St. Louis, to Zona, to San Diego

For people who haven't given up on this blog yet...

I'm back in my old stomping grounds of Pacific Beach, San Diego. But before regaling you with stories of epic Mario Tennis battles, dive bars, pick-up basketball games at the PB Rec center, drunk sorority girls sashaying down Garnett Avenue in not a lot of clothes, and spending my days (and nights) on one of the most comfortable couches ever, let's take a look at some of what's happened since leaving St. Louis.

First, Spring Training in Arizona was awesome. I got to Tempe on a Wednesday morning, a full day before the rest of my friends were to arrive. Rather than pay $50 for a lonesome night at a Motel 6, I decided to take my chances on a stranger's couch. There's a website called Couchsurfer.com which I became acquainted with after my sister-in-law told me about it way back in September. The premise is straightforward: travelers are offered other couchsurfer's couches, or spare beds, or whatever, and in return those travelers offer theirs when they get home. I know at first glance it sounds like something on which Chris Hanson and the Catch A Predator crew might do an expose, but it's actually quite legitimate and absolutely great for all sorts of reasons. The obvious draw is that it's free, and for the young, largely unemployed, and if not unemployed then certainly underfunded set, the budgeting advantages are self-evident. It's also a great way to become acclimated to a new place. Traveling can be overwhelming, particularly if done alone, and even more so if done alone and in a foreign country. What better way to explore a new city and learn a new culture than from someone who already lives there? While Arizona isn't exactly foreign to me, I was glad to have a willing companion to pick me up from the airport, take me to dinner (at a restaurant called Chino Bandidos, a Mexican-Chinese fusion joint where you can grind on some very tasty dishes like emerald chicken enchiladas or Kung Pao beef burritos), and introduce me to loads of very interesting people, all citizens of the couchsurfing community. And while I was admittedly skeptical about the whole thing, all those apprehensions were immediately relieved upon meeting my gracious host, a kinder person I have yet to meet. Cooler still, the same night I slept on a surprisingly comfortable blowup mattress in a very fine apartment in south Tempe my host also happened to be accommodating a young couple from Brussels, Helene and Steffon Vandenberghe. Apparently Steffon is a well-regarded Belgian musician. So while not only staying a night in Arizona for free, I also got to rub shoulders with foreign celebrity. Which was fun.

On Thursday night my friends from San Diego arrived and things got a bit lairy. At the risk of sounding like all I ever do is travel to different places and drink myself silly (only partly true), I have to admit that the Phoenix area is a partying man's oasis. We ended up staying in North Tempe, just south of Scottsdale, which turned out to be a prime outpost for feeding the old drinking habit. Head south and your run into Mill Ave., the heart of Sun Devil country. Head north and you'll find the more glitzy confines of Scottsdale, which seemed to me like a mix of San Diego's Gaslamp district and Las Vegas. I've never really been to downtown LA but I imagine it looks a lot like Scottsdale. We spent all of our three nights running around these places like a bunch of dipsomaniacs, and I regret to say that I remember very little of it – except 2 things. 1) I heard one of the funniest pick-up lines ever. My friend took a liking to a very well, though obviously artificially proportioned waitress late on Saturday night. In a desperate attempt to make the night a bit more memorable he asked her for her number and she flatly rejected him, explaining that she was moving the next day or something, which apparently entailed her not having a phone. Really, she could not have been less interested. My friend, propelled by inebriated gusto and the obvious fact that no matter how badly he got embarrassed it was okay because he would never see this girl again, called the waitress over to our table about 10 minutes after his first rejection and unleashed this gem, "Forget about your phone number, how 'bout I give you the best 15 seconds of your life?" Not only was every human being in earshot completely gut-busted, after a moment in which the waitress just stood there silently, completely domed, trying to figure what just transpired, she actually gives my friend her phone number then proceeds to call him at 3am that very evening. Too bad my friend was passed out by then, lying in our room getting Sharpie drawn all over his body. Good times. 2) This may not be the place to rear this conversation, but something came up while we were in Scottsdale that needs clarification. While out at the bars one night we walk by two really big black guys going into some club, who had cornrows, were wearing all sorts of expensive jewelry, and had just stepped out of some candy painted suped up El Dorado. While I had no idea who they were I half-jokingly mentioned that they must be Anquan Boldin and Larry Fitzgerald (wide receivers for the Arizona Cardinals), and if not those guys then two other NFL players, or anyway, based on their size, obviously professional athletes. An argument ensued in which I was called racist and ignorant. But those guys have to play football, right? I'm not saying that they're athletes just because they're rich and they're black, of course there's plenty of rich black guys who aren't celebrities (that stereotype is sooooo played), it's the cornrows that give it away. You're just not going to see Larry Fitzgerald Esquire walking around with his briefcase while rocking some rows. If you're rich enough to be wearing platinum chains, you're a huge black guy going into a club called Mist or Crystalz or something, you're rocking braids, and you're not dressed up for Halloween, the chances are that you play professional sports. How is that racist?

