless Bulletins:
These are infinite. They vary from "Comment my pics!" to "Naked Pics of your Mom!" to "I love my boyfriend" to "Can someone let me borrow $3,000, I'll explain?" to "Please re-post this totally bogus and misspelled story about an imaginary girl that has been missing since 1963!" Don't you think she would have found her way home by now? If you're not going to slightly enlighten, inform or entertain, please don't make me lower the volume on my Pixies' La La Love You track so I can watch a video of a scary odd kid singing something about Chocolate Rain. Seriously, drugs aside, is this really entertaining?
The 86 JPEGs, Surveys Galore and "You look like so and so" Page:
This is the profile you click on and wait 5 minutes for the entire page to load (with a T1 connection mind you). There are more pictures on this page than you'll find on Malingering's Flickr account. JPEGS of poems, "You're Samantha from Sex and the City" (meaning, you're a slut), a slide show with every single picture this person has taken in the last 10 years; there's even pictures of them standing at the World Trade Center with the buildings still standing. In sum, Samsung can't make a monitor big enough for this person.
This is the profile you click on and wait 5 minutes for the entire page to load (with a T1 connection mind you). There are more pictures on this page than you'll find on Malingering's Flickr account. JPEGS of poems, "You're Samantha from Sex and the City" (meaning, you're a slut), a slide show with every single picture this person has taken in the last 10 years; there's even pictures of them standing at the World Trade Center with the buildings still standing. In sum, Samsung can't make a monitor big enough for this person.
On a scale from 1 through 10, how necessary is this? I say -6
Entire Baby Pic Albums:
You might as well just change your About Me section to, BEGS FOR ATTENTION
You might as well just change your About Me section to, BEGS FOR ATTENTION
Honorable Mention:
Nalga shot default pics
Topless Self Portraits in a dirty restroom
Album with18 Pictures that all look the same with single word captions: Sad, Happy, Bored, throw in Douchebag why don't you.
Nalga shot default pics
Topless Self Portraits in a dirty restroom
Album with18 Pictures that all look the same with single word captions: Sad, Happy, Bored, throw in Douchebag why don't you.
There's plenty more kids but we'll save 'em for another day. In the meantime, happy MySpacing.
Labels: cumbias, MySpace, Quinceneras
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
El Busilon
My truck kinda broke down a couple of months ago and I’ve been seriously procrastinating getting it fixed. Like Da Vinci procrastination status. For the most part I rarely use my truck; mainly just to and from the bus/train station, Trader Joe's, the gym and Alberto's; that’s about it. I work past downtown Los Angeles and grinding through the 10 and 101 for 45 minutes every morning not only adds to my carbon foot print it takes from my sanity; like dropping 1/25 of an acid tab. You know, every time you drop a whole acid tab you become a little more insane. Besides, I hate walking through the door flustered and upset before anything has even popped off at work.
Funny thing is my truck needs (needed) a new battery cable. That’s all, a $6 cable; which I’ve already bought but have yet to install. I avoid driving as much as I possibly can & family and friends will attest to this. When they were passing out patience, I couldn’t wait in line, I left and went straight to the S section and stocked up on a hefty amount of sarcasm and subversion. Yum. Aside from a great stereo and solid speakers you need patience to drive in L.A. and boy does it suck to live in a city that relies so heavily on driving. Oh New York City, how I envy thou. “Where Brooklyn at!?” On the A train son.
The Gold, Red, Purple and Blue lines are a godsend. I ride the Red Line and/or Silver Streak buses just about every weekday. Contrary to popular belief I have little time to read throughout the day and not having to drive to and from work creates this luxury. Like Andy LaRoche breaking his hand and Blake DeWitt making the most of it at 3rd base. “You go boy.” On the literary and iPod tip, I think the Red Line has generated a hefty amount of revenue for the likes of Riverhead Publishing and iTunes; those white spuds are gold yo. Plus, the Red Line exudes Los Angeles culture like Charles Bukowski, thrift shops, punk rock music, King Taco burritos, like J Dilla.
Nine out of ten J Dilla beats agree.
