Thursday, August 28, 2008

Marion Woodman speaks of spirals and projections

Gabcast! Stop this noise in my head #21 - Marion Woodman speaks on projections and spirals

The brilliant Jungian analyst talks about the nature of the unconscious in healing and how progress is circular rather than linear

Monday, August 25, 2008

For Baba-in Love.

When I was 13 years of age, I had a vision of God that was inconsistent with the educational experiences I had been having in Hebrew school. In addition, it was inconsistent with the teachings of the Torah, as I then understood it, and my experience of Judaism as an insular spiritual system, separate from all other religions and tacitly expected by my community as the only way to God. Had I stayed the course, perhaps I would have gradated upwards to find great unity in mystical Judaism or, more simply, in the keeping of the Sabbath. However, my experience was so definitive and true to me as a real and everlasting experience of God, that following anything other than that interior impulse would be blasphemous, not only to me and my soul, but to all of humanity and all existence in all forms. This recognition was utterly devastating to my comfortable sense of familial and social decorum that I still to this day have profound agony in its memorial wake. In order to preserve this truth, I had to walk away from my Bar Mitzvah.
I cannot nor will not describe in detail this vision, but needless to say I have followed it to the best of my ability since, many times to joy, often times to overwhelming suffering. Here is the great reality for me: I cannot NOT follow this path, with its inherent sweetness and terror. What I know I trust, and to me that unshakeable and inextinguishable flame is called Love. Nothing has ever rang truer to me in any form, in any concept, in any external or internal shape. Love is the only truth, there can be nothing greater than Love, it is our birthright, our responsibility, our agency, our dignity to fight for Love unlike anything we have ever fought for. Nothing else lasts, all else is illusion, and deep down inside all of you, in the dark and gorgeous recesses of your heart, mind and soul, you know this is so. Call it what you will, Moshiach, Christ, Buddha, Allah, by any other name, by any definition, this Tao, this that cannot be named, this Bhagavad Gita, is the only thing that is real. Does this mean that I am a closed system, only able to see and feel light? Can I not understand the dark place of the unconscious, in which dwells the underworld of the soul? Indeed not! The soul is numinous and everything shone up to the light becomes light. I implore each of you to follow your truth, your heart, your mind, your bliss. Find yourself. This is not a religious statement, it is the greatest religious commandment of all.

Thank you my beloved guru. Blessings to all beings in all territories of consciousness and formlessness. May all beings surrender to the glory of Love.
Sai Ram, In Christ's name,

Sunday, August 17, 2008

Instant Insanity, Dodger style win 7-5 over Brew Crew

It is 11:30pm and I just finished watching the Tivo'd version of "The Dodgers flew over the Cuckoo's Nest". My neighbors must be seriously concerned about my well being at this point. The babbling, incoherent rants that have been coming out of my apartment for almost two straight weeks now have literally reached their zenith. Finally, I thought, a rational, NORMAL baseball game with a one two three out ending the ninth, right?

Are you fracking kidding?


Never in my entire life have I witnessed the madness of the past two weeks, again starting with the Ludwick homer in St. LU to the ghastly double horror in SF, to the unreal sweep, dos walkoff style, against the phils, to the nightmare of Saturday, and NOW THE BANANAS OF TODAY. MY GOD IN HEAVEN. HAVE YOU NO MERCY?

Honestly, I don't have the nerves for this psychosis. Up and down, and up and down, and in and out, and who is up and who is out and oh no I can't believe it they lost NO THEY WON and Ethier and Kemp and Broxton and Kuo and OH NO and OH YES....Cuckooo Cuckoo Cuckoo.

I can't possibly be the only one going bonkers over this stuff. I know its not just my perception. This really, truly has been the weirdest most impossible set of games in recent memory.

Can it possibly get any weirder? I guess if the Blue were to win it all. I could be watching it from the Kaiser Mental Hospital in Chinatown.

Where are my meds?


Dodger Disgust.

Gabcast! Stop this noise in my head #20 - Dodger Disgust

Tired of the psychological abuse created by the Dodgers, I finally let it be known how I really feel. For adults only.

