Laughlin

I am spending today recovering; it seems that I have been go-go-go for weeks, and today I sit down with laptop, writing instruments, and a glass of water to set a stage or something.  I have witnessed two baseball games--one awful, one nail-biting--pushed and shoved two loads of laundry, cleaned the kitchen, my bathroom, and my bedroom, and now I'm here, fresh out of excuses not to be.

So, in the spirit of Jamaica Kincaid, here is what I have been doing lately:

• Not sitting in trees or dreaming, two things I wish for;
• Working without a day missed until Friday, when I made my first trip to the doctor in 2 years.  The result?  I may have a thyroid issue that goes beyond the regular symptoms instead of having a thyroid issue and Crohn's.  I can only hope.  I received a tetanus shot, a lecture on my cholesterol ("you're too young for that medication"--it's your call, Doc), a thorough exam, and a dosage of birth control.  The thyroid meds followed yesterday.  To describe what it is like to be without health insurance and the proper medication for years and then rejoin the healthy was overwhelming this morning as I took a pill that will bring me back to vitality, focus, and, hopefully, dropping forty pounds;
• Work is back to going well...and I am learning to let it affect me less.  I'm shopping for a position 470 miles north of here, but learning all I can while I stay;
• The desert continues to master me.  I hate it.  I hate the sprawl that it has prompted.  I hate the conservatism, homicidal tendencies, and entitlement it provokes.  But one day last weekend, on a Sunday morning with my sister-in-law watching from the beach, I stepped from the sand of Laughlin, Nevada and into the coldest summer river in my history.  The water was clear, the current strong, and, at best, the temperature of it was about 60 degrees.  60 sounds fine, but in water temperature it feels like it possesses a windchill factor of 30.  I stood ankle-deep, waited for the ache to pass, waded to knee deep, waited for the ache to pass, drifted to waist deep, waited for the ache to pass, and then dunked down and up quickly.  It was like dunking in menthol, peppermint oil, snow, lightning, vodka...anything cold and stripping.  Eighteen months of dry, baking, desert sun and wind fled my soul.  Down and up, gasp, down and up.  Bless the mighty Colorado;
• My writing has been limited to miles of journaling, free-writing the novel, and what you see here;
• But I read like a M.F.-er.

The podcasts and a boss who loves words as much as I keeps me sharp.  Talking workforce management eight hours a day is a gift, writing for my love of it is a gift, and that river was a gift.  (Are all a baptism?  I guess there is redemption there.)  

One more thing should be noted about Laughlin:  I am normally not a gambler.  Gambling (as with most games, save baseball) bores me senseless and rattled.  But our first day in Laughlin I could feel something was up.  I dropped $5 in a machine to expel it from me and landed $120.  About six hours later I landed $40 on $5, and the next morning I tried to break the hundred dollar bill from the first win and pulled in another $30.  So, my gut instincts still have it.  I say this not to roll in riches (the money went to the doctor and pharmacist this week), but to say that I know, I can feel, that I will go home, not only as a goal, but as an unavoidable destination.

I wonder what it will be like the second time.  A gamble, again.

Onward, dear reader.

Marcel

Vanity Fair magazine interviews celebrities from time to time with the following questions, taken in the spirit of what Proust used to pose to his friends and acquaintances.  Since I haven't seen such a monster on the social networks (Facebook, I be lookin' at you, yo) in some time, and it's a slow writing day, here's a little near-bullet-point list for your reading round-up...

What is your idea of perfect happiness?

Teaching anything and watching the learner suddenly get it.

What is your greatest fear?

Being ignored.

Which living person do you most admire?

Barack Obama.

What is your favorite journey?

The one my pen takes on a blank page, with no end in sight, accompanied by a cup of strong, black coffee.

What do you consider the most overrated virtue?

Chastity.

On what occasion do you lie?

When someone asks me what I think of the food.

What do you dislike most about your appearance?

My hindquarters.  Apparently, and mysteriously to me, it’s desirable.  I’d rather have a knock-out set of, say, eyes.

Which words or phrases do you most overuse?

“Loathe.”  “Absolutely.” 

What is your greatest regret?

The men I have been intimate with.

Who or what is the greatest love of your life?

Writing.

When and where were you happiest?

When I was getting my bachelor’s degree.  I was teaching, men admired me for my brain, and I could read good books without being labeled a snob.

Which talent would you most like to have?

Playing the guitar.

What is your current state of mind?

