The Story Of My Fucking Life


Posted by ilbebe on February 4, 2012

First things first. Primo? Primo. Victor. Victory? Victoria.

Happy Birthday! to both Bethany and C H-R. 31 and 27, respectively. And respect is what everyone deserves at all times, not just on their birthday.

So if big black bugs bleed blue blood, then why did Steve Garvey retire as a Dodger? He used to be Yankee navy and off-white, and then when he was at his best he was brown, yellow, and orange. Yet somehow, his succession of successes led him to adopt Angeleno sun-bleached coke teeth white and goddamn Brooklyn Blue, and that is the faded coat of blue that that motherfucker wears now.

He hit the shot that ultimately paved the way for the Padres go to their first World Series in 1984, where they were to be swept in four by Felix Hernandez and the Detroit Tigers. Lee Smith, the future of relief records that would not fall until Hells Bells Hoffman of the Friars, threw him a sweet one that he put over the right-center wall. My favorite player ever, in his second year, rounded third ahead of him to score the winning run, and the rest of the team stormed out of the dugout to take the hero home. Fans stormed the barricades of the stadium to chant his name, and the crowd refused to disperse for hours. The bars in Ocean Beach, Golden Hill, and Banker’s Hill were open past dawn and then the next dusk. The fucking Night Owl on Garnet probably left the Goddamn door open for once.

I got the opportunity to narrate a commentary on that astounding moment when my Godmother and her loving husband of nearly forty years, now, took me to the All-Star weekend FanFest at the San Diego Harborside Convention Center in July of 1992. I sat down at a booth, they paid some jerk-off five bucks, and then he handed me some headphones, advised me to speak into the mic, and said “Oh, there’s notes on that yellow sheet if you need to fill some time.”

The session was recorded directly to VHS tape, and I still have the only copy. It’s quite a crack-up. It’s less than four minutes long, and inbetween trying to update the fans on Lee Smith’s regular season stats, Gwynn steals second and then Garvey knocks it out of the fucking yard. Not the ballyard entire, but past the outfield fence. Far enough, in other words. My comment at that point is primarily focused on the crowd’s reaction, which I surmise as “The fans are happy!”

“Padres win!”

The Padres have still never won the World Series, and I hope they never do, because they way they lose is fucking hilarious. They might start winning if the weather in Whaley’s V gets worse and wetter, but it won’t until the Coronado Bridge is dismantled and floated out on the Nimitz to the Midway point of the Great Pacific Plastic Vortex.

That’s not going to happen anytime soon. Pffff.

My prediction for tomorrow: everyone wins. In a match of Patriots and G-Men, there cannot be any losers. It’s going to be a really fun time, and I’m glad that on my friend Chris Long’s birthday, the Big Game will be held in the capital of his home state. Gene Hackman, still ten feet. Two-five and rising to twelve. Also of note is that this big game is for Ben Gazzara, because Brad Wesley makes his own movies, and Minneapolis’ finest exports explain it expertly on the final track of Stay Positive.

Happy early birthday, Chris. Up and up and up, like the craven raven. Baltimore’s buried, weighed down with barium, so don’t worry about the Maryland men.

It’s going to be a Sunday for the gente.

And it’s going to get LLLOOOUUUDDD!!


-10:54AM, 2/4/12, home, senses tingling as I dance across these big black keys…


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