Friday, August 15, 2008

Bedknobs and broomsticks.

For the first time since 1962 (I was a mere lad of two), the Dodgers swept the vaunted Philadelphia Phillies four games in one of the most professional baseball series they have played in recent memory. After three grotesque losses on the road to the Cards and Hated Ones, the Blue found something within themselves and shocked the baseball world with their total team effort. They played excellent defense, smart fundamental baseball, had timely hitting, hit for power, scored runs and pitched their asses off. They found ways to win no matter what the circumstance in games they would have rolled over for as early as the first half of this season.

Make no mistake, the infusion of Manny Ramirez into the lineup (his shortened dreads hopefully not taking away his Samson like strength, he went O'fer tonight)has changed the face of this entire franchise and given the team something they have not had in years: confidence. They come to the ballpark EXPECTING to win. And they better continue. The 17 game above .500 Brewers are coming in, albeit without Sabathia and Sheets, who just finished their spots in the rotation.

Of course the slippery Snakes won as well, making this a fight to the last day of the season against the Hated Ones that much more dramatic.

Holy Shit Batman. What a team!

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

Why I oughta..!

"You can't allow the luxury of a negative thought".
-Joe Torre, on K Bros radio feature.

-Dodger Tony from his dishevelled apartment.

That's why Joe is Joe and I have large empty patches of skull from the chunks of hair I pulled out Larry Fine style this past weekend.

As the ninth inning started, was I worried (what me worry?) that the Dodgers might upchuck another one, with the team more than comfortably ahead. Are you crazy? I may be dumb but I'm not that....wait a minute, Berroa didn't get Victorino? Hold on a minute, Utley's ball lands in front of Manny. It can't be, there's no way that...HEY ABBOTT!!!!!!

As Ryan Howard came up to bat, I found myself beginning to laugh. My laughter then became a chortle, then my chortle became hysteria. I was maniacally ripping shreds of hair from my pate, laughing and shredding chunks of Brill Cream and Score from what remnants of toupee I have left after the last week. Is the universe playing Lucy with the football on my head again?

Luckily, Broxy got the out and the Dodgers held on for dear life in an absolutely terrible and atrocious win, one of the worst wins I have seen in recent memory. But one I will take. Do you hear that Adam Dunn? I'm not scared of you and your 900 foot homeruns and 250 K's.
We got Nomah coming back and that means no easy outs anywhere up and down the lineup.
Jeff Kent scares me. Gulp!

Sunday, August 10, 2008

Deja-Fucking-Vu all over again.

Worst weekend ever? Hell, one of the worst road trips I can ever remember, as far as crushing losses go. Don't forget, only four days ago Ludwick destroyed our night and started all of this mishugas.
My friends, to be a Dodger fan in the modern era is to be one who endures hideous suffering, albeit not as bad as our Brooklyn brethren, but very very close. Most teams simply lose games, but our losses are mortifying, almost a cosmic masochism to watch and endure. Year after absurd year, coaching staff after coaching staff, owner after owner, the results seemingly the same: a team in love with the idea of being at .500. It must be against some Dodger Way to actually move out of this self defining and self limiting team identity.
The absolute definition of average are the modern Dodgers, not lousy, not great, just simply good. Nothing really wrong with that, it is just what it is, in the end.
Hats off to the mean, and I don't mean the Gods.
The Los Angeles Dodgers: it is what it is till it isn’t.

Trauma, (or I can't fucking live like this any longer.)

While nothing really changed as far as the NL West race goes, losses like the one tonight have a traumatizing effect on me personally. I find them very hard to take and have to cognitively remind myself that it simply had no real bearing on the pennant race, one which realistically the Dodgers should win, especially now that the O'Dog may be down for the count again.
But beyond that, I simply find the stress of these close games and their horrifying outcomes more and more difficult to stomach. I mean, the world is stressful enough, right? Having to watch five hours the other night in St. Louis, with the Ludwick walk-off, and then this catastrophe tonight, it just starts to grind one down. Granted, it is just a game, but the adrenalin, bi-polar nature of these Dodger games is really, and I'm not kidding, having a deleterious impact on my life. I am going to hang in there, adversity can definitely make one heartier and more faithful, but is this worth ulcers and sleeplessness? I dare say no.
Although, this is nothing compared to our Brooklyn forefathers who had to endure the Crankies AND Bobby Thomson. Oy Vey.

