Dodgertown Glides Down the 5 - A Photo Essay

On the day before a major holiday, I usually hunker down and don't drive anywhere further down the super market. Not last Friday. Not on July 3, 2009. Nope, I joined the assholes who hit the freeways on an exit out of town.

Manny Ramirez was returning to action in San Diego and I couldn't resist. Not that I condone his probable steroid use. But, these days, no one's indiscretion surprises me anymore. I am growing more and more immune to guilty pleas. Besides, I had always wanted to visit Petco Park when the Dodgers were there and this seemed to be as good a day as ever. And I reasoned that, on the Friday before Independence Day, most people were off from work and already at their non-Los Angeles-based barbecues.

Wrong.

We were smart to leave about five hours before gametime for the two-and-a-half-hour drive down the 5 Freeway. (Okay, the Golden State Freeway, Bibster) Smart move, since we arrived just 45 minutes before game time, thanks to some extra pokey traffic around San Juan Capistrano. The swallows came and went twice in the time that it took us to get through that town. Because of the lengthy drive and an ill-timed Diet Snapple, I had to pull off and pee in a San Clemente gas station. I consider this my homage to Richard Nixon.

Headed down the freeway, I noticed that my vehicle was not the only one sporting a Dodger license plate. I sensed a religious revival in the making as if Billy Graham had beckoned us all to come forward and proclaim our eternal faith in Tommy Lasorda. As slow as we were all moving, I sensed that this was a Dodger wagon train and that Ward Bond was riding in the lead car.

The road to San Diego is scenic and ugly, sometimes all at once. There are beautiful flowers lining the highway at some points. The ocean is frequently at your right. Also, on the passenger car, you might find some nuclear power plants and power lines that define the truest sense of the expression "cancer cluster." At one point, there was a huge field of wood slats coming out of the crowd. How clever, I thought. Somebody is growing broomsticks for the Swifter company. Indeed, we eventually knew some sort of vegetable was involved when we spotted busloads of Mexican lettuce pickers getting transported out after their 17-hour work day.

I had purchased game tickets on Stubhub so I really was schlepping 130 miles for some mystery seats. All I knew was that we were seated in the Toyota Terrace. I was driving a Toyota there so I appreciated all the symmetry. When we slid into downtown San Diego, I followed the crowd to parking and found up in some lot about six blocks from the ballpark. I then pulled off a move that I had not seen since the days of my grandfather. The Diet Coke I had bought in the San Clemente gas station was now backed up and I actually peed in a corner near my parking spot. But, I was comfortable. As I looked around, we were in a sea of Dodger blue. Did the Padres have any fans going to this game?

Apparently not. This was an invasion akin to the Allies landing on Normandy. "Let's Go Dodgers" chants started on the escalator ascending the stadium and did not stop for hours. We had no idea how the ballpark worked, but figured the Toyota Terrace had to be someplace in the vicinity.

Indeed, we had scored the first home run of the game. Because the Toyota Terrace is a pretty exclusive area of seats on the same level as the press box and the luxury seats. While not a suite, there is waiter service for your hot dogs, burgers, etc.. A good thing because there are not a lot of concession stands on our level, although there is a tribute to the former Padre pitcher with the "Randy Jones BBQ" stand. We skipped that and settled into our seats. And the view was astounding as we surveyed all the wonderment of Petco Park.

This was our vantage point. You will notice to the left of the pitching mound the Padres' mascot, a Friar with a big head. It ain't the Chicken, I assure you. The Friar tries to get a frenzy going, but that's tough to pull when two thirds of the fans in attendance are rooting against the Padres. I am guessing most of the Padres' fan base had scalped their seats on Stubhub and headed off to the Zoo or Sea World.

Petco Park was built around this 100-year-old building that once housed the Western Metal Supply Company. They've turned it into a bunch of luxury suites but what isn't a luxury suite at Petco. They've crammed so much stuff in this place that there's hardly an inch of space that isn't occupied by people, food, or people ingesting food. Oddly enough, throughout our travels around the stadium, there is a minimum of souvenir stands. I did not see one. So just where did the twelve Padre fans in attendance buy their Adrian Gonzalez jerseys? A mystery for the ages. Or perhaps the Padres just don't deal in commerce for anything that's not eventually edible?