Precarious.

If you could change one thing about your family, what would it be?

My mother would still be living.

What do you consider your greatest achievement?

Having the courage to leave a “good” job with an abusive employer.

If you were to die and come back as a person or thing, what would it be?

A coffee bean.

If you could choose what to come back as, what would it be?

Shortstop/Mathematician. (Tie.)

What is your most treasured possession?

My penmanship.

What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?

Being seen but not heard.

Where would you like to live?

San Francisco.

What is your most marked characteristic?

My “mace face.”

What do you most value in your friends?

A sense of humor.

Who are your heroes in real life?

People who hear what can’t be done and do it in spite of the rest of us to make the world a better place.

What are your favorite names?

Moonlight Graham if it’s a boy, Charlotte if it’s a girl, D'artagnan if it’s a pet, Homer if it's a baseball pitcher, and Moleskine if it’s a notebook.

What is it that you most dislike?

Anything that “should” be done.  I don’t keep up with appearances well.

How would you like to die?

Quickly, not now, and accidentally.

What is your motto?

“Write what you mean.”

Spilt Melk, or, Shortcuts

Warning:  This is a baseball post.

Oh, and...

Warning:  This is a writing post, too.

As the Airman used to say to me, "Sit down, shut up, and hang on."

*****

This morning my favorite PBS affiliate, KQED in San Francisco, posted this article to Facebook and Twitter, an open letter from a fan to the Giants.  In it, the fan deliberates so many repercussions of SF Giants' outfielder Melky Cabrera's positive test result for performance-enhancing drugs.  KQED asked in their teaser, "Do you still love the San Francisco Giants?"

Oo, boy.

Yes, Virginia, I still love the San Francisco Giants.  I also happen to still love every other baseball team, with the exception of the New York Yankees.  I love all of the minor league teams, I love the college teams, I love the Little League teams, and I love the little kid who was at the park the other night in a batting helmet almost too big for him sending grounders past his dad.  I love baseball, pure and simple.  I love so many things about baseball.

But I've only loved them recently.

When I graduated from high school, I was a huge Twins fan.  Loved all things Kirby.  Had my own "Buy a vowel Hrbek" sign.  Wanted to see the park someday.  I still haven't got there--and won't because they are in a new ballpark now--but I got a little heartbroken along the way and got sidetracked.  In the mid to late nineties I sort of gave up on baseball...right about the time Mr. McGwire and Mr. Sosa started beefing up and hitting home runs all over the place.  I didn't give up on baseball because they had been found to have used drugs, but because baseball, by my definition, was a sport where you didn't look like an athlete of any kind of stereotype but yet you made amazing things happen.  I stopped watching baseball when they stopped looking like average guys and started looking like cartoon characters.  To me, the game didn't look amazing anymore.

And, of course, we all found out why.

(Someone that I dated once said that he stopped watching baseball when the players went on strike in the nineties.  Strangely, even in my cash-strapped position, that would be less heartbreaking than drug use.  A union fight is a union fight.  Drug use is a short cut.)

I didn't come back to the game until 2004, and that's only because my brother was fool enough to take me to a ballpark.  I was hooked at the entrance gate.  Keep in mind that I saw Bonds play that day, and while I wasn't impressed and knew what was going on already with him, I wasn't following players at that point.  I was following ballpark experience, the experience of going to a game at AT&T.  Since then I have visited the Coliseum (blech; sorry, Oakland, I love you, but I hate your venue) and Petco Park (nice ballpark, no excitement, though).  AT&T still wins.  AT&T wins regardless of whether the Giants do.  I attended games through the Bonds' era, and into the long drought after Bonds, and even when I had to fight to get seats from opponents' fans who were sitting around me waiting for us to lose and Johnny-come-lately Giants' fans who decided to start flooding the ballpark in 2011.  I loved AT&T after we sent Molina to Texas and Dave Roberts moved to San Diego and Mike Matheny left to heal from concussions.  I'm not there now, but I'm still there in spirit.

Let me just say this about Melky Cabrera:  I didn't hate him, and I don't hate him now.  I can say that even though he doped up AND even though he used to be a Yankee.  (Chris Stewart is now a Yankee, and I don't hate him, and I have always love Sabathia, so I think the Yankee hatred lies in their leadership...no, I don't like A-Rod, either.)  Honestly, I was sort of ambivalent about him.  I liked the idea that we got a better batter for an awful pitcher (Sanchez), but I'm sure that now someone in Kansas City is getting the last laugh on that one.  I was probably more hurt by Mota getting suspended for his drug use than Melky, because I didn't know Melky as well.  But any drug use is not okay.  When Mota comes back, I'll treat his bullpen time like I did Bonds' at-bats, with silence.  I will pause the passion and look away.  And I'll do the same for Melky.