Friday, August 08, 2008

BallHype - The Hardball Times:Ranking baseball’s ethical transgressions

This BallHype story was sent to you by Dodger Tony with the following message:

What a fun class this must be. I would absolutely love to have been in it. Tony

The Hardball Times:Ranking baseball's ethical transgressions

 The Hardball Times:Ranking baseball's ethical transgressions

The Hardball Times found this 25 hours ago on

At Carleton College, students were required to rank ethical transgressions in baseball from worst to least worse. And now you can, too.

View the complete story here:

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Thursday, August 07, 2008

Beautiful Fucking Mess (work in progress)


Chapter One

The Hedge

I awake abruptly at 5:00AM, my sinuses clogged from all the shame. As I roll over, I look directly into the face of she that isn’t here. I ponder the significance of my day.

I think for a moment about all the selling I will do. Today is going to be the day. It is going to be the day when my name will vanish from the overhead electronic bulletin board, the source of all that is evil in the world and all that is good about keeping my job. More than that, it is all that is good about being loved.

Rolling over, I make a cursory attempt to lift myself up from the ratty Sele Posturepedic. I must look like one of those clowns, the type that little children pummel as they resurrect straight up again, a look of permanent anguish across its hideous face. One, two, three…and up I go, onto the ugly shag carpeting full of microscopic organisms eating every delicate morsel of decay. A quick shower follows by a “lomtick” of toast, and I am out the door and on my way.

Glendale, 1998 and the Dodgers have just hired Ohioan Jim Tracy to be their new manager. A plain and kindly grandmother figure who cost the team virtually nothing, Tracy is going to bring the Dodgers their first championship in ten years to a now starved Los Angeles, or so I think. Little did I know the truth. This nostalgic memory haunts me still.

I drive along quickly in my Ford Fairmont, smoking one Merritt cigarette after another, listening to sports talk radio on my AM/FM, replete with broken cassette player. Up ahead is my exit, Burbank Blvd. A quick jaunt to the North and I can make it into the parking lot of my employer: Public Storage, Inc. What happens next feels like a dream, but I assure you, is true.

This particular summer is as hot as its ever been in Southern California. I park my car and begin the half mile walk to work. The parking lot is a giant abandoned mass of concrete that obviously belonged to some other concern, a concern that must have gone belly up years before and, like almost all of Los Angeles, fled the city amidst its own temporality. What is so strange is the size and scope of it. There must be a thousand empty spaces, with only about ten cars, including my own, parked there. My mind flashes on another time, a time when this lot was bustling and energized with the hope of the American dream, it’s current decrepitude a signature of modern existential hopelessness. In order to get to the main structure, you have to walk roughly half a mile away from the building then double back over a bridge that brings you down into the mouth of the beast. I get about three hundred yards and notice the carcass of a dead crow stuck under a newspaper. I wonder if the crow died of old age or just bad air.

As I turn the corner near San Fernando road, I catch up to a man who goes by the name of “Belly”. He is a late thirties African-American who neatly weighs a good 450 to 500 pounds. He carries his entire life in a filthy backpack and puts one foot in front of the other, moving about an inch a minute.
“Hey Belly” I say, as I move past him like the Concord. He looks up at me with confusion and agony. It is obvious he has no idea who I am, the sun blinding him. “Yeah. Hmmm mmmhhh”, he intones wisely. “You go on ahead, don’t worry ‘bout me, no ma’am…you don’t worry nothin’ bout me.”. I smirk a touch and wave ta ta.