Oh woops, I forgot that it's uncouth to speak candidly about race. Try and forget that last paragraph if you're offended.

The Spring Training games themselves were also handfuls of fun. We went to a game each of the days we were there and saw 6 different teams. The best part about Spring Training is that the atmosphere is incomparably more intimate than watching regular season baseball. At those 50,000 seat stadiums you can consider your seats good if you can read the names on the back of the player's jerseys. At Spring Training you could be standing behind one of the owners while you're in line for a hotdog. You can walk up to the bullpen and watch pitchers warm-up from just a few feet away, close enough to see the different spin on a 2-seam fastball and a slider. Usually by the 3rd inning there's vacant seats right up in the first few rows and the ushers couldn't care less if you sit down in them without a ticket. And most importantly, you're close enough to the action that you can heckle the shit out of the players. For most games it's no problem to get cheap tickets for the right or left field bleachers. Usually we would be sitting out there, 5 or 6 of us, in mostly empty rows of seats, drinking beers with our shirts off, and making fun of guys who have 5 more days before they're optioned to their minor league clubs in Tulsa or El Paso. "Hey 86, I don't even know what to say to you, you're number is 86." Or, "92, nice 14-hop to the cutoff man. If you can get that relay throw down to like 8 or 10 hops maybe they'll give you a number in the 60's next year." You know, really funny stuff like that. This year our prime target heading into the games was the Brewer's newly acquired leftfielder, Kevin Mench, a player who we skewered 2 years ago while he was on the Rangers. Mench, as baseball fans know, has one of, if not THE biggest head in human history. That thing is it's own county. One of my friend's was worried that he wouldn't be able to work on his tan during the game because Mench's head would cause a solar eclipse. Unfortunately Mench must have found out that we were coming to their game against the Cubs as he sat that one out. Our attentions quickly turned to the Angel's embattled free agent, Gary Matthews Jr., who has been under heavy scrutiny since it was discovered that he was a major client for a company that distributes HGH and other banned performance enhancing drugs. After playing a few innings in center, just far enough from our seats to be properly heckled, Matthews had to exit the stadium from the tunnel in right field. Stopping to sign autographs was the worst decision he ever made. As soon as G-Matt got within earshot we were out of our seats and in that guy's dome. "Hey Gary, my 40 time is a little down, you think you could loan me some of those PEDS." "It's cool Gary, Jose Canseco started taking HGH at about your age too, and look how good the 2nd half of his career worked out." "So how much you benching these days?" Rereading those lines now, it doesn't really seem all that funny, but try and appreciate the improvisation. We were all cracking up at the time.

As a quick aside to the Spring Training games, two players really made an impression on me as potential breakout candidates for the 2007season – Bill Hall and Aramis Ramirez. Bill Hall plays centerfield for the Brewers and quietly hit 35 homers for them while playing shortstop last season. For fantasy leaguers, Hall still has SS eligibility in Yahoo formats and is a very solid middle round draft pick. At the game we saw he looked like a young Griffey Jr. out there in centerfield and swung a Jr.-like stick as well. Ramirez, the Cubs 3rd baseman, is a perennial 30-100 guy who, with the addition of Soriano and a healthy Derek Lee, is primed for a HUGE year. I suggest drafting both of those guys in your fantasy leagues.