On the other side of the centerfield wall, there is a family section where you sit on the grass and watch the game. But, given the number of toddlers running around there, I doubt any adult here saw a single pitch thrown. As a matter of fact, I'm pretty sure the last Padre these folks saw swing a bat was Nate Colbert. Are there no neighborhood playgrounds in San Diego?

The post-game stories said that the reaction to Manny on his first at-bat were mixed. I now conclude that most of those reporters are deaf. There were a lot more cheers than boos. Perhaps they were too busy enjoying their pulled pork sandwich from the Randy Jones BBQ.

And the cheers did not subside on his last at-bat for the evening. By then, the Dodgers were comfortably ahead for the night. The only Padre threat was upended, with a tip of the baseball cap to poetic justice, by a spectacular catch from Manny's defensive replacement, Juan Pierre.

Since the Dodgers put this one away early, I used the down time to wander. And, unlike most places in America, you can do that at Petco Park pretty much unaccosted. There is no worry for terrorists there. Just walk around and see if one of the many 80-year-old ushers will stop you. The Padres obviously hire the elderly. There are probably assisted living complexes all over San Diego that are virtually empty for 81 days during every baseball season.

Here I am, literally standing next to the KCAL home plate cameraman and right under Vin Scully's press box window. Vin was just about six feet above me. I have no idea why my attention is diverted to the side. It's not like I was worried about an usher wheeling himself over to chase me. My God, my eyes look like one of those Jerry Mahoney dummies.

But the ability to get so close to Vin came me an idea. How about a picture of the two of us together? I'd be happy to autograph this for you, Mr. Scully.

As it turned out, we were awash with celebrity sightings. About twenty feet in the other direction, we saw the luxury suite of partial Padre owner and former Dallas Cowboy quarterback Troy Aikmann. That is him in the picture, although with the lighting, it just as well could be Jermaine Jackson.

There was a post-game fireworks show that also seemed to be dominated by Dodger fan still savoring their win. The pyrotechnics were impressive, but resulted in huge clouds of smoke. It was like I was 10 years old and this was the living room where my mom was chainsmoking through an episode of the Merv Griffin Show. If dolphins at Sea World were coughing on Saturday morning, I know why.

The Dodger caravan started its return trip up the 5. This time around, there was no traffic. Nestled into the car pool lane, I did 80 mph all the way up, Officer, and got back to LA in less than two hours.

And I did not have to stop and pee in San Clemente.

Dinner last night: Pork chops and sweet potato pancakes.

Monday Morning Video Laugh - July 6, 2009

Remembering Ed McMahon...

Dinner last night: Grilled hamsteak.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - My Second Summer Job

After my disastrous summer knee-deep in Carvel chocolate sprinkles, I gave my employment options for the following hot weather season a long think over the winter. This would be the summer prior to college and I needed to show the parental management team in place that I was doing my part to pay for higher education. Or at least for the books required for higher education. Or, at the very, very least, the slice of pizza that I could buy in between classes of higher education. And I had a great idea.

The most coveted job for any teenager in Mount Vernon, New York during those days was with the city's Recreation Department. There were about two dozen playgrounds across the town and each needed at least two supervisors to manage the kids. Professional and organized babysitting. Monday through Friday. And you only had to work into the night hours and close the playground twice a week. Sweet.

To get this plum assignment, however, you had to start laying the groundwork while there was still snow on the ground. My best friend in high school and I did just that. Got our applications. Provided our references. And then dealt with one more hurdle.

A Civil Service examination.

The test for the position of "Playground Supervisor" was a bitch. You literally had to know the rules and requirements of every game ever invented. Luckily, there was a study guide to help you remember how high a volleyball net needed to be. How far apart wickets were to be on a croquet course. And exactly what a shuttlecock was.

Forget the fact that the city had virtually no supplies for any of the above. No volleyball net. No croquet mallets. No shuttlecocks. You still needed to know what the hell they were. And pass the friggin' test, so you could at least go on the list for any open positions.

I studied hard and, yes, a shuttlecock is the thing you hit in a badmitton game. Score! We both passed. Where are our playground keys please?

Not so fast, they said. After all, this is city government and certain strands of red tape must be cut. In this case, the definition of "red tape" is specifically "who do you know in City Hall that can get you this job?"

