Monday, December 15, 2008
El Musico.
I usually wake up to the USC Trojans Fight Song. This can be alarming for someone that holds the True (formerly Powder) Blue close to his nostalgic heart. What once was a Caller ID joke turned into my alarm clock ring tone. Trust me, it works too.
Early morning phone calls from family members are never, I repeat never a good thing. I hate them more than just about anything I can think of. From the Thanksgiving phone call I received in 2003 to the November 10th phone call from my dad almost two years later to my mom’s recent phone calls to the phone call I received this morning. If I recognize the name on my caller ID I want to grab my phone, take it outside, take a hammer to it and light its remains on fire.
It was difficult for me to wake up this morning. I’d been jolted from sleep in the middle of the night by a vivid nightmare that tapped into my biggest fear; losing a loved one. As I lay in bed I felt my girl wake up. She went about her morning routine as I spread out in rainy day comfort. Ringo Star hadn’t even finished singing, “It was twenty years ago today,” before I fumbled to my phone, hit the quiet button and waited for another ring to answer.
I don’t quite remember Mayra’s exact words but they amounted to one final conclusion, my tio Armando has died.
My tio had been sick for a couple of years. I won’t elaborate on what he had. To be honest I’m not even sure. After my grandmother passed away almost five years ago, my uncle had never been the same. Not many of us have but most of us learned to continue our lives without her. I mean, we had to. My uncle never quiet recovered. I think he longed for her more than any of us. I say this without glee and without apology but I was my grandmother’s consentido (favorite grand kid). I say it without glee because I know my sister Mayra and to a lesser extent other cousins weren’t far behind and I say this without apology because it’s the absolute truth. She raised me since I was as old as my nephew to the day she died and I never took her for granted; not once in my life. I say this because I am certain no one took my grandmother’s death harder than my uncle, not even me. I will never forget when he, absolutely broken psychologically and emotionally stumbled into her intensive care room tears down his face, alcohol in his blood and a beer in his hand. My grandmother lay there days away from death, no longer able to speak or even make proper eye contact. He talked to her as I sat there with glossy eyes and a huge knot in my throat. He asked her not to leave, he told her how much he needed her in his life. He begged her not to die like a child asking for the impossible. He cried and cried. Before he left he asked her for her bendicion (mother’s blessing). Now, I’m not sure if this is a Mexican Catholic thing but there are few things more sacred than a mother’s blessing. It’s when a mother prays over her child and asks GOD to watch over and take care of him/her when she cannot. My uncle never got a chance to hear her utter those sacred words that night.
As I pondered the news and stared at rain drip from the trees outside my window I couldn’t help but think of that night and of what my uncle meant to my grandmother and vice versa. My uncle was not an old man but he did live a fast life. It’s in the sangre you know? While I’m not religious I do believe in GOD and I do believe in an afterlife. I mean, there’s gotta more than this right? There’s gotta be. I don’t know for sure but I do find comfort in the possibility that my uncle has reunited with my grandmother. Who knows, they may be watching me type away and think silly of me for reminiscing in such a sad way. I sure hope so.
I didn’t really know my uncle that well. I knew he played a mean guitar and could carry a fine tune but I didn’t know the man for who he really was outside his Trio. I do know that I cared for him very much; we shared an unflappable love for the same old lady he called his jefa. I will miss his soft demeanor and his kind heart.
The streets of
Friday, November 7, 2008
A Brighter Day Will Come.
“America, tonight if you feel the same energy that I do, if you feel the same urgency that I do, if you feel the same passion that I do, if you feel the same hopefulness that I do. If we do what we must do then I have no doubt that all across the country the people will rise up in November and this country will reclaim its promise and out of this long political darkness a brighter day will come.” - Barack Obama
My sisters love making fun of me. Whether it’s for getting pissed off, storming down the stairs and eating shit while they watch my long hair shake about as my ass bounces down the stairs and I try to grab the rail to mitigate my fall OR my girlfriend bought metrosexual 80’s polo shirt OR my eclectic and at times cheesy taste in music, they relish the opportunity to deflate my physically and figuratively big head.
Those brother deprecating times came mostly when we were living together (Geez, seems like so long ago) and I would play music in our living room. I’d play everything from Tori Amos that Cloddy would cling on to and eventually identify with to Bob Dylan that no one but I liked to The Beatles and Café Tacuba and Bob Marley that we all loved to Tupac that Mayra embraced and so on. There were quite a few tracks that received mixed reviews, mostly Mayra saying something like, “Fuck Louie, play something else.”