_________________

I've now been in San Diego for almost 2 weeks and I am happy to say that things here are just as I left them. The weather is still bright and cool. The pace of things is languid. My friends and I spend our free time playing video games, old-man softball, and arguing about sports. The other day I played golf for the first time in about a year and I still can't putt worth a damn. We played wiffle-ball down at the beach yesterday, where Gilbert and I absolutely owned Shields and Keel, then barbequed some steaks for dinner and watched the first set of sweet-16 games. On Wednesday I saw a double-feature at the cineplex in Clairemont, Zodiac and 300. Both enjoyable. I've been playing basketball almost everyday over at the PB rec center, just a short walk from the apartment where I stay. Dan the Bum still sits out on that park bench everyday, high as kite, watching the games and yelling obscenities at no one in particular. Dan only becomes a problem when, as happened yesterday, he starts throwing his shoes onto the court. Lenny, at least 60 years old and as I understand it recently recovered from bypass surgery, is still out there everyday also, hobbling around in his sweat pants and backwards baseball cap, not yet ready to hang up the sneakers. My hope is that he never will. I was disappointed to see Terry playing out there last week. He used to be a star shooting-guard at USD, playing in a few NCAA tournaments, good enough to play professionally but still unwilling to take his chances at a career overseas in a place like Turkey or Greece. He talks about it whimsically and often, but after all of the talking and daydreaming he is still stuck in San Diego. To consider Terry's potential and the opportunities available to him is frustrating for me because I often wish I could do the very thing that he seems unwilling to even attempt. Perhaps the leisurely atmosphere of rec-league ball suits him just fine.

As you might imagine, my time in San Diego has been unbelievably relaxing. I have not once felt the shutter of stress, or compelled to rush, or the need to consider anything beyond the moment I am in. Tomorrow is a needless concept here. I will be in San Diego for some amount of time and then I will leave. I still plan to visit LA soon, and I will be back in the Bay at some point as well. But when exactly, I can't say. Next week a friend is coming from San Francisco and I will stay at least until then. I hope everyone is doing well. As always, my regards.

Another Manic Monday

This late Monday night malaise has struck suddenly and out of nowhere. It was day and then the sun disappeared while I showered and vacuumed my room. The sun promised so much today, so bright and long arcing, so sure of its glory, and then tip-toes away like a thief, or like a beautiful thing leaving too early from a bar, before there is time, even, to buy it a drink. The darkness went from purple to black, but I didn't notice that either. I don't much feel like going out; it's past the hour of such decisions anyway. I am alone of course. The television is absolutely unwatchable. It is somehow both excruciatingly painful and all-together numbing. Mind rape. On the counter there is a bowl of undercooked spaghetti undergoing an unidentity crisis, hot supper or forgotten leftovers. The spaghetti must feel like those poor humans born on the cusp of two zodiac signs, at war with itself forever. The spaghetti smells likes nothing. The apartment is stale and quiet, not even wind enough to make the windowsills whistle, or a loud movie from the downstairs neighbors to defeat the refrigerator's intermittent din. Since turning off the television I've just been sitting here, allowing my thoughts to run in circles, unleashed like Labradors at the park. Which is okay. Calm. But the contents of my mind, having spilled out my ears and onto the rug, have left the old eggshell a bit hollowed out. And I'm left to scraping at the musk covered husk.

On account of the cerebral void, eventually I am vaulted involuntarily into a conscious world I'd rather avoid. Somewhere beneath the flotsam of daily minutia, which for now has been hacked away with this mixed metaphor like a slag hammer, is a deep and frigid ocean of liquid thought. The mind swells with such waters, you know? And they so often remain unexplored, grave and alien creatures, drastic landscapes, unbearable pressure, sheer darkness. Who of you have traveled such places before? Hands. Surely we all go there from time to time, no? On our own accord, at random or pensive times as now, or taken there by the hand of recreational drugs or by dreams (although I'd say the oneiric experience is a whole nother pancake entirely – whatever). In any case, come with me on a dive down here for a spell and laugh, as I do, at the absurdity of it.

At first sight it appears that everything at these depths is colored in a profound light (or non-light as it were). Things begin to get heavy, on account of our depth and the corresponding fluid-pressure, and as the descent continues the surroundings turn poignant, then depressing. An anglerfish picks a banjo and sings a bluegrass ballad about his long bygone belle from Birmingham. Existential eels quote Kierkegaard to nihilistic needlefish. Pressure mounting still. It is like being buried beneath wheelbarrow loads of sentiment sediment. Cliches drift in these parts like parasitic microbes. See that one there? Who cares anyway, it's just dust in the wind. Cosmic metaphors swim by with sharp teeth and chromatic scales. Universal truths tread water amongst remembered dreams like clown fish amongst anemones. Irony rips across the far above surface on a Sea-Doo, too far from here to be seen. This is where Buddhists come to meditate and new-agers come to experiment with alternative medicines. I will suffocate down here if this lasts much longer.

It's midnight already? I'm going to bed.