Now, the commissioner of the Mount Vernon Recreation Department in those days was some Mafioso (who wasn't) named John Branca. John's brother was famed Brooklyn Dodger pitcher Ralph Branca. And anybody who ever frequented a Mount Vernon saloon apparently knew Ralph Branca. This was my sixth degree of separation. I had a solid connection.

Dad. After all, he frequented Mount Vernon saloons and...

"Okay, I'll make the call."

I got a cushy assignment. My playground was a mere six blocks from home. The Purdy Tot Lot (seen in its current incarnation above). Who Purdy was is still a mystery to me. But it was your basic playground with swings, slides, a play area, and some benches under a big awning.

On my first day, I donned my official Recreation Department t-shirt and headed out to make a difference in these kids' summer. For some reason, there were three supervisors assigned to the Purdy Tot Lot. Stephanie was an adorable college student and I immediately thought she would make a difference in my summer as well. I quickly found out she was married and unavailable and, of course, who wasn't in those days. Nevertheless, we quickly bonded, primarily because we were the only two White people in the entire playground.

And then there was Big Mabel Brown. Both adjectives in her name were correct. She was and she was. Mabel had been part of the Mount Vernon Recreation Department since balls were round. I was working alongside a veritable institution in the neighborhood as "Miss Mabel." And she had a very definite opinion on how to supervise a playground, which she quickly extolled to us when we tried to start a kickball game.

"These youngins don't want to play no games. It's too hot. They rather play cards."

Huh? But, what about all those rules and regulations I had to learn for the test?

"They like their 500 rummy."

There was no arguing Big Mabel Brown. And that's pretty much what those kids from the age of 7 to 13 did all summer. Play cards. You name it. They dealt it. And it wasn't long before they taught me to play them like a Mississippi riverboat gambler. I don't think I touched a ball the entire summer.

Of course, there was the idle activity every once in a while and I'd have to get something out of the supply cabinet.

"Mr. Len, I want crayons."

Ten minutes later...

"Mr. Len, I'm done with the crayons."

There was one hyperactive kid named Drexel who liked to climb the monkey bars in between poker hands. One afternoon, he came over to see with a rather innocent question.

"Mr. Len, my shoulder broke. Can you pop it in?"

Huh?

"Miss Mabel do it all the time."

There was a first aid primer we had all received, but there was no time to check the table of contents. I grabbed his arm and pushed it upward. I heard something click.

"Thank you, Mr. Len." Off went Drexel.

Of all the summer jobs I ever had, my time at the Purdy Tot Lot was the best. You sat, you read, and you occasionally cleaned a neighborhood kid out of ten cents during a game of gin rummy. When, during the following winter, I was asked about my desire to return to the Mount Vernon Recreation Department, my hand was quickly raised.

Except I didn't know at the time that you were never re-assigned to the same playground. Except for Big Mabel Brown, everybody was moved. And I wound up at the Howard Street Playground AKA Hell on Earth.

I had coasted in an all-Black pre-teen neighborhood. Howard Street was, however, all White, all Italian, and everybody there was already sporting some pubic hairs.

"Forget the dodgeball, Mr. Playground Supervisor Asshole. When do we get to have sex?"

Help. Anybody.

To complicate matters, my female counterpart there was a fox. Collette. Mount Vernon High School cheerleader. Cute as a button and she knew it in spades. If I had a shot at her, I'd have to stay in line behind some of the randiest fifteen-year-olds you'd ever want to meet. All had a common goal. To get Collette in the supply closet. More than once. With or without condom.

In the current photo above, Howard Street looks pretty tame. But, back then, it was anything but. The kids smoked, drank, and pretty much abused any level of authority, which was primarily me. It wasn't long before I realized Collette was always exiting said supply closet with a big smile on her face. I'd get no help from her. I was totally alone with the Sharks and the Jets. Organizing a punchball game with me substituting for the ball.

There was one time when some creature decided to bring his pet boa constrictor to torment everybody. Well, not everybody. Primarily me. There are not many arguments you can win when somebody is holding a nine foot long snake in front of your eyes. By the end of July, the whole playground looked like Babylon and I don't mean Long Island. I had lost control of the entire situation. Word leaked back to the powers that be and I was unceremoniously moved to the playground two blocks away. I probably was lucky to keep the T-shirt.