One of those songs was Sam Cooke’s “A Change Gonna Come.” It’s not so much that Mayra hated it but she’d complain about the opening line, “I was born by the river in a little tent…” that in her adolescent stage seemed like a silly statement in a teenage life that could care less about rivers and tents and silky smooth voices that weren’t reporting on pop culture. I think we’ve all been there.
Tuesday Night…
The magnitude of what happened on Tuesday hasn’t completely sunk in; not even close. The lingering fear of a potentially stolen election coupled with a perceived L.A. born Bradley effect can wreak havoc on a psyche even after the fact. To the biggest cliché in the world: If something seems too good to be true, it probably is. Well, the final results are in and yes, they’re as true as the dimples on Noah’s cheeks.
I will not soon forget the moment CNN projected the historical result. I was sitting in front of my nephew, watching him watch me and holding his little hand as he stuck his tongue out, kicked and oooh’d. The theoretical and ideological oscillations of this country were reduced to Wolf Blizter saying, “CNN can now project that Barack Obama, 47 years old, will become the president elect of the United States.” Jaws dropped, knots emerged in throats and eyes watered. Well, that was just me and Noah. Holding his hand as history was announced was Pablo Neruda and Miguel Pinero put together. I grabbed his little hands and raised ‘em up. He flashed a smile, a laugh and kept on kicking. Truth is, we had some friends over but for that moment, through McCain’s concession and Obama’s victory speech I was at one with the result while often peering over at Noah and his now even brighter days.
January 20, 2009
I look forward to having a President I consider to be significantly smarter than me as opposed to a dip shit I wouldn’t even want to engage in a “How’s it going” conversation. I’m ecstatic that our new President elect considers himself at the foot of the mountain and not at the top. For the first time in my life, I’m proud of my country; at least the 65 million plus voters that ink blotted, tapped or hole punched the circle/square next to the name Barack Obama.
“It’s been a long, a long time coming but I know a change gonna come.”
Sam Cooke, the civil rights movement mantra that you started in May of 1963 in Durham, North Carolina is here. No one will deny we still have our problems but rest assured a new day is upon us. Today, it’s a little less hard living.
The theory that anyone in this country can become president has always been a pile of bullshit to me. Today, it is very real. 65 million plus can finally hold a mirror up to our country and not be utterly ashamed at the reflection. Again, we still have a ways to go but this is was a giant leap in the right direction that I will be teary eyed proud of for the rest of my days.
Labels: 2008 Election, fam, Obama
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
In the middle of your picture...
Last Friday, still psychologically reeling from the news that a Metrolink Train crashed head on with a Union Pacific Train in the valley, I met up with an old friend from high school at a nearby bar named The Little Cave. Since my last posting, I’ve moved from El Monte to Highland Park with my chica (more on that later) and now have numerous reputable watering hole options within walking distance. Reputable meaning: without prostitutes. Three minutes into the fifteen minute walk to The Little Cave I started to question my decision to walk there. I went from, “Ha, look at me I’m smart, I’m walking to a bar,” to “Shit, I don’t know this neighborhood very well maybe I should have asked my friend to pick me up.” I strolled by a super divey hole in the wall sports bar named Dusty’s and heard Dorothy say, “Louie, we’re not in Monte anymore.” Highland Park is highly gentrified as of this posting but as a family of young black folks with shopping carts piled high with their belongings and young kids carrying black Hefty bags reminded me, the hood is always the hood no matter how many hipsters and modern art deco bars spring up. I wondered how I may have looked to complete strangers strolling down York and Fig while wearing a Mexico track jacket, black Converse and a ripped Dodgers hat. Not too intimidating eh? Anyway, I reminded myself that you can take the boy out of Monte but you can never take Monte out of the boy and enjoyed my walk.
This minute exercise in existentialism has proven worthy soon after my move from El Monte. I’m sure everyone, all three of you that read this blog are sick and tired of my “Look at me, I grew up in a city that would break down and psychologically scar the most callous cynic yet I’m better for it because it roughed up my edges, taught me a thing or two about humility, I love the person I’ve become because of it, I’ve beaten some odds yet remain sane and extremely happy, which says more about my testicular fortitude and the beautiful people of El Monte than it does about anything else” philosophy that I bring to what I write. Nevertheless, eat it son because I’m piling on the cheese.