Thirty more minutes elapse and I finally get to the mothership. The main Public Storage building is an homage to prefabricated emptiness, but you can’t beat it for its behemoth mass. Thrown up in a matter of months, this giant structure dwarfs any and all other buildings in its path. I imagine it unmooring itself from the earth and devouring other punier offices in its way, digesting plaster and drywall for nourishment and belching out the remnants.

The oddest thing about the main building is there does not seem to be an entrance to it, just small little orifices all around the perimeter with security lock boxes to get in and out. That’s right, you heard me, to get in AND out. These boxes are also located inside smaller antechambers, sort of like the room that Dave blows himself into when trying to get back onto the ship in 2001 A Space Odyssey because HAL won’t let him aboard. Every employee has a combination badge/security strip, ID photo with insignia and smaller voice activation code, sort of a like a mantra, which opens the exterior portal. When you open the first portal, you automatically enter the second hall which is operated by an electronic palm reader. After that you enter the final room, a spiral hemisphere which is anti-gravity in nature, or at least that’s how you feel after the security air bursts are blown up your ass and groin which look for traces of explosive or biological chemicals. The fortress in the movie Andromeda Strain seems tame in comparison.

Once you are allowed inside, you expect to see some sort of NASA like control room, but end up seeing something that looks like an Escher drawing: row after row of cubicle after cubicle of phone booths. When you are going through the depressurization process, there is virtually no sound at all, but when you enter the main room the sound hits you like broken glass. “No Ma’am, we don’t have anything for you today, what part of the country are you calling from?”. “Sir, I know you have to be out of your apartment in an hour, but the only space we have is the one for $500 a day…minus the storage fee of course, which is always free.”, “Uhm…hi this is Bonnie from Public Storage…you wouldn’t want to buy…hello…hello”. The voices collectively sound like something from outer space, a large cosmic “Om”, but once you get to within ear shot, you hear the pressure and the lies, the desperation of each employee to please the unpleasant master we call : The Carousel.

The Carousel is our master. The Carousel is our God. The Carousel is an electronic bulletin board which circles the main floor in giant red lettering, all in digital living color like the one in Times Square. It is enormous and runs every half hour on the half hour preceded by a deafening clarion bell which could be misinterpreted as Gideon’s thunderous trumpet. The sound of the conveyer belt moving could be the four horsemen of the apocalypse galloping around the room ushering you to the day of judgment. What is on the board, however, is far more distressing. As the board moves it activates electronic impulses which read each and every single employees sales numbers for that hour. It processes them at the speed of light and if it is below the average, or “mean” for that day, the employees name, photo and sound bite of that employee stating his or her name, is captured and thrown up on the carousel. It then circles the entire facility for 15 minutes in a marquee of shame revealing the losers and pariahs of the moment.

I make my way past a woman who never seems to leave the facility. She is dressed in a dark caftan, a red chiffon scarf and the makeup of a Kabuki. She has not one but two headsets on her head. As she speaks to the patron on one line, she blurts expletives on the other line simultaneously while depressing the mute button. Her head pulsates with anguish as she belts out the fuck word every other second. I have been told she has tourettes syndrome and works 80 hour weeks.

I quickly make my way through the maze of cubicles to the destination hub. This is where I will get my reports, headset and phone tree for the afternoon. I will also be assigned a cubby hole, either alone or with a “trainee”. If I am alone, my options for comfort greatly increase, if I am with a “trainee”, things could quickly go from bad to worse.

Turning the corner, my heart drops as I see a line stretching roughly one hundred yards zig zagging through impromptu turnstiles that have been put up to insure order. These are all employees waiting to check-in. Clearly a blue-flu has hit the phone room, hitting the “team leaders” quite hard. I crane my neck above the pituitary freak in front of me to see how many team leaders are working. I see ten empty windows and the only one open is manned by a denizen of hell named “Choochy”. Oh no, I cry aloud, knowing full well that Choochy is the most obsessively compulsive team leader in the facility. Originally named John, Choochy changed his name after an LSD trip in Guam that took away half of his spatial recognition. Left for days in a tree during a Catholic Feast , John claimed a visitation by Father Padre Pio, a former Catholic mystic who was known to bi-locate and be seen in several locations at once, although he never left his monastery at San Giovanna Rotunda in Italy. He was also known to have the stigmata, which John, or rather Choochy, says also happened to him after conversing with Padre Pio in the tree. Choochy was found days later on a nearby Malaccan Island in Indonesia. No one quite knew how he got there, but after that he packed every personal item how owned in individually wrapped sandwich bags. He also never spoke above a whisper, mouthing words that were deceptive in that they resembled nothing like what he was saying whatsoever, making it virtually impossible to communicate with him.