I too have questions on how this could happen, and what the Giants (or any other ball club) could do to stop it in the future.  It all comes down to this--do you assume that any phenomenal player is using something as a crutch?  Should we presume guilt on Jeter, Fielder, Wright, Vogelsong, Cain, Dickey, Harper, Pence, Sandoval, Strasburg, etc, etc, ad nauseum?  What then, would be the magic number?  What's "too good" for you?

I didn't hate Melky.  But I was bored by him.  I'm not bored by the Giants, or baseball, in general.  Only if the player is too good am I bored.  Show me your humanity and I'm interested.  Which, remarkably, sort of makes the guys who take the shortcuts perfect for the job in my eyes, if it weren't for my love of integrity as well, and my hatred for shortcuts.

*****

As a side-note, I promised that this post would be about writing as well.

In the past couple of months we've heard some pretty wild things from the political ad campaigns and from non-fiction writers fabricating certain things in their books.  I won't point fingers; you've probably read/heard about them from MSNBC, Fox News, or other news organizations.  It makes it difficult for me to care about current events, or to pick up a memoir without wondering how much of it is a shortcut to get me, the reader, to pick it up.

Does that mean I'm going to give up on current events?
Does that mean I'm going to only read novels?  (Hmm, that's a thoug--juuuust kidding...)
Does that mean I'm going to give up baseball?

Lack of integrity, and the short ride instead of run to the finish line, could ruin the journey.  Or it could pinpoint who I cheer for.  I'm still cheering for the Giants, but not all of them.  I'm still reading books, but not all of them.  And I'm still following current events, but not all of them.

After all, I have my own race to run.  And I can't afford a shortcut.

Sit down.  Shut up.  And hang on, dear reader.  

Pablo Stairs

Some of you have been hinting around..."What are the 'Pablo Stairs'?"

Well, other than reading my earlier post, here are some pictures.  I did not take them.  (The only electronic gadget I take up the Pablo stairs with me is my iPod.  It provides more inspiration than my phone.)

Stairs leading up from Moraga Street (five of the flights, the other two flights are below the buildings in the center of the picture.  My neighborhood is pictured.  Photo courtesy Jason DeFillippo):

The bench at the pinnacle of Moraga Hill/Grandview Park/Pablo stairs (provides view of Golden Gate Bridge.  Photo courtesy the SF Chronicle):

Ocean view (Pablo stairs are also apparently called Larsen Peak, according to unnamed credits):

Boardwalk stairs on Daly City side, on what I call a "treehouse effect" day (meaning you can't see any view at the top due to the marine layer, or, you're enclosed.  Photo courtesy Derek Sisson):

View of Downtown San Francisco, approaching Pablo stairs for descent (blogger also calls this "Turtle Hill."  Photo courtesy The Toasted Blog):

Now you know where I am every morning after breakfast.  I wouldn't sneak up on me, though--I tend to be combative during workouts.  (It's all that Taylor Swift tunage I listen to.)

Onward, dear reader.

That Song By Rogers & Hammerstein, Or, The List

When you're unconventionally employed and struggling, a surprising number of people will offer advice.  But then, I've encountered many more opinionated people the older I get, and like my mother I don't know what to do with them.  So I accept them reverently--surely all of these people so sure of themselves have to be right just by sheer will, yes?

I guess I've been seeing this more and more lately, and I find myself at a crossroads.  Continue to worship them and gain their endorsement?  Or be myself, and ultimately end up alone despite trusting myself?

Amidst all of this, I considered simplifying the task.  Don't raze the field, Jo.  Don't burn bridges.  And don't not burn the bridges because you'll be afraid you may need that person later, but because it just ain't nice.  Why make the lives of others miserable?

The task--simplified--was inspired by my brother's Bob the Cat.  He knows what he likes, whether you like it or not.  So, for you now, whether or not it's politically correct, whether it offends or not, whether it makes me boring, pathetic, or naive...