I’ve probably grown/changed/compromised more this past summer than I have since the winter of 1991. A lot has changed in my world and those around me. First and foremost, my sister gave birth to a beautiful baby boy we call Noah. My feelings for this boy defy words so I won’t even try. Plus, one can never assume beauty and love can be understood; it’s all subjective my friends. Cliché but real.
Love? Check. Independent? Check. Baby Momma potential? Check. Gypsy hot? Check. Hates Republicans? Check. After some internal back and forth, a pros and cons list, guy pod debate and an eventual seeing of the light, I decided to move in with my chica. It’s only been a month or so but it’s been pretty fucken great. My biggest concern being uncontested allotted time for myself/golf (yes, golf)/bar hopping with friends/naps/t.v./Xbox/etc. has been anything but difficult to attain. It helps when your chica has the work ethic of a South Korean shipbuilder and a Ph.D in Altruistic Leadership. I just made that last part up. Nevertheless, my time is my own when I want it but we still make time to do the things that got us here. My heart continues to be smitten by her.
On the flip side, moving from El Monte et al. has been quite difficult for me. I miss my roommate turned friend turned border line brother. I miss living so close to my dearest friends; Bear, Mariana, Sofia, etc. The defunct B.P. has exposed The Monte Crew to it’s mortal enemy, separation. I strive to be happy and not much more. I mean real happiness not the kind that idiots try to create by buying BMW’s and parading around in expensive clothes while never realizing the void can never be filled by things but by true self exploration, by that examined life Socrates talked about. The light at the end of the tunnel is not a beam from the headlights of a Rolls Royce Phantom but the Eastern sunrise on a humid Mazatlan morning. The shell may be aesthetically pleasing but if the core isn’t vibrant and alive, what does it matter? I say this because waking up to cumbias on a Saturday mornings, smelling ten different Mexican kitchens at work while walking to Sam’s Liquor for a bag of Cool Ranch Dorritos and a pina flavored Jarritos, singing through 25 minute drives from Pasadena to Alberto’s and eventually home at 2:30AM, 4th of July parties that result in a 5th of July phone call from the Landlord, late night winter conversations on a white leather couch, coming home on a Friday night to find my sister’s laptop sitting on the kitchen table, searching for quarters as a pile of wet polo shirts sit on a rusty old dryer, neighbors that know more about my love life than my own mother, Halo 2 marathons, waking up fully dressed on the floor (on a Tuesday morning no less), a roommate with exceptionally bad taste in music, a stove with one working burner, having an address with more street cred than Peter Camejo (R.I.P.) all made me very happy. A luminous core on the eastside.
CHANGE
The three musketeers have also gone through some changes. The biggest hustler I know, AKA my mom, in her everlasting resilience and servitude has decided to start her life anew and I’m happier than a pig in shit because of it. This goes without saying but like a best friend in a fist fight in the parking lot of the Starlite swap meet, I’ve got her back 1,000% no matter the consequence. In the same vein, my little sista abandoned any notion that she enjoyed living with a full fledged bitch; my mom and sister are so alike. UCLA continues it’s stronghold. The littlest sister created the yummiest soul candy I’ve had since December of 2003. Her return to El Monte couldn’t have come at a better time. The sound of clanking feet on stairs and the Santa Anita freeway off ramp get me love drunk.
A pivotal member of the LSBDP (Lucio Soul Building Development Program) officially retired on August 1, 2008. She’d been a valuable member and we will surely miss her. Truth is, she’d been out of the picture for years now but we’d managed to remain friends and her influence always lingered. Now that the institutional lines have been drawn, I’ve no choice but to throw out her videotape. At one point I thought, “Wow, is this just my defense mechanism, am I being reactionary?” I decided to test myself so like a true American I searched through my iPod and like a true Mexican scrolled to my Vicente Fernandez songs and power listened… and nothing. I had stopped listening to Jeff Buckley because it made me think of the past, it made me think about the part in all of us that misses what we no longer have. Now I listen to Jeff Buckley and am saddened by the fact that he’s gone forever. Plus, the section in my heart that used to miss her has been reduced to the flickering light of a dying firefly in a dusty corner in the world’s largest castle.
Redux need not apply.