It’s not all gravy though. I volunteered to work an event for my girl’s non-profit org in Boyle Heights on Saturday. Since I haven’t taken an actual city bound bus in over ten years I thought it’d be fun and anthropological of me to hop on the 10 line west. Plus, I’m never above taking a city bus, taxi, or walking any damn where. Part of my truck fixin’ procrastination comes from an organic need to experience what the fellow Angeleno experiences using our public transit system since in reality a significant number of Angelenos and for that matter, Californians & Americans have no other option when it comes to navigating their respective city limits. In my case; the concrete of Angels.
I showered, pulled on my LAist t-shirt, some brown dockers, laced up my K-Swiss kicks (you member) and plopped my Dodger hat on my head. I picked up my keys, I.D., debit card, Kaiser card, skipped the iPod and opted for Junot Diaz’s The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao (a fantastic read by the way, 100 pages in it's on par with the greats, no joke). I stepped out to the first unofficial summer day in L.A., ninety plus degree weather is always welcome in my book no matter how drenched my Bustedtees get. Heat equals sun, sun equals light and light equals life; all which define my name one way or another. I picked up a bottle of water from Sam’s Liquor. At the bus stop an old Asian lady muttered to herself, stood in the sun and stared at the oncoming traffic. Sooner than later the bus arrived. I jumped on board, dropped five quarters, picked a spot near the front and cracked open my book. I looked around for a second, becoming acquainted with my surroundings and the folks on board. As we bounced and shook down Garvey Blvd, we picked up and dropped off Vietnamese, Mexican, Chinese and miscellaneous immigrants like the border patrol. At one point, the bus waited for a passenger longer than expected.
A homeless man on a wheelchair boarded the bus and caused a chubby lady in her (I'm guessing) mid fifties to sit right next to me. A stench hit my nose like an Oscar De La Hoya left jab; I closed my book mid-sentence. I was like, “Pinche vieja hedionda!” In my head of course. For 20 seconds of her life this lady was wrongfully accused in the court of Lucio opinion. I realized it was the homeless man on the wheelchair. Having a great sense of smell and a delicate stomach is not a good combination when carousing in the very public dwellings of the MTA bus system; where there is no regard for the easily asquerado (disgusted doesn’t have the same ring to it, right Lilia?). I made a beeline for the back of the bus only to find that the stench had light speed prowess and was already waiting for me among the back of the bus breed. As John McCain would say, my friends, this stench my friends, was a whole ‘nother beast my friends. You like that one huh.
I've smelled some pretty disgusting things in my day; pretty disgusting. But let me tell you, this smell was a terrorist, a real Bin Laden. I was waiting for one of two things to happen. Someone to throw up, pass out and break into convulsions OR Ashton Kutcher to jump on the bus and say, "Ha, Lucio you've been punk'd you dumb mother fucker all these people have no sense of smell!!! Jajaja." Laughs, smiles, handshake hugs... aaaaand cut! Instead, 80% of the passengers covered their noses with their hands, t-shirts, blouses, newspapers, children, anything in sight. I sat there, with my Dodger hat moonlighting as a face mask. Still, the stench found it's way through two layers of blue wool, an L.A. logo and into my nasal passages. Dizziness and nausea ensued.
As passengers clamored for smoggy air in lieu of this man's sewery scent, windows fell open from front to back like dominoes causing the air conditioner to become obsolete. Before we knew it, the bus overheated and our trusty bus driver pulled over near LAC-USC hospital minutes before my nausea reacquainted me with my breakfast. As my cell phone beeped it's final minutes of battery life I managed to send a series of text messages that resulted in my knight in shining Prius armor to arrive within minutes of our breakdown, just like that. Bringing Fatima's "Bail Lucio out of trouble" total to a solid 84. Woohoo!
A couple hours later, the sun had set on my day. My tummy was full of Fatima's grandmother's delicious food, my skin was Vitamin D enriched from the hot sun and Proyecto Pastoral was a few thousand dollars richer thanks in large part to the good folks at Lucky Brand jeans, their fearless employees and to a lesser extent a couple of humble, tired, traumatized volunteers.