These are a few of my favorite things:

• Declawed large and loving cats
• Stews made with so many ingredients you think you'd died and gone to heaven
• Language, foreign or domestic
• Cottage cheese
• Seasides
• Literature with a love of language and twists of plot
• The music of Bruce Springsteen
• Baseball
• Basil
• Horse stables
• The roar of a crowd, winning
• Bright, copper kettles
• Warm, woolen mittens
• Lists
• Love
• Sex, well played
• Don Julio Anejo, neat, accompanied by a lime, a cutting board, and a knife
• Dahlias 
• Tres Leches cake
• Making my brother laugh
• Making EVERYONE laugh
• Teaching
• Writing
• Libraries
• Movies
• God.  And God all to myself (I prefer to not be an evangelist)
• Cattle ranches
• Flying in Cessnas and Piper Cubs
• Riding in Amtrak trains
• Dark chocolate with chilis
• Warm rolls
• Acceptance

P.S. - This song is the inspiration of today's installment of Life For Rent.  What's on your list?

That Song by David Gray, or, Defying Love

My brother is agonistic. This probably makes him stronger than I am.

This ain't no love that's guiding me.

*****

It's been one of those weeks where I wondered where my head was at the end of March when I signed off at the last employer. You have to have a strong stomach to do this, I thought all week. Probably a stronger one than I have. It's not just a financial aspect. It's proving yourself to what you did last. If you are alone and have no coworkers, do you make a noise when you fall in the woods?

This ain't no love that's guiding me.

I went to bed last night completely sad. Not just "Titanic" weepy (although it probably didn't help that I watched that movie just before bed), but downright alone. My mind tends to tangle up in knots way too easily these days. About the only moment of clarity I've had over the past week was a friend stopping by while I wrote at a cafe (God bless FourSquare) and this morning staring into the irises of paintings at the deYoung. Worse, all this shades of sad and alone were very boxed in. I couldn't get away from them, save for that brief respite of bending someone's ear over coffee yesterday. He's a computer whiz. He showed me a page he created on the web that allows him to follow his friends without signing into all of the popularity contest of Facebook, Google+, LinkedIn, Twitter, whatever. He showed me how he could see me.

I was shocked to find that I wasn't invisible. And I knew that should something happen to me, someone would know. Someone would see a pattern.

I do leave footprints. I'll be damned. Or am.

When you are alone, and don't punch a time clock, that is very, very difficult to prove.

This ain't no love that's guiding me.

*****

This coming week's agenda looks like this:

• Apply at all of the staffing agencies
• Lead writing groups on Monday and Tuesday nights (I am taking a break from the Wednesday group)
• Write a marathon of words on Friday
• Fly out of Northern California this coming weekend and go be with my family in Carlsbad

Oh, good, says the reader...she's off to where someone can shower her with love again for a little while, show her attention, make her happy. God knows we can't do it.

But my mother was here. Nothing is permanent, but occasionally she was here. She stopped in a couple of times this past week, and I believe she wouldn't have shown up if I would have been showered with love. Or showered with "like." Or acknowledgment.

This ain't no love that's guiding me.

Damn, right there. Her footprint. While I led a group in moving their pens, or sat in the library with the immigrants and homeless, while someone somewhere crowed about what is only followed on Facebook--through all of that turning of the Earth, my mother was present and whispered something I either couldn't hear or couldn't understand.

And then I wrote down a controlled burn of the forest I stood in and was immediately shown my footprint.

Ain't no love...that's...guiding me.

Skipped stones splash, happily defying love of gravity.

P.S. - This song is where today's title of Life for Rent comes from. Guide me.

That Song by Marvin and Tammi, or, Mountain Out (of a) Moraga (Hill)

When I was about thirteen my parents decided to have a pond dug on our property--3/4 of an acre, and deep as the contractors could haul it without getting the equipment stuck in the grade. Deep, of course, meant that the contractors had to displace a lot of dirt.

Normally backfill dirt is pushed around the area surrounding a pond, so that the dirt not only looks like it's part of the grand design (after some grass grows on it, that is) but so the pond appears deeper. But my mother would have none of that--she loved to travel, and her intention was to have her own mountain. Now, anyone who has seen that movie with Hugh Grant or has lived with in the mountainous parts of the world knows how high a mountain actually is, and we tried to correct the semantics on this one for Mom. In fact, the running joke was that this was not only not a mountain but it probably couldn't even be considered a hill--more like a "mosquito bite." But my mother stood fast--"Don't make fun of my mountain."

I don't anymore.