Jeff Buckley - Last Goodbye
Uploaded by ioxxxioxxx
Con Safos,
Lucio
Labels: Bear, El Monte, fam, nostalgia
Monday, June 30, 2008
Trailblazers
It’s not everyday I write pieces that start with “It’s not everyday…”
It’s not everyday my father waxes poetic about family, alive and dead, about an aunt whose life can be the blueprint for an avalanche of books that speak of truth, life, tragedy, defeat and triumph, about a Torreon childhood I’m still learning 30 years into the fray… Even if for only a few minutes while waiting for the sun to set on a summer Sunday in a park that would make Amnesty International proud.
It’s not everyday I bond with my extended family over a couple of Tecates & Modelos, inside jokes, a Chespirito style volleyball game and a girl with a belly full of my own hopes, dreams and fears.
It’s not everyday the original inhabitants of 5008 Larry Avenue in Baldwin Park, CA minus a couple of excruciatingly loved viejitas spend a day together. The nostalgia in the air was as thick as the knot in my throat.
It’s not everyday my old man walks around in a 2008 Mexican League Champion Santos Laguna jersey demeaning all fans of soccer teams not from the hundred year old town of Torreon, Coahuila in my beloved, vast and beautiful Mexico.
It’s not everyday I feel the love on my tios, tias, primos, primas et al because quite frankly I don’t see them everyday.
It’s not everyday I wish the evening would last a lifetime.
It’s not everyday my father’s youth flashes before my eyes as I see 20-something Mexican men try to enjoy and create a life in a country not their own as they will father the kids that speak this language, that face the challenges souls braver than I have faced and eventually spend Sunday evenings as 60-somethings with the same smirk of that 20-year old of days long gone.
It’s not everyday I forget about the sad state of our planet and become excited about the future inhabitants of the City of Angels with the last names of Rodriguez and Martinez; our eventual replacements.
It’s not everyday 1 hour is the difference between a beautiful late night conversation and an impromptu departure that feels like I’ve been punched in the stomach.
But yesterday was that day.
AND…
It’s not everyday my father waxes poetic about family, alive and dead, about an aunt whose life can be the blueprint for an avalanche of books that speak of truth, life, tragedy, defeat and triumph, about a Torreon childhood I’m still learning 30 years into the fray… Even if for only a few minutes while waiting for the sun to set on a summer Sunday in a park that would make Amnesty International proud.
It’s not everyday I bond with my extended family over a couple of Tecates & Modelos, inside jokes, a Chespirito style volleyball game and a girl with a belly full of my own hopes, dreams and fears.
It’s not everyday the original inhabitants of 5008 Larry Avenue in Baldwin Park, CA minus a couple of excruciatingly loved viejitas spend a day together. The nostalgia in the air was as thick as the knot in my throat.
It’s not everyday my old man walks around in a 2008 Mexican League Champion Santos Laguna jersey demeaning all fans of soccer teams not from the hundred year old town of Torreon, Coahuila in my beloved, vast and beautiful Mexico.
It’s not everyday I feel the love on my tios, tias, primos, primas et al because quite frankly I don’t see them everyday.
It’s not everyday I wish the evening would last a lifetime.
It’s not everyday my father’s youth flashes before my eyes as I see 20-something Mexican men try to enjoy and create a life in a country not their own as they will father the kids that speak this language, that face the challenges souls braver than I have faced and eventually spend Sunday evenings as 60-somethings with the same smirk of that 20-year old of days long gone.
It’s not everyday I forget about the sad state of our planet and become excited about the future inhabitants of the City of Angels with the last names of Rodriguez and Martinez; our eventual replacements.
It’s not everyday 1 hour is the difference between a beautiful late night conversation and an impromptu departure that feels like I’ve been punched in the stomach.
But yesterday was that day.
AND…
It is everyday that I hope for days like this. It is everyday the love of my familia resonates like an old Christmas in the blue house, like a day at the beach in the old brown Monte Carlo, like a birthday party with too many kids, too little cake but just enough bliss for all involved.
Labels: fam, nostalgia, summer
Friday, March 28, 2008
Noah Noah
There are only a handful of things I’d rather see more than my little sister Mayra at the age of five running at me full steam ahead, jumping four feet short of her designated target (me), ferociously punch the air above her head and scream, Hiiiiiiiiii-YA!