Labels: public trans
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Clear Heels Tuesday
A couple of weeks ago I realized I am getting too old to be going out during the week; this excludes Thursdays of course. Haven’t you heard? Thursday is the new Friday. Anyway, for the 4th, 5th or 6th time (I already lost track) in the past two months I went out on a Tuesday night.
I met up with some friends at BJs for grub and hops, with the intention of hitting up a bar or something alike after. My homie Mina has been on serious party mode as of late and up to do just about anthing this city has to offer. Hot spots (Firecracker), not so hot spots (anything on Sunset), lounges, bars and as of Tuesday night, strip clubs are all fair game.
I’ve never been big on the strip club thing; I’d go a step further and say I actually don’t like strip clubs. The sex biz is a funny and lucrative thing but a life threatening diagnosis of blue balls is the last thing on my mind when I’m looking for adulterated fun. Plus, 10th grade was a looooong time ago. Don’t get me wrong, I understand why people frequent the Spearmint Rhinos of the world, I mean we all love a cheap, actually not so cheap thrill, just not at forty bucks a pop; pardon the pun.
Being the ever so loyal friend that I am I sacrificed myself and agreed to go to the aristocratically named Taboo. As we arrived all preconceived notions reemerged, right on queue; like the Dodgers tanking the month of August. It was an all nude joint, so all hope of carrying the semi-buzz from my two Jeremiah Reds was thrown out the window with whatever dignity I had left. Seriously, a strip club on a Tuesday?! My poor grandmother, I wonder what she is thinking of me right now. “Ay no, nino pleve.”
What’s the first sign you’re in a shitty strip club? One of the dancers is out front smoking. I thought to myself, “Mmmm, classy!” Ten bucks and a $6.50 half liter bottle of spring water later we sat at the foot of the dance floor; like a couple of ballers courtside at the Lakers; I looked around for Jack Nicholson, instead there were two paisa dudes quietly sipping cokes and a bald cholo dropping dollar bills like Pacman Jones. “Make it rain playa!” You’d of thought he was dropping twenty dollar bills with that smirk and undeserving sense of entitlement on his face, but I checked and they were indeed one dollar bills.
I only had eight dollar bills on me and I hate to be a shitty patron but I had to make the most out of the little I had. I wasn’t about to break one of the twenties I had in my pocket. “Oh no he didn’t!” There were like six girls in circulation; one of which I thought was pretty hot. At least out of my league hot. Isn’t the point of going to a strip club to introspectively flirt with women way out of your league? I think that’s Rule Number 9 in the “Reasons to go to a strip club” handbook. Anyway, a couple of girls came and went and Mina and I tried to give a couple of bucks to each gal whether we felt they deserved it or not. Then again if you’re getting butt ass naked in front of complete strangers and sticking your butt hole in their collective faces, c’mon people gotta be heartless to not at least throw a buck in the fray. That’s worse than ignoring the homeless guy on the freeway off ramp!
I started to realize all that cool/cheesy lighting is meant for one thing and one thing only. To hide all the pimples, scars, etc etc on these girls’ bodies. It was kind of gross; I mean I totally understand its normal and all that but damn, nudity can be so unforgiving. One girl was kinda yelling at the DJ about the lighting as she was stepping on the dance floor. As she turned around low and behold scars all across her nalgas. Like magic, the light turned a redish purple and voila, an acne free buttocks! My favorite part about the whole experience was watching the girls pick up a “clean up” towel, spray some kind of disinfectant on it and wipe down the pole. Every time a new girl would come up as they’d clean the pole Mina and I would smugly look at each other as if thinking, “Ooooh yea, that’s what I’m talking about. Clean that mutha fucken pole girl!” One girl looked like Amy Winehouse; she kept dancing to these Art Laboe jams too and even had the messy “I just woke up from an eight ball binge” hairstyle. I couldn’t hate, didn’t Amy Winehouse win a Grammy?
Atmosphere’s Dirty Girl blasted through the speakers and as much as I love that silly song, I felt like the dirty boy.