After a quick half hour in line, I got my daily check in done and went to station 13, in the Blue section of level ten. There I was met by my resident floor leader, Flor, who smiled her alluring yet deadened, soul killing Cheshire grin which triggered me and led me into fantasy. I stumbled my way past her Latina hips into the carbuncle of my cubicle. Lifting the tent like door fabric, I was met by my partner for the day, trainee number 115. Or so I thought.

The Carousel is not just an electronic monitor, it is also a hell of a practical joker. Randomly, it chooses an employee who ain’t cuttin’ it, in this case moi, and creates a brief hologram that appears to be a real person. It is almost impossible to know if the hologram is real or not, because it is encased in a convex pyreen skin. As I sat down I began to converse with trainee 115 who nodded and said hello. I asked him how his day was and he nodded and said hello. Plugging in my headset, I asked if he received his daily training reports. He nodded and said hello. Oh that Carousel, what a card. After twenty of minutes of nodding and repetitious banter, the hologram vaporized and I was left alone, as always, with my tele-monitor, headset and phone reports.

As soon as you plug in your headset, a sanitized female voice comes on over the loud speaker and your ID picture is projected onto monitors all through the phone room. She announces your name, last name first, and ID number, and says that you have logged on. Each employee is then required to push a button on their console acknowledging your presence on the floor and then yell the words “Huzzah”! You, however, are exempt from this requirement. I plug my phone jack into my terminal and open my phone tree book to see what part of the world I will be calling. Turns out I will be calling…Nova Scotia.

My monitor emits a whirring noise and then a panoramic video of Nova Scotia comes on, complete with local folk music of the culture. The monitor also encodes my translation enabler so that everything Sven and Jukkka say to me will be instantly recognizable in good old UH-MER-UH-KIN.

As I adjust the headset I already am in mid conversation with someone who has no idea that I haven’t signed on because my automated tele-doppleganger has been engaging in conversation already. The man on the other end sounds quite old, ancient really, and is trying to figure out what our catalogue is saying when we offer no fee down. “Is that in U.S. dollars or in Nova Scotian?”. I quickly glance at my pricing at-a-glance and run down the currency exchange rate domestically versus overseas. “Uh, sir”, I say, “it says here that the exchange rate is dependent on international borders running concurrent with exchange rates not impacted by the Land of the Midnight Sun caveat”. Silence on the other end. “Sir, did you understand that?”. More deafening silence. I adjust my headset and doodle a bit on my notepad. Suddenly “Oh, of course young man, how could I have been so stupid?”, all of this in a weird computerees voice with his native language underneath. “The Land of the Midnight Sun caveat, why yes, I am such an idiot, hah hah, oh.”. I smile and place his order in the overseas to do later pile, which will get processed one way or another.

After a series of calls from abroad, I get a beep thru- code four, which is the signal that a supervisor is on the other end. As all good companies go, our supervisors have their own methods of monitoring our behavior and output for the day. We are required to hit fifteen major points in our sales pitch. If those points are hit we receive an increase in our local points awards, a half point for each point hit which contributes to the sale. This can be slightly misleading however, as the points system is rather arbitrary and quite open to interpretation. For example, point number #11 says: “When suggesting a domestic companion facility, storage sizes 1-234 are located in designated areas that are subject to both Interpol and U.S. Justice Department regulations. You must inform the prospective client (boob) of these facts BUT do so in a way that does not compromise existing local regulatory statutes that are self-governed by city or county law enforcement penal codes. IF and WHEN these are understood AND CONTRIBUTE DIRECTLY to a client’s (boob’s) decision to purchase a companion facility, you MAY be eligible to receive points towards designated hours adjustment OR other merchandise OR tickets to Sea World”.