I know you don’t know me yet and I don’t know you. I don’t know what you look like, what your favorite food is, what kind of music you like, if you’ve ever even been in love, but we need a sit down. How rude of me… words won’t do my appearance justice – that’s not necessarily a compliment, I like pizza and sushi, I love all music (except country music; no worries, I’m sure you’ll understand why as soon as your ears pop) and I’ve most definitely been in love.
On the first day of spring in the 2nd grade year of my Michael Ende educational life I remember raising my hand and saying the following, “Ms. K, today my mom had a baby and it was a girl, so I have another little sister now.” I always wanted a little brother but you rarely get what you wish for so what I ended up doing was turn my littlest sister into the little brother I never had. Cloddy never had it in her.
Today, she is the rock of our immediate family, by far. Yet, she’s the youngest. I’m too immature and inconsistent for it. Your tia is too blah! for it, your grandma (good grief!) is too emotional for it, your grandpa is too uh, well let’s save that for another time kiddo. People say to me, “Man, you should be proud; you raised two amazing women in your sisters.” I can never take full credit, I really can’t. Four reasons. One: your grandfather was still around… I mean, we only saw him on weekends but we saw him nonetheless and his presence was always felt. Two: your grandma was kinda there too. Three: they practically raised themselves. Your tia taught your mom how to read, write and speak English before most kids even understand the concept of learning. I just co-opted the whole thing. She’s the student, the mother before becoming one, the voice of reason when all reason was thrown out the window; See Mini. Which leads me to Four: Your great grandma probably had the most significant effect on all three of us; there aren’t enough superlatives in the English language to paint an accurate picture so I won’t even try. I’ll leave it up to your mom. Don’t worry, I’ll tell you what superlative means later.
You gotta be careful, she can be feisty, brutal & unapologetic:
Like Miles Davis' All Blues,
night swimming in the cold,
Arizona's rising sun in the dessert,
an Ozomatli show in the summer,
Pablo Neruda midnight lines,
a K-12 childhood in El Monte,
Junot Diaz short stories,
a Los Angeles summer,
back-to-back 12 hour bus rides through Mexico,
Stanley Kubrick's humor,
a Dodger fan at (insert latest phone company name) Park,
Ciudad Juarez, Mexico,
taking a Saturday morning drive to Beverly Hospital and leaving your soul with a tiny old lady
As brave and scared as we've been; your mom, aunt and me. We've faced the biggest of fears, the greatest of triumphs, the most beautiful feelings human emotion can offer. I'm sure you'll add to that and I couldn't be more excited. I can't wait for you to meet the incredible women you've been blessed with. From the elusive old lady that lives on our hearts to the littlest girl that couldn't catch a wink of sleep without her rag doll monkey and/or koala bear. Those manzanitos have been replaced by thoughts and dreams of you.
I realize there is no way I can summarize who your mother is because I'd have to tell you everything about me, everything about your tia, everything about your grandmother, everything about your grandfather, everything about this straight up g, everything about our past, current, and future loves. Don't worry, we have time.
Sadly, I can't tell you the world will be a better place by the time you get here and much later in your life; it's destined to get worse. We have our problems and you'll learn soon enough. Having said that, despite racism, despite the exploitation this machine produces, despite the ignorance and arrogance of our world leaders, despite the fact that we don't live in John Lennon's world, my world, our family's world will be a much better place with you in it.
I can't wait for you to experience the urban escape that is Dodger Stadium, the magnificence that is baseball. I can't wait for you to get your first base hit, hit your first home run, steal your first base. But I also want you to experience your first strike out, your first error, your first lose because simply put, that's the way life is. Life is just like baseball. There will always be critics, naysayers, haters but you'll also have your enthusiastic cheerleaders, a lot of them. You don't always win but when you do it's oh so sweet; when you shine it's oh so glorious, when you lose it hurts. But the most important thing to remember is to not take it too serious, have fun while you're playing, while you're living. Make sure to always stop and smell the fresh cut grass, learn from the loses, forget the strike outs and always remember there's always the promise of tomorrow, the possibility of redemption, there's always another at bat and another game. Shoot, I haven't pitched off a mound in about 15 years but I haven't stop playing and my messy haired cheerleaders are still clenching their sweaty hands on the metal fence and they haven't stopped cheering.
So look for me when you get here okay? I'll be the one with the heart on his sleeve.
As Los Angeles returns to the sun... we wait for you.
