- Sitting around watching millionaires try to beat each other at kid's
games turns off a majority of people out there, I'm sure. I'm sure
a lot of you would rather pay $40 and sit around and play kid's games on
your computers. But I don't have a computer, and I love sports, and
I had a great sports weekend.
Saturday Das, Paul, Ray and I went to a Dodger game. Technically, Paul and I were supposed to have bought the tickets, but since I'm broke, Das bought them. Anyhow, the Mets were in town, bringing ex-Dodger catcher Mike Piazza with them. Piazza is known among my friends for being the a) worst clutch hitter in baseball, and b) being a gay Italian American hero. But Piazza did the improbable, coming through in the clutch with a homer while going 4-4 with a walk. I'm sure he was the "hit" of West Hollywood later that night.
Now I'm really not much for baseball. Like a lot of other like-minded people, I find it boring, and I'm unable to find interest in the subtleties of it the way short and staid white guys like Bob Costas and George Will do. I wish I had a joint when I'm at games, so I could just chill with some nachos and a Dodger Dog or 5. But this game was pretty good. Besides the gay Italian American hero, there were some other things that made the Dodger game great. I saw future Hall-of-Famer and current over-40 Rickey Henderson steal two bases in the first inning...although he was thrown out by rag-armed Todd Hundley the next time he tried. Must have been karmic. I also saw a great diving catch into the wall by Darryl Hamilton, who jacked up his knee in the process.
Not to be outdone, we decided to see what kind of athletes we were by trying out a pitching cage. For a buck, we got sore arms and a humbled sense of our own athleticism. I could throw about 57 mph. Paul was tops at around 64, although he couldn't hit the mat at the back of the cage. Das, who I thought could get it up into the 70s, let me down and couldn't break 61. Gimpy-armed Ray sat out -- I'm pretty sure that hurling a ball as hard as he can isn't good for his still healing humerus. Although it would have been "humorous" if he had broken his arm again trying, ha!
Of course there was the guy ahead of us who threw 77 and punched out the catcher's mitt at the back of the cage twice with perfect fastballls. That's the way to get chicks. But then the guy ahead of me couldn't even get it "over the plate"; he kept spiking it into the ground, even though the back of the cage was only about 12 feet away.
I also watched lots of great football; the Penn State vs. Pitt game on Saturday morning was surprisingly epic, even if I did miss watching PSU's star 260 lbs. linebacker pummeling the punter into dirt.
But Sunday was da shit; every fucking NFL game I watched was a goddamn classic. I kept calling Das' answering machine every two minutes and screaming into it, "DID YOU SEE THAT! Jake Plummer is god, Jake Plummer is god! I worship him!" Luckily, Das didn't reciprocate by calling County Mental Health Services on me.
Of course, it wasn't a perfect sports weekend; short-handed UCLA got predictably trounced by Ohio State. And Paul teased me by telling me he has box seats for the WWF's Raw is War at the Anaheim Pond, which is where he is tonite...lucky bastard.
I could go on and on about sports, but I'm sure anyone who's gotten this far has to have had their eyes glaze over like a Krispy Kreme doughnut. Anyhow, Das put it perfectly Sunday morning (we stayed over at Ray's saturday night), when he said, "I'm glad football's back."
Nothing like large sweaty black men to make for a good weekend.
Sunday evening we went out for Ray's birthday. First Ray wanted to watch 20 Dates, which I decided I didn't like, although it was cool seeing the dood and his date in the video store that is right around the corner from where I live. Five of us went out and filled up on $100 worth of Korean BBQ and the accompanying side dishes, then went back to watch sports highlights.
Wow, I need to get back to writing about topics. For most journals, topics are either a) stories from their childhood, or b) little everyday things that set them off onto a rant, like left turn signals.
Did I tell you how much it sucks to drive in LA, a city where left turn signals are as rare as clean air? Do the city planners wanna add excitement into people's lives, or are they just big fans of gridlock? Along with that and my nominal parallel parking skills, and I've found driving in LA to be much tougher than San Diego, where parking is plentiful and easy, not to mention cheap. Too bad that doesn't also describe the women in San Diego.
On my way over here, I stopped to fill up the tank in my car. I saw some lady filling up her SUV across from me, and she had what looked like her very ugly, very sleepy mother in the passenger seat. I looked a little harder and noticed it was a dummy all buckled up. The things you see in LA....