Forty five minutes later I was bored and my spring water brought an unwelcome sleepiness. The rotation of girls had restarted and some frat boy types arrived which meant one thing: it was time to go. We drove home, talked about Mina’s disappointment with the spot; after all it was nothing like Tijuana. I was home by midnight. I toyed with the idea of calling my girl who by now was powering through sleep in Sacramento but didn’t want to wake her.
I dozed into R.E.M., singing in my head… “Dirty, dirty, you’re such a dirty girl. Yeah.”
I met up with some friends at BJs for grub and hops, with the intention of hitting up a bar or something alike after. My homie Mina has been on serious party mode as of late and up to do just about anthing this city has to offer. Hot spots (Firecracker), not so hot spots (anything on Sunset), lounges, bars and as of Tuesday night, strip clubs are all fair game.
I’ve never been big on the strip club thing; I’d go a step further and say I actually don’t like strip clubs. The sex biz is a funny and lucrative thing but a life threatening diagnosis of blue balls is the last thing on my mind when I’m looking for adulterated fun. Plus, 10th grade was a looooong time ago. Don’t get me wrong, I understand why people frequent the Spearmint Rhinos of the world, I mean we all love a cheap, actually not so cheap thrill, just not at forty bucks a pop; pardon the pun.
Being the ever so loyal friend that I am I sacrificed myself and agreed to go to the aristocratically named Taboo. As we arrived all preconceived notions reemerged, right on queue; like the Dodgers tanking the month of August. It was an all nude joint, so all hope of carrying the semi-buzz from my two Jeremiah Reds was thrown out the window with whatever dignity I had left. Seriously, a strip club on a Tuesday?! My poor grandmother, I wonder what she is thinking of me right now. “Ay no, nino pleve.”
What’s the first sign you’re in a shitty strip club? One of the dancers is out front smoking. I thought to myself, “Mmmm, classy!” Ten bucks and a $6.50 half liter bottle of spring water later we sat at the foot of the dance floor; like a couple of ballers courtside at the Lakers; I looked around for Jack Nicholson, instead there were two paisa dudes quietly sipping cokes and a bald cholo dropping dollar bills like Pacman Jones. “Make it rain playa!” You’d of thought he was dropping twenty dollar bills with that smirk and undeserving sense of entitlement on his face, but I checked and they were indeed one dollar bills.
I only had eight dollar bills on me and I hate to be a shitty patron but I had to make the most out of the little I had. I wasn’t about to break one of the twenties I had in my pocket. “Oh no he didn’t!” There were like six girls in circulation; one of which I thought was pretty hot. At least out of my league hot. Isn’t the point of going to a strip club to introspectively flirt with women way out of your league? I think that’s Rule Number 9 in the “Reasons to go to a strip club” handbook. Anyway, a couple of girls came and went and Mina and I tried to give a couple of bucks to each gal whether we felt they deserved it or not. Then again if you’re getting butt ass naked in front of complete strangers and sticking your butt hole in their collective faces, c’mon people gotta be heartless to not at least throw a buck in the fray. That’s worse than ignoring the homeless guy on the freeway off ramp!
I started to realize all that cool/cheesy lighting is meant for one thing and one thing only. To hide all the pimples, scars, etc etc on these girls’ bodies. It was kind of gross; I mean I totally understand its normal and all that but damn, nudity can be so unforgiving. One girl was kinda yelling at the DJ about the lighting as she was stepping on the dance floor. As she turned around low and behold scars all across her nalgas. Like magic, the light turned a redish purple and voila, an acne free buttocks! My favorite part about the whole experience was watching the girls pick up a “clean up” towel, spray some kind of disinfectant on it and wipe down the pole. Every time a new girl would come up as they’d clean the pole Mina and I would smugly look at each other as if thinking, “Ooooh yea, that’s what I’m talking about. Clean that mutha fucken pole girl!” One girl looked like Amy Winehouse; she kept dancing to these Art Laboe jams too and even had the messy “I just woke up from an eight ball binge” hairstyle. I couldn’t hate, didn’t Amy Winehouse win a Grammy?