I climb a "mountain," too.

*****

It's no secret that I love the San Francisco Giants--in case you've forgotten, you can refresh your memory here. One of my favorite players on the team drifts back and forth along the infielder positions, and his name is Pablo Sandoval. In 2009 Pablo looked like the next Barry Bonds--making every pitch into a hit or a homer, with one exception...Pablo was happier than Bonds. You couldn't miss it--it was all over his face.

Pablo was happy ALL THE TIME. He was happy batting, happy in the dugout, happy blowing a big pink bubblegum bubble just as he caught and threw a fielded out. They started calling him the Kung Fu Panda, just like the cartoon, or Panda for short.

Last year, in 2010, something changed. Panda spent the season losing his batting average and adding pounds, and became quiet. It was hard to watch Panda benched. He looked benched in the body and the face. All that happy, gone.

My coworkers laughed at him, blaming food and food only, and Pablo's lack of willpower with food. I thought at first something was injured, somewhere, but he wasn't on the DL. You don't go on the DL for a broken heart.

I hesitate to give away too many details of Pablo's story from 2010, because a good measure of it could be rumor. But the rumors, what I heard after the season in December, made sense. Pablo was going through some personal life experiences last year that would make some tough guys cringe, but what was worse was that he was trying not to let the camera see these problems. In covering up the problem, he created a new one--get out of shape and sad (and worse, useless at what he loved) in front of the camera. When I found out what created all of this, I found myself to be a little rankled at all of the jokesters.

When you get what you want but not what you need, writes and sings Coldplay, and I got the feeling someone saw that need in Pablo on a level of friendship. Pablo knew he was out of a job if he couldn't start hitting, and he couldn't hit with the extra physical and emotional garbage hanging on him. So he worked with a trainer. They took him to hills, hot and sandy, in Arizona, and told him to run up those hills.

I'm sure to him, at the bottom both literally and figuratively, those hills looked like a mountains.

Lost souls, creating what they can't find but desperately need. My mother created a mountain out of a hill, and my happy hero leveled mountains. Today Number 48 for the San Francisco Giants brings a higher batting average than weight scale reading, which was not the case in 2010. Does he look any different? From the chin down, a little. Pablo has genetics and frame working against him to even think of being mistaken for Nyjer Morgan. But that face...oh, it breaks the heart. He's beautiful. He's that kind of unabashedly happy that I haven't seen in eleven years, that happy that takes the observer by surprise with its innocence and complete lack of agenda, the happy my mother used to have.

Have mountain. Will travel.

*****

There is a hill six blocks from my apartment, formally called "Grand View Park" because, once climbed, it gives you a view of almost the entire City, as well as Daly City to the south, the Golden Gate Bridge to the north, and the ocean to the west. To many locals in the neighborhood it is called Moraga Hill, named for the street that the hill severs between 15th and 16th Avenues.

Moraga Hill is steep--like many hills in the City--and there are sets of stairs on the east and west sides. The stairs on the west side are a zigzag set of wooden steps, like a vertical boardwalk. Those on the east side--my approach--are concrete, half drifted with sand, sometimes slippery with fog or rain. Each flight on the east side has a small landing. Sometimes, depending on my body, I have to stop one of the landings to catch my breath. I'm hoping that won't always be the case, and little by little I get to a higher and higher landing before I have to stop.

There are seven flights of stairs up the hill.

Do I want to climb the steps when I get up in the morning? Hell, no. It's work. Sometimes the fog is so thick that there's no view. (I call those my treehouse days--the fog closes in walls in the sky.) Regardless of the day I come down from the hill sweating and steaming like a Budweiser Clydesdale.

Do I need to climb the mountain? Hell, yes. I like my writing so much better when I get back to the apartment and scribble a few notes, fresh from the air, streaming sea spray and perspiration. Dogs meet me on the walk back and I offer my hand, knuckles first and slow, and they sniff and lick the salt deposit with absolute...unabashed...joy.

Onward, dear reader.

P.S. - This song is where the inspiration for today's post of Life for Rent comes from. Marvin is so dreamy... :)

That Song by Rod Stewart, or, Status Update

I'm writing this post on Tuesday because I have a hot date with nine guys in orange and black before my writing group on Wednesday, so this is another drop-and-go piece.

It occurs to me that there has been a lot of philosophy lately here and not much of an update from the first month I ventured out into this journey of unconventional employment, so here is an update, in so many bullet points...