The new assignment was a little quieter. Most of the denizens were teenagers who were pretty much content to sit under a tree and make out. I left them alone and buried my nose in a book. I didn't need to watch kids five or six years younger doing something that I wasn't.

By the end of that summer, I decided to forego the Recreation Department job for the next year. For all I know, they could have sent me to a softball field in Hanoi.

Yep, my next summer job would have to be different. And it was...

To be continued.

Dinner last night: Picnic snacking at the Hollywood Bowl.

Classic Newsreel of the Month - July 2009

Perfect for today's holiday. A newsreel from the 40s that's really a singalong. Feel free to join. And please stand and remove your caps.

And an added holiday bonus...70 years ago today...

Dinner last night: A Petco Park hot dog. Photo essay in the works.

Store For Sale

Dinner last night: German cold cuts and salad.

Is It Possible to Flush a Hollywood Bowl?

It was an ignoble start of my Hollywood Bowl season last Saturday night. Actually, it was the worst evening I ever spent there. Oh, the venue was, as usual, perfect. The pre-concert picnic snacks were yummy. There was a light lilting breeze.

And then the show started.

Okay, I should have known better when I originally bought my passel of Bowl tickets for the summer. This one was entitled "Abba: The Music." Specifically, the music. Not the group itself. There was no deception intended. And, what we got was Abba: The Music. And barely that.

From the outset, it looked like the assembled crowd didn't care. I missed the embedded e-mail about wearing my pink cowboy hat with its flashing lights. Most did not. The Bowl was awash with this ridiculous noggin accessory. Women, children, men. Everybody looked like Dale Evans at Studio 54. And most of the folks had been fairly well pickled before they even had their tickets wanded at the gate. They were here to party, regardless of whether the music was even remotely connected to the original artists. Abba-mania was in full throttle. Or Abba Light. Abba Adjacent. You pick the adjective. It just wasn't really Abba.

But the evening's ruse even had an opening act. Super Diamond, described as Neil Diamond's back-up group. Or garage band. I couldn't really tell, except that the lead guy thought he was Neil himself. When he began to croak in his best raspy voice "Love On the Rocks," dogs started to howl as far as Loma Linda. It was like an "American Idol" audition that the producers didn't get clearance to air.

Again, people didn't care. Wine purchased at the 99 Cent Store tends to do that to you.

Super Diamond's time on stage was about 45 minutes or 45 days. I couldn't tell the difference. They did the number from the "Jazz Singer" movie, "They're Coming to America," and I realize that, in the 29 years since that song came out, it is no longer considered a positive that people are indeed coming to America.

Naturally, the closing number was the official sing-along of Major League Baseball, "Sweet Caroline," and the crowd went into frenzy just as I was looking for a way to experience temporary deafness. Luckily, I had brought along the retro transistor radio the Dodgers had given away in a promotion two months ago. The radio that gets only one station---KABC which carries the Dodgers game. I popped the ear buds in and hoped to sweet Hell that Charlie Steiner and Rick Monday could drown out my misery.

After intermission, the headline act (and I use that term in the loosest nomenclature possible) came on stage and my mental tumor became inoperable. The lead guy of "Abba The Music" reveled in the crowd's welcome and that they "were happy to be back at the Bowl." Oh, my God, I thought. This was a return booking? Wasn't that talent coordinator fired the first time???

The music sounded like Abba, but then again, I can sound a little like Mel Allen if I exclaim "How about that!" Inexplicably, they played some Abba songs that nobody recognized. If you're going to go through the trouble of doing bad cover versions of songs, make sure your drunken audience knows them. All those mystery tunes managed to do was give some of the sots around me an opportunity to take a breathe and another swig from their dime store chardonnay.

Not that there wasn't any connection to the original Abba group. They brought out some old guy who played the flute and saxophone for them in 1977. He actually was the best part of the evening, but just might have dropped dead backstage after the show. Some other coot came out as one of their original guitarists. He showed off his vintage 1956 Les Paul guitar, which actually prompted my biggest laugh of the evening. Two Dumb Doras sitting behind me were admiring the guitar. And you can't write this kind of comic exchange if you tried.