It seemed like the supervisor had some sort of “issue” with this particular point.

Ms. 213579/Zed/companionfacility/supervisor-bluelevel was on the line. I had no idea what her real name was as they are required to use their company Nom De Guerre. Also, none of us earth dwellers in the phone room have a clue as to where the supervisors unit is located. Some of us don’t even think it is in the building, others think it is in India. I think she is calling from her home, in her boudoir no doubt. When they break in to your conversation, only you are able to hear them while the client is unaware, sort of like a false mirror that only you and she are behind. A standardized animation female happy face comes up on my screen with her identity beneath it. Happy music plays as well. Her voice comes on again, it is lusty without being perverse and pinched with just the right relish of hostility.

“Operator AKF3104, respond please”. I patch in to her frequency using the Heliotrope satellite which arcs over North America and is just moments away from ranging out.

“This is I, your highness, Ten Four good buddy, come on back now”.

I hear a slight snortle and agitated exhalation on the other end.

“Operator AKF3104, that is inappropriate nomenclature when using this frequency. I would ask that you refer to me properly and use the standard and correct employee recognition response…PLEASE”. Ooh, I like it when she acts salsa. It makes my foreskin ashiver.

I sober up and use the proper complimentary response, but with a shimmer of defiance. “Operator AKF3104 present y aqui, broadcasting on Heliotrope Satellite North America Greenich Mean Times 0:13:43 and 20 seconds. How may I assist you in resolving any areas that need resolution?” You gotta fucking be kidding me. “Thank you 3104, that’ll be all”. Dead air. Fantastic! An observation fly-by. The supervisors just love to do that, and you know why? Because they can.

The animated female dumb-show image on my screen rolls out replaced by an image of Pago-Pago where my current client, Mr. Pow Pow, has been on hold. Tribal drums play underneath his call, piped in from the luxurious CD I downloaded called “Sun God’s of Burma”. He is singing to me softly, seductively, in a kind of bizarre and creepy acting out. I find myself rather lulled by it though and hear the computer translator intone mechanically his words:

“Where the palms of my troubled heart, meet the smile of your joy, we dance amongst the coconuts and fragrant milk on the bonny shores of Krakatowa, my Javanese puppet.”
I laugh a warm laugh, which quickly turns to tears.

End Chapter One

Wednesday, August 06, 2008

Featured Article Archive

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Beautiful Fucking Mess (Audio Version)

Gabcast! Stop this noise in my head #19 - Beautiful Fucking Mess (Audio Version)

working title of pieces for performance of Stop This Noise in My Head.

Beautiful Mess.

Are these the last days?

If you ask the head you get a different answer than from the heart.

Are these the last days?

I have woken up in the middle of the night again for the third time this week. I am unable to sleep, an absolute nervous wreck. People's energy, their desperation, I can't take the neediness, the insane terror of people's emptiness. Everywhere I go people see my light and want to possess it. I have no idea what is going on with me. My heart is pounding in my chest. All are desperate for my light, wanting to drag me down to get it. I have been traumatized by the quake, by owing money, by the terrible, evil coldness of the Russian Armenian mafia who glare at me with savage fear and murderous hatred every time I see them.

This evil, this sweet cruelty, has intensified as I move deeper and deeper into the heart of Christ. The agents of madness and those who have sinned and realized that time is running out, see in me their end. They wait in the shadows of my fear, waiting for the salvation they see I have, waiting to be saved yet unable to find the door in. They ask me if I want their phone number and I tell them I have no use for it, I wouldn't be returning their calls anyway.

Why me, Jesus? I am not strong enough to bare the burden of this honesty. I feel as though my thoughts will churn me alive. These thoughts will undo me more than all the people, places and things. These diabolical inventions of my mind is where the army of darkness lives.

