FLADDAP!

That's the sound my stomach will make as it flaps wetly against my invisible groin on hot days.

Here it is again, months later, and another post coming in after a period of nothingness. I have great desires to express myself in print, and every now and again an issue or a thought to explore, and life just constantly steamrolls my plans.

So now we are into 2012. This is clearly the year my youthful excesses, or what's left of them, must begin to fade away. Aside from a few too many social cigarettes over the years, and far too many nights of serious drinking, though nothing recent in either case, I have maintained my carcass in better shape than most people my age in this country. I can do a lot of things that 53 year old males generally can't do (mostly because they don't try, but still...). I'm not a disgusting fat body (well, I'm not fat . . . yet). Anyway, you get the idea.

Thinking that I'm holding up pretty well, despite a bit of mild hypertension, I went to the Quack and found out that my cholesterol is waaaay up. I made the decision to just give a few things up, and shave off about ten pounds. People laugh when I say this because I am tall and don't show extra weight. Came the holidays and my wife and I decided to just go ahead and eat like pigs because it's all coming to an end and our diets would start tomorrow. I gained 5 pounds instead of losing ten but I'll just work it off and cut a few things out.

Lo! and Behold! I can't. Somewhere along the line, I walked over an open manhole and my metabolism fell in without me. I don't think I even have a metabolism anymore. It's shocking, I tell you! I wonder if I am now running on 53 years of momentum. Hopefully, it'll keep rolling for another 40 year or so.

Happy Birthday Uncle Sam's Miguided Children

Semper fi'!

Tippecanoe and Tyler too!

Today is the 200th anniversary of the Battle of Tippecanoe.

Isn't that fascinating?

"The world is my chew toy!"

Who's next?

First Matty Alou, now Andy Rooney.

These things happen in threes. Didja ever wonder who might be next? What famous figure will complete the triumverate?

The Alou Brothers were Felipe, Matty and Jesus in order of age. They were altogether large figures in my boyhood of being an obsessive San Francisco Giants fan. I was too young to see them all play in the outfield together in the same game, the only time it ever happened in major league baseball. I was too young to see Matty play for the Giants because they traded him to Pittsburgh after 1965, as they did Felipe to Atlanta, but we still had "Haysoosaloo" and the brothers were always Giants to us. As an eight year old I had no understanding of things like having too many players at one position, or the use of players as bargaining chips. All I knew was that it was so cool to have these three brothers who were all good, playing for my club. On top of which we had Mays, McCovey, and Marichal. (We won't be discussing the Dodgers pitching staff here, or what swine they were to continually do down the Giants) How COULD they trade those guys away. I remember a feeling of almost satisfaction when I saw Felipe play right field for Oakland in 1970 or '71. Then Matty appeared for the Athletics in 1972. It wasn't quite right, but OK. Things were made somewhat right again when Felipe was hired to manage the Giants.

In a larger sense, I had a feeling of gloom when I read about Matty Alou. It's been addressed many times by much better writers than me, but I feel my boyhood slipping away. It might be nonsense for a 53 year old man to think in these terms but there are times when I still feel like a boy. I guess I should be thankful for that, but the flip side is made up of moments like this when an icon of something that made you feel alive passes on. I thought of Matty and I had an immediate memory of the first time I stepped through the entrance to the stands from the concourse around the first level at Candlestick Park. I will never forget the vast immaculate expanse of green outfield and Willie Mays casually tossing those long slightly underhand throws to whoever was playing left field that day. Some infielders were playing pepper with a coach in front of the Giants' dugout. McCovey looked about 9 feet tall at first. It really sunk in, and a good thing too because it was never duplicated.

People rightly criticize the 'Stick because it was a nightmare, and now it's a shithole, but for me, then, it was the End in All. It contained heroes, and meaning, and Matty Alou was part of that even though he was gone to Pittsburgh.

Oh well. At some point I might be forced to accept old farthood in full measure, but let's hope the lasting impact of the Alou Brothers and their fellow ballplayers will prevent that.

Giving you a SMOKIN' Herman!

This is just creepy (scroll down the page for video)


It ain't the smoking, though that is a little outre these days and I believe that guy about as much as I ever believed the average track tout. No, it's Mr Cain at the end. Not sure if he's sizing us up for some twisted sexual adventure, or grinning because he's convinced we can't stop ourselves from voting for him.


He is, without doubt, one of the strangest hucksters we've seen running for president in recent times . . . and he's ahead!


Wow.

Here's my entry

I made a deal with my son. If he writes every day, so will I. Wellll, he wasn't for the longest time, but suddenly took the offer a couple of nights ago, inspired by "Diary of a Wimpy Kid." I've gotta say, he's doing a great job, and even adds original cartoons to the mix. Last night, upon realizing he hadn't seen me doing any writing, he said, "I'M doing MY diary but I don't see you writing anything. Remember? You made a deal with me."

Smartass.

Still, he's a right smartass, so here I go.

I had a great post all set months ago about Marina Del Rey and Venice, where I go several times a year to see in-laws. I just couldn't get it right, so I bagged it. Every time I read the thing it seemed stale and obvious. I tried different angles, and nothing rose to the top. It's a peculiar, dark place. It runs on fear of indifference, and fear of nothingness. Human husks, like shedded spider skins are blown along and seem to gather on Venice Beach, one of our great public scumpits.

Who cares? My son has discovered that he likes to write. Who gives a damn about Venice Beach?

Summer's flown...

...and the time is right for grumbling in the dark.

Not really. Life is good. We have a new puppy by the name of Kona, a hearty little girl with teeth like needles and happy way with them. She bit my earlobe last week and it took two hours to stop the bleeding. I even tried a clothes pin and that only slowed it down. Lots of veins in your earlobes. Remember that when you go for a home ear-piercing session.

Summer went by slowly because the heat seemed unremitting. Being a Berkeley boy, despite my high desert birth, I like my foggy mornings and sunny afternoons. Here in our inland valley we did get fog, which I worried about because I didn't think they allowed it here in the suburbs. Lo! and Behold! the fog regularly flowed down to us from the ridge along the cut into which they fit the road over to the Bay. Still, when it gets hot here, it stays hot, unlike Berkeley where it cools in the evening. As I get older, I like the cool. Just the way I roll, Baybee!

Summer went by quickly because it was the busiest summer in recent memory. There was one thing after another, and rarely any time to sprawl and let time plod by. I desperately wanted to lounge in my backyard and read, occasionally sipping my drink and breathing deeply through my nose. But no. No, there were birthday parties to attend, a house to clean, relentless organizing. Shit, you could organize until the cows came home and it would still only last a day.

The job provided no rest. Odd how you can look forward to going to work to get a break from the hurly burly of home. It didn't work that way this summer. We're all doing a job and half now. No rest for the wicked. Or even for bureaucrats.