"Wow, a Les Paul. I think he just died," said the first dope.

"No, I think you got him mixed up with Ed McMahon."

I couldn't stop laughing for ten minutes, which got my mind off the tazering that my ears were being subjected to. I wondered, in what universe, Ed McMahon was a renowed guitarist. And I began to think whether, if Obama is really worried about torture, we were going to be released like those terrorists at Gitmo.

Naturally, the closing number was a tribute by Fake Abba to Michael Jackson and I fear this will be a common practice all summer at the Hollywood Bowl.

"Here is Beethoven's piano concerto #2 and it was playing in the O.R. the day when Michael was having his skin graft after catching on fire in 1985."

Mercilessly, the referee finally called it a TKO and we were off to the parking lot. To make matters worse, they changed the traffic patterns around the Bowl exits and the resulting automotive melee made last week's Iran elections look like a canasta game at the Rosenblatts. The Bowl has been in place successfully since the 1930s. You want to change the parking lot access now??

It shouldn't be this hard. A pleasant summer's evening of great music at the best venue in the world. It can only get better in future weeks. Right?

I'm bringing along the Dodger transistor radio just in case.

Dinner last night: Evelyn's Favorite Pasta at the Cheesecake Factory.

First Michael Jackson-less Wednesday Since 8/29/58

And the last that will be acknowledged in this blog. Is it possible that Michael's death has already jumped the shark?

---I love all the news reports about Ma and Pa Jackson. Talking about how involved they were in his life.

---If they were so involved, how come they didn't do something to help him?

---Maybe it's me, but I would find it tough to look the other way when my son has a monkey in his bed.

---Or Macauley Culkin.

---Waiter, two plates of sanity, please.

---Meanwhile Dad is already talking about starting his own record label and I'm wondering if he's been told there isn't any money in Michael's mattress.

---I won't be surprised if Joe Jackson sells ad space on the casket.

---My father had an expression for what is going in the Jackson family these days.

---"N*g**e* R*ch."

---Meanwhile, how many autopsies do you need to determine that your son was fucked up?

---Michael Jackson has had more autopsies than JFK Jr. took the NY State Bar exam.

---If they cut him up any more, they can bury him in pieces all over the United States.

---Rumor has it his left index finger is already up on Craig's List.

---And another rumor says that somebody stole his brain.

---Come on, folks. I saw Michael as the Scarecrow in "The Wiz." He didn't have one.

---Now they say there will be a public viewing of what's left of him at that animal farm in Santa Barbara. Bring a microscope. You'll need it.

---Okay, I'll stop now.

---Meanwhile, I finally figured out that Carnac joke that I was grappling with last week.

---"Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, and Michael Jackson."

---Envelope rrrrrrrrip.

---"Name a dead man, a dead woman, and who knows."

---Okay, now, I will stop.

---Geez, if you were sick in Hollywood, I am thinking you were really holding your breathe. So many people checked out last week.

---Gale Storm, our little Margie. Fred Travalena.

---Well, you know what they say out here. They always go in groups of seven.

---And I'm not even counting that Oxi Clean guy, Billy Mays, who also croaked over the weekend.

---From those commercials, he always told you to "act now."

---Now, aren't you sorry you didn't?

---And major points off to anybody who heard about that guy dying and thinking it was Willie Mays of the Giants.

---On deck at death's door: Walter Cronkite. And that's the way he was.

---In the world of the living, there was some sort of big deal in Niagara Falls. A high school couldn't make a decision and wound up with five valedictorians at graduation.

---They said they didn't want to hurt the kids' feelings.

---Oh, please. For Pete's sake, strap on a pair and make the call. One kid is the smartest one. The other four, have a seat.

---That's the problem these days. We're overly sensitive. This was a perfect time to send a message to these kids. There will always be one person better than they are.

---Later on, how will they react when they go for a job and don't get it??

---Life and shit happens.

---Bernie Madoff, it's been a slice. See you in 2159.

---This past week, Len Speaks apparently, according to my site counter, welcomed its first reader from Australia. Which means I can now piss somebody off a day later. Or earlier. I'm never quite sure of the time diff.

G'day, Mate.

Dinner last night: Reuben sandwich at Cafe 50s Diner.