Current writing projects:

• Four blogs - One on writing, this one, one that goes out with my resume to prospective employers, and the Examiner pieces. The writing and Notes blogs are daily four times a week, the resume one is once a week, and I'm trying to find a way to write the Examiner one without sounding dry. That's my challenge right now
• Short fiction rough draft cranked out daily four days a week. Next challenge is to be strong enough in the existing process to move into in-depth editing

Other projects:

• Getting in shape. I'm climbing seven flights of stairs every weekday morning and trying to get to the ocean once a week. The stairs are called my Pablo stairs after being inspired by him in "The Franchise." So far I am very, VERY sore and tight. My next challenge is learning how to stretch again
• Job searching. Yes, children, the money is dwindling down. Current irons in the fire are to a couple of temp agencies, Yelp, and, as always, the birthplace of my Kindle--Amazon
• Writing groups. I average about three of these a week, and lead all three. It's still fun, but I wish I had other leaders to follow. Just keeping my mind open and my heart full. (I sound like "Friday Night Lights.") I don't think I'll ever get tired of meeting other writers--I just hope they don't think I am the only one who can lead them. Not getting too close--that's my challenge here
• Staying balanced. I have the tendency to cling, so I don't want to wear out my welcome with people, but I don't want to abandon them. So I just get frustrated. I'm challenging myself to remove that frustration and let people reach out to me if they need me

That's where I am. And, oh, yes, I read too. I'm three books ahead of my goal of 50 for the year. I love my City, I love the Bay Area, and I go explore.

Onward, dear reader.

P.S. - This song is where today's inspiration for this post of Life for Rent comes from. I didn't put in the Spanish...but, you're welcome. :)

That Song for the Orange and Black, or, Strike

I suck at bowling. There's no other way to describe my bowling skills. When I was in high school that was often the past-time of choice Back in the States, and on one such occasion I went out with a group of girlfriends to an alley that had a group of guys about our age from another school in the next lane. I had displayed my awesome prowess of suckage-ness consistently throughout the evening, until at one point I got creative and did the "Grandma" bowl stance.

We've all seen it, suffered by little children and extremely aged adults. You put the ball down on the lane, and push it. It rolls about .0002 mph. And then it knocks over one pin and you're done. The ball is going so slow that the pins mess the ball up, not the other way around.

When I tried my Hail Grandma Mary push down the lane, the guys in the next lane broke into deep giggles. When the ball finally reached the pins, however, it knocked over EVERY. SINGLE. PIN. I got a strike.

"Oh, HELL no!" half the guys shouted, pointing at my strike.

That's what I said pointing at Brian Wilson's last strike on the night of November 1st, 2010.

*****

Once a year folks, at least, you gotta put up with a baseball post from me. It usually happens during trades, like this post about my beloved Bengie from last year from my writing blog. I hate trades. I go to sleep after a game the week of trades and wake up the next morning and the chess players are all rearranged. (No, I do not have a black and orange chess set. Maybe Santa will be nice to me for Christmas. Stop giggling.) I lost Bengie to trades and I was afraid this past weekend that I was going to lose Pat the Bat to trades (it's still possible, but I'm in denial). At one point the team beat writers on Twitter had me all worked up that there was a possibility that Bengie's brother Jose was getting traded to us from Toronto. I was genuinely happy for about 30 minutes--even though Zito was playing batting practice--until someone killed that off.

Last year at this time here's what was different with my favorite pastime:

• Getting seats at a decent price in places like Club Level at AT&T Park were easy--I went to one game a month there
• I got teased about my orange and black at Grainger. I was surrounded by White Sox, Reds, and A's fans. They just thought I was adorably naive and overly-devotional to the quirks of my guys rather than having my eyes open to the lack of offense in them
• I could walk down the street and through Golden Gate Park in San Francisco in my Giants' cap and get a "Go Giants" and a grin, every time

That was before we threw that Grandma Strike last November. Now:

• Decent-priced seats at AT&T now come from Stub Hub and usually involve freezing in the outfield, even though I still go once a month
• A former employee of mine that I used to be friends with hurled all kinds of frenzied gloating via text at me on Sunday when the Giants were swept by the Reds. I've experienced teasing--this wasn't teasing. This was pure hate all over my phone. I have to admit that I pitied him for being soooo victorious
• If I wear my Giants cap in the City either people smile or they tell me off. As though I own the team. And they are in San Francisco...not the East Bay