I know you don’t know me yet and I don’t know you. I don’t know what you look like, what your favorite food is, what kind of music you like, if you’ve ever even been in love, but we need a sit down. How rude of me… words won’t do my appearance justice – that’s not necessarily a compliment, I like pizza and sushi, I love all music (except country music; no worries, I’m sure you’ll understand why as soon as your ears pop) and I’ve most definitely been in love.
On the first day of spring in the 2nd grade year of my Michael Ende educational life I remember raising my hand and saying the following, “Ms. K, today my mom had a baby and it was a girl, so I have another little sister now.” I always wanted a little brother but you rarely get what you wish for so what I ended up doing was turn my littlest sister into the little brother I never had. Cloddy never had it in her.
Today, she is the rock of our immediate family, by far. Yet, she’s the youngest. I’m too immature and inconsistent for it. Your tia is too blah! for it, your grandma (good grief!) is too emotional for it, your grandpa is too uh, well let’s save that for another time kiddo. People say to me, “Man, you should be proud; you raised two amazing women in your sisters.” I can never take full credit, I really can’t. Four reasons. One: your grandfather was still around… I mean, we only saw him on weekends but we saw him nonetheless and his presence was always felt. Two: your grandma was kinda there too. Three: they practically raised themselves. Your tia taught your mom how to read, write and speak English before most kids even understand the concept of learning. I just co-opted the whole thing. She’s the student, the mother before becoming one, the voice of reason when all reason was thrown out the window; See Mini. Which leads me to Four: Your great grandma probably had the most significant effect on all three of us; there aren’t enough superlatives in the English language to paint an accurate picture so I won’t even try. I’ll leave it up to your mom. Don’t worry, I’ll tell you what superlative means later.
You gotta be careful, she can be feisty, brutal & unapologetic:
Like Miles Davis' All Blues,
night swimming in the cold,
Arizona's rising sun in the dessert,
an Ozomatli show in the summer,
Pablo Neruda midnight lines,
a K-12 childhood in El Monte,
Junot Diaz short stories,
a Los Angeles summer,
back-to-back 12 hour bus rides through Mexico,
Stanley Kubrick's humor,
a Dodger fan at (insert latest phone company name) Park,
Ciudad Juarez, Mexico,
taking a Saturday morning drive to Beverly Hospital and leaving your soul with a tiny old lady
As brave and scared as we've been; your mom, aunt and me. We've faced the biggest of fears, the greatest of triumphs, the most beautiful feelings human emotion can offer. I'm sure you'll add to that and I couldn't be more excited. I can't wait for you to meet the incredible women you've been blessed with. From the elusive old lady that lives on our hearts to the littlest girl that couldn't catch a wink of sleep without her rag doll monkey and/or koala bear. Those manzanitos have been replaced by thoughts and dreams of you.
I realize there is no way I can summarize who your mother is because I'd have to tell you everything about me, everything about your tia, everything about your grandmother, everything about your grandfather, everything about this straight up g, everything about our past, current, and future loves. Don't worry, we have time.
Sadly, I can't tell you the world will be a better place by the time you get here and much later in your life; it's destined to get worse. We have our problems and you'll learn soon enough. Having said that, despite racism, despite the exploitation this machine produces, despite the ignorance and arrogance of our world leaders, despite the fact that we don't live in John Lennon's world, my world, our family's world will be a much better place with you in it.
I can't wait for you to experience the urban escape that is Dodger Stadium, the magnificence that is baseball. I can't wait for you to get your first base hit, hit your first home run, steal your first base. But I also want you to experience your first strike out, your first error, your first lose because simply put, that's the way life is. Life is just like baseball. There will always be critics, naysayers, haters but you'll also have your enthusiastic cheerleaders, a lot of them. You don't always win but when you do it's oh so sweet; when you shine it's oh so glorious, when you lose it hurts. But the most important thing to remember is to not take it too serious, have fun while you're playing, while you're living. Make sure to always stop and smell the fresh cut grass, learn from the loses, forget the strike outs and always remember there's always the promise of tomorrow, the possibility of redemption, there's always another at bat and another game. Shoot, I haven't pitched off a mound in about 15 years but I haven't stop playing and my messy haired cheerleaders are still clenching their sweaty hands on the metal fence and they haven't stopped cheering.
So look for me when you get here okay? I'll be the one with the heart on his sleeve.
As Los Angeles returns to the sun... we wait for you.
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