My father, I am sick and feel as though my entire head and chest will explode from the pain of this immersion into such suffering. I have no distance - the meds, how much of this is the meds? So many, for so many reasons, just to function "normally". Is it the Wellbutrin? The Omeprazole? The Gabapentin, twice a day? The Terazosin? The Zyrtec? The Flonase? The CPAP therapy in combination with deviated septum recombinant Rhinitis therapy? The food stamps? The compulsive, non-stop overeating destined to distend and fill the unfillable, empty cavity of my mind numbing fear?

My mouth is gone, replaced by some sort of weird form of silicone and plastic. My body has become a mockery, a grotesque ape suit with man breasts, an homage to my long dead mother. My hopelessly impotent groin a constant reminder of the duality of psychotropic therapy. Where is my gratitude, at 5:00AM, after sleeping again for only an hour and a half? Delirious, feverish, knowing the 1 Mg of Lorazapam would change the entire landscape of hellish agony to peace in ten minutes.

But I don't reach for the Atavan, or the Vicodin, or the Klonopin, not because those who do not suffer these maladies claim superior insight into my well being, but because I know that redemption lies in provoking confrontation with myself. These motherfuckers declare that I don't know any better. I'm just not fit to choose a chemical solution...BLAH BLAH BLAH.

How many nights do THEY wake up in pools of sweat and urine and bile, shaking like an animal from the nightmares and the visions of death and shadow lands the mind is heir to? Do they clutch their stomachs and scream out so loudly that the Russians wake up again and again planning my murder? I know this and stack more and more items in front of my door...boxes, cat carriers, computers, books, shoes, kitchen utensils, anything I can find, building a castle and moat that keep them all out and me in. I hear them now, the little ones, cackling demons with sharp knives and rope, their parents carrying torches and sledgehammers as they make their way up and over, into my side of the building, their mouths drooling, automatons of the final solution. The Park Winona Apartments, lovely though they may be, will be Juden Frei. They, and the Chinese Manager named John, will take care of my entropy, sending me back to bed in a hail of dripping dark matter vaporizing my light and pulling me into the event horizon forever.

I grab my babies, holding them close. Will Adonai come this time, unlike he did over fifty years ago? Will he stop them this time, the taint of six million neglected by his broken GPS system?

I take no chances and leap into the void, bringing my defiant acts of faith with me.

Sunday, August 03, 2008


I wanted to wait until the series with the D'Backs ended to finally break my silence regarding the greatest deal in the history of the Dodgers. Believe it or not, I was more interested in seeing where the team would be after today THEN I would feel comfortable with all the goings on over the last week. One game back after today is fine with me.

What can I say? I keep expecting someone to pinch me. Is this actually happening?



His performance over the weekend was nothing short of awesome. He went four for four today, with another homerun (two over the weekend), and absolutely changed the entire face of this franchise overnight. Combined with the other acquisition, albeit a quietier guy Casey Blake, the Dodgers have suddenly catapulted their offense into a legitimate and possibly downright scary force to contend with.

Vin Scully was absolutely stunned and literally said that this team had changed totally. It has also allowed the other hitters to relax and taken the pressure off of the youngsters to try to do too much. The one guy who this will make into a superstar I believe is Matt Kemp. But the whole team has a looser feel to it and are having fun, something that has been lacking here forever.

Now, we shouldn't get too excited, though. The next month for the Dodgers is absolutely brutal, with the team playing 29 games in the next 30 days, 20 of them against teams with winning records, 14 of those games in the next three weeks, and they play the Phillies 8 times in that stretch. At the same time, the Diamondbacks play the same number of games and only one of those teams they play, the Marlins, have a winning record, and they end the month playing LA for three in Arizona.

The Dodgers will be severely tested, and will have to have contributions from everyone to try and keep pace with the Snakes. Good news is that Brad Penny, yes THAT Brad Penny, is scheduled to make his first start in well over a month and a half against the Giants in San Francisco next Friday. If he can turn it around, I think the Dodger pitching shapes up quite nicely. Oh, by the way, the staff ERA for this entire homestand was 1.60.

But, OH, Manny being Manny sounds so sweet.

Halelujah, Savior!