Let's reiterate something from last year and this year--I don't brag on these guys. I don't say, "Philly, just you wait." (That one's for Charlie Manuel.) I didn't send this Reds guy on Sunday a text prior to that series saying, "We gonna womp yo ass, yo." (In fact, this guy stopped texting me after I left Grainger, so I figured he was a flake and took his number out of my phone.) I also don't exclusively love the Giants...I tend to have a fondness for any underdog, because even when they suck they still have to play and they have to play with heart. They defy gravity, in terms of individual players like Kirby Puckett, Pablo Sandoval, and Prince Fielder, and in terms of teams, like the Tampa Bay Rays, the Texas Rangers, and the New York Mets. I love them because they play scrappy baseball, not the high-dollar, game-show, theme-park baseball that the fans of the Yankees and the Phillies enjoy. I love teams like the Giants who are in fact average athletes who have found a way to mill a diamond (no pun intended) out of a game with nothing else but sheer, unadulterated will.

It's a shame that the diamond milled was SO big last year, because now everyone hates the Giants or decided to jump on a bandwagon to love them just this past spring. But I'm still going. I'm a die-hard. I love my boys because they are good men that occasionally make great things happen.

*****

All throughout the playoff season of 2010, as the team beat each obstacle in their way, I found myself evoking a prayer. A simple prayer, one regardless of outcome, and probably most useful for any underdog winning the impossible:

"Please God, whatever happens, make them okay with it."

I still say it.

Onward, boys of summer.

P.S. - This song is where the inspiration of today's post of Life For Rent comes from. Hellll, yeah.

That Song by Amy Winehouse, or, Nyjer Morgan, or, Badass

This is the third morning in a row I've been awakened by a nightmare I was in the middle of. I hope I'm not screaming when this happens. I could just be a man about it and say, "Oh, it's your hormones."

Sigh.

When I worked at my last "traditional" job, I used to have nightmares that I was operating the counter all by myself and my employees were standing behind me laughing at me. Then I had to do it (without the jokesters, but still), and I was able to say to myself, "Well, at least we know you can do it." Which is roughly on par with saying, "Well, at least we know you can fire a gun at someone to go into war." Just because you can, doesn't mean you should.

The nightmares the last three days have been the larger social circle walking away and laughing at me living. I'm not sure where this renewed ridicule cycle comes from, except I do know this--it's probably been going on for a long time in Facebook circles (sorry, didn't mean to mix my Facebook and Google+ metaphors there) and I've just chose to ignore it. That's wise. I have a little less than ninety friends on Facebook and of those friends there's probably a very small number that read me or read at all, so my goal is to write for someone like me. If nothing else, I'm entertained when I go back to the page.

My high school reunion is coming up. I was asked recently if I was going. Probably not--I don't have a family or spouse of my own, and I can't imagine shucking out nearly a grand for an airline ticket to go and be psycho-analyzed for why I don't have those things. "You do what? Lead writing groups? How does that work?" Ten minutes, tops. I can answer those questions on Facebook. In fact, probably the only thing that would be assessed is how I move and how much weight I've gained since high school. I am thicker, but not by much. I wasn't thin in high school to begin with.

It all comes back to the passion. Those years in high school weren't my favorite--not because of the people but because I was trapped in a world that didn't get me. The one I'm in right now doesn't get me entirely either, but it's closer to me. And I've said it before and I'll say it again--I'm more interested in making friends from a passion than having friends from the same prison experience. Sharing the passion tends to keep the friendship longer, and make it stronger.

*****

Speaking of passions...I have a confession to make: prior to Saturday, I had no idea who Amy Winehouse was. I tend to tune out news of celebrities who party that hard, like Winehouse, or Lohan, or even the overexposed Lady Gaga. Gossip, whether in my circle or in Hollywood's, tends to bore the crap out of me. As to the Grammys and Winehouse--I usually don't watch the Grammys. When her last album was released I was unemployed at that time, too, with a lot less money and healing from a crappy relationship--hence, pretty closed up.