Atmosphere’s Dirty Girl blasted through the speakers and as much as I love that silly song, I felt like the dirty boy.
Forty five minutes later I was bored and my spring water brought an unwelcome sleepiness. The rotation of girls had restarted and some frat boy types arrived which meant one thing: it was time to go. We drove home, talked about Mina’s disappointment with the spot; after all it was nothing like Tijuana. I was home by midnight. I toyed with the idea of calling my girl who by now was powering through sleep in Sacramento but didn’t want to wake her.
I dozed into R.E.M., singing in my head… “Dirty, dirty, you’re such a dirty girl. Yeah.”
Labels: nightlife
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Opening Summer
About 50 percent of what I write somehow relates to baseball, the Dodgers, summer or the city of L.A. in one way or another; simply because these things are eternally interconnected in my world. Baseball reminds me of my childhood, which was by all means close to perfect. As an adult, the Dodgers provide a high level of happiness to my everyday spring/summer life. L.A. runs through my veins like freeways run through the city. And summer, well summer is just summer and there isn’t enough that can be said about it. I can tap Kanye West, Billie Holiday, Led Zeppelin, Bob Marley and everyone in between and find countless references to why summer is like heaven on earth. Summer in L.A. is heaven. Dodger games in the summer up in Chavez Ravine are another beast altogether.
Monday was the home opener at Dodger Stadium; the first of 81 home games or as I like to call them, 81 opportunities for bliss. 81 opportunities to shape the collective lives of a city. 81 opportunities to combine the love of my friends, over priced beer, baseball, a blue uniform into more sh*t to think about as I lay in my deathbed, eons (hopefully) from now.
It’s hard to describe Opening Day at Dodger Stadium to the casual fan but it’s reminiscent of the feelings one would get on the first day of school in elementary school, mixed with going on a date one’s actually excited about (not excited, like “I’m gonna get some ass” excited, more like “She could be the one” excited), add to that running into an old friend that one actually misses, throw in that nine year old feeling of playing with one’s friends all day until one’s chest started to hurt from all the biking, swimming and/or running topped off with a long cool drink from the water hose.
-
This year was exceptionally sweet; my roommate and cousin turned bros and I managed to snag some tickets at sorta the last minute. As of last year’s Opening Day my cousin has had a child (well not him, his wife) & married. In sum, we hardly see the mo’fo and times like these have become rare. We did the usual thing: BBQ’d at Elysian Park, fraternized like drunken dumb asses, watched a small rumble (right on par with the festivities), made a lot of fat guy jokes, big head jokes, testicular fortitude deficiency jokes, dark skinned Mexican jokes. We drank way too much beer, toyed with the idea of toking an odoriferous blunt, made fun of each other’s fantasy baseball teams and talked about the Dodgers. All this before a baseball had even been pitched.
The fraternizing continued in the stands. The drunk cholo behind us provided the comedy, the white boy directly in front of me was treated like a younger brother by me and my peeps (wedging and head taps included) and the entire left field pavilion was our playing field. "Choooows," and "F the Giants!" rang like Liberty Bell, all in good spirit of course. Hey, if you can't make fun of your brothers and sisters, who can you make fun of!?
The fraternizing continued in the stands. The drunk cholo behind us provided the comedy, the white boy directly in front of me was treated like a younger brother by me and my peeps (wedging and head taps included) and the entire left field pavilion was our playing field. "Choooows," and "F the Giants!" rang like Liberty Bell, all in good spirit of course. Hey, if you can't make fun of your brothers and sisters, who can you make fun of!?
Dodger Stadium was in its pure element. Thousands of Angelenos from all walks of life graced the summer-like landscape like blue petunias at Hearst Castle. The grass appeared greener than most days, the uniforms were a tad brighter, the crowd was two degrees above exuberant. To top it all off, there were beer sales in the left field pavilion! I can go on, I really can but the only way to truly understand what Opening Day is like, one simply needs to be there. On the top 5 list of things born and bred Angelenos must do at least once in their life, going to Opening Day ranks right up there.
Oh yea, and the Dodgers won.
Labels: baseball, Dodgers, summer
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