Thursday, October 12, 2017
Wednesday, October 11, 2017
God Bless Santa Monica
"God Bless Santa Monica"
Santa Monica: Saint Monica, mother of Saint Augustine, born on November 13th, the Virgin's number, and followed Mani, the supposed incarnation of the Holy Spirit, beheaded, and his body stuffed with straw before being hung on a gate. Though Mani was better than we think; regardless, Saint Monica wept for her son. Saint Ambrose, I believe, said that a mother who weeps for her son; next, that boy will live forever, as does the Son of David, Christ.
And back in the 80's--I experienced the City of Angels, twice. Cross country drive, through Apache territory. Running into the Tribe at a gas station during the witching hour, my buddy "Ham" alongside. We got outta there, kinda frightened, but respected them; then, drove my Mustang into the desert and took our pisses with the water-filled cacti.
The City of Angels was gorgeous in the 80's. Rock and Roll; plus, no traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard. Memories are fireproof. I lost my QUEENSRYCHE album underneath a hotel couch out there, and I was only 18.
Baseball: Charming
"Baseball: Charming"
A humble physician told me that baseball is synonymous with the word: "Charming."
A psychology, or wiser--a spiritual war between pitcher and hitter, with a catcher involved. Everyone needs a safety net. But you have to ask God for new challenges. And you take your toddler to the games, get hot dogs and a Coke. You step-up to the plate. You never run, for exile is only reserved for daring bards, like Joyce.
Would you put your toddler in a nursing home? He's not there. He's as dumb as a fruitcake, can't even read, doesn't have fully developed motor skills, and is a nuisance. It's bad enough that you take him to daycare. Stay at home, whether Mom or Dad. Your child deserves a parent. How long would that child last in a nursing home? You mean like all the elderly dead from heat exposure after the hurricane, when there was a hospital right next door?
Facilities suck. It's a duty of you as a parent to make sure your kid's household doesn't suck. I'm a lousy father, somewhat. But always in communication and gifting, something my father was never allowed to do with me. It was still great as hell to know my father, and my son feels the same way--no matter what the dillweeds say about me.
Family is all you have. I consider my ex-wife family. She's a Wookiee. Hairy Italian. And I still love her, as a sister. Maybe there's new wine for me in the form of a woman. But I'm rarely thirsty for such intoxicating seduction. There are more imperative things than carnal cravings. Such as watching baseball with family. No yelling at the television. No stress. Slow, yet fluidic. As Slash from Guns and Roses would say, as he did about the song NIGHT-TRAIN: "It's just a walk in the park."
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