So Saturday, in a grumpy mood and feeling stupid, I admitted that I didn't know that "British singer" on Twitter--I called her that because if you use the person's name people worldwide can see your comment just by a person search and read you a riot act for not knowing her (I got a little bit, just a teensy one, of a chastisement for not knowing her anyway). I know this name trick because the night before I made the mistake of getting on Twitter when I was livid about Nyjer Morgan, an aging outfielder from San Francisco who now plays for the Brewers but got all "no you didn't" in the face of center field fans on Friday night. Nyjer is a fantastic fielder and has a batting average of .327, and he knows it. He has an alter-ego called T. or Tony Plush, which is what he tells the media his "gentleman's" name is, and it's interesting to hear him give a "gentleman's" name when Plush/Morgan is not what you would call a gentleman. He has a temper, yo. And a record of utilizing that temper on the field, both at fans and with opposing team members. On Friday he surprised all of us by interacting with the center field fans during a game, something the Giants fans have very little practice with. We get to see clowning for our benefit in batting practice, but other than that, the men play their game and we watch. When Nyjer starting engaging the fans, though, it snapped something in me. If for no other reason than kids look up to ball players and he was a ball player in the stands.

Keep in mind that for the last two games I have had the rotten luck of being surrounded on at least two sides by the opposing team's fans. Nyjer did help me out in that aspect on Friday--they all left when he started behaving erratically. In fact, the Giants' fan next to me with his grandson took that little boy up to the slide when Nyjer started acting like that--so he offended people. I was angry about his behavior and came home and tweeted about it--forgetting the cardinal rule of Twitter and using names. I got read the riot act. No wonder the nightmares. It appears that I'm a "Giants' crybaby" for thinking what I do. I could understand that if all the Brewers' fans around me hadn't left when Nyjer started in.

Brian Wilson = badass

Nyjer Morgan = just plain awful

But, despite NOT using Winehouse's name, I still got referenced. I had to give myself a break--waking up with nightmares, getting lambasted by Morgan fans, I just shut Twitter off, read a book, and listened to Winehouse. I thoroughly enjoyed her music, yes. I celebrated that. I didn't want to focus on the failure of her death. She reminded me of something a chef had mentioned earlier in the week on Twitter: "Why is it that people hype up failure instead of success?"

Well, according to Winehouse, Plush, my high school classmates, and me...I guess that depends your definition of success.

Onward, dear reader.

P.S. - This is where today's title of Life For Rent comes from. I cheated myself, like I knew I would...

That Song by Smash Mouth, or, the Baseball Prom

A couple of times this week I've been asked by on-line and SoCal inquiry alike, "So, are you all excited about the All Star game next week?"

Oh, hell no.

As I have mentioned in past posts, I'm a "let's-watch-the-mediocre-minor-league-team-do-something-miraculous" girl, to start with. I would rather see a game by the Rejects vs. the All Stars. For me, watching a game comprised of nothing but the best is sort of like watching those movies that are written for a lot of A-line actors but end up having the world's worst plot, like "How the West Was Won" or, more recently, movies like "Valentine's Day" or "He's Just Not That Into You."Ohhhh, look. Derek Jeter. Shane Victorino (yes, I know he's on the DL today, but I'm just sayin'). Tim Lincecum. Brian Wilson. If you want a parade like that, join Twitter and subscribe to the MLB feed. Spotlights are for media, and don't really make for good baseball.

Back in 2007 I LOVED having the All Star game in San Francisco, but not for the game. I loved it for Fan Fair. The Moscone Center was filled with baseball activities, history, World Series trophies, etc. I picked up a tee-shirt there with all of the nations minor league teams on it. (Some of the names are a giggle-fest, folks. Go Google and see.) As for the game, well, I didn't go. I had no desire to go. I didn't even go to the parade. And I have never, ever, seen the game.

In my mind's eye, if I want to see an "All Star" game, I have one of two choices:

• I can see a Yankees game, because at those salaries those fellas are "supposed to be" the best, or
• I can go to a Giants game. Because I will always love my scrappy Giants, whether they are at the bottom or at the top.

*****

The comments have been made, of course, that I want to see this year's game because Bochy is managing them and because the Giants are loading up the bullpen. I'm partial to the entire team, though. I'll miss Cody Ross. I'll miss Panda Bear. And, here's the worst of it...the entire team will be rested up while our pitching staff won't be. Ah, purposeful compromise. Yes, it's an honor. How about we just name them, though, instead of putting them through a game? How about every City gets a week of Fan Fair and meet the players and everyone gets a break? You could get named "All Star," like a Cy Young or Rookie of the Year or something, but give everyone the week off.

Pitch on, dear reader.

P.S. - This is where the title of today's Life For Rent post comes from. No, I wasn't thinking of Shrek when I picked it, heh heh.