The Incident on Lakeshore Ave.

I wasn't even supposed to be there, I should have been at work. But, early as the sunrise, 5:30 am, and my mobile is chirping and I'm fumbling for it on the dresser. It's my boss. He pulled out his back the other night and says stay home. He says, write it down like you went in to work anyway, and I say, of course you got it. Hell, it's not his money anyway but I appreciated the gesture. I thanked him and wished him well then sank back into my pillow.

Now it's afternoon and a friend and I are playing frisbee down at the panhandle park on Lakeshore Avenue. The grass is dry and brittle beneath my feet and the wind is gusting toward me. I catch the frisbee and have to really wind up to get it back to her. I almost hit a BMW across the street on a wild arc.

Our bag of groceries is nestled in some shade by the sidewalk next to my sandles. And here comes the frisbee far to my left, riding low and fast. I run to my side for it, but it's already behind me. Picking up speed I reach out for it, maybe even touch it, when out of nowhere comes an electrical transformer box and the full brunt of the corner tears into my sternum, square in my chest and ripping downward like a record player needle coursing the groove. My feet go out and I'm leveled on the grass, wind gone... breath shallow and sharp. Scared as hell I manage to sit up, feeling the shape of my ribcage. I'm not ready to look at the damage yet so I lay back down and try to fill my lungs. Gina is at my side now and she's saying something, I don't remember what, and I get hysterical and the laughter feels like a fillet knife between my ribs.

I'm imagining the all too common shtick of hollywood comedy, some wimp watching a beautiful woman right into a pole. I'm that guy. And that gets me going again. Gina is eying me now and I'm worried now either that I'm half-mad or have a bone sticking out of my shirt.

She helps me home, stopping on the hilltop curb. A numb across my chest is starting to fade and a throbbing pain is coming through. Gina hands me cherry tomatoes and keeps me talking. We're sharing embarrassing stories, we're talking about our childhood, and despite it all... it feels good, something real about the exchange and the sharing of a ridiculous moment.

Hooks in the water

With so many hooks in the water, it's hard to tell what will come up first. I find myself applying for positions that make no tangible sense regardless of the number of times I read the description and qualifications, skimming downward to compensation and noting a few keywords along the way, I apply. It's kind of fun... these many interviews always on one side of a long meeting-room table with nothing beside me but empty chairs, no lawyer or agent to assist. And on the other side, the business trifecta with stapled pamphlets in their hands, smiling and nervous. My last interview they were more nervous than I; that was a first.

They always come in threes. And I'm clueless to everything but the fact that they need to like me, the bottom line, and anything concerning my credentials would be a bonus. The next one is in a week. I'll crawl back to my old job until then and make a few dollars. I'm on a slow tour, my publicity is growing I can feel it. Makes me miss Idaho. It was so easy. Cold can beer fishing and never catching anything. The Bay Area tugs the line. I'm the fisherman that comes up with a dripping shoe, sole peeled up from the toe. I always liked that old cartoon cliché.

I was sipping a gin gimlet in the early Scottsdale evening with my feet dangling in the pool. Too Slim & The Taildraggers were managing to rock pretty good for a small group of businessmen and women, their spouses... all getting a little sloppy drunk at this point. Somewhere in the upscale community a neighbor is dialing the police for noise ordinance violation and soon a few uniforms will be at the front door. Back in the moment, life is serene and beyond doubt ridiculous.

New lows for Richie Sexson and the Mariners

The other night the Mariners extended their scoreless streak to 22 innings. Richie Sexson vented his frustrations on a run-of-the-mill high fastball above the plate (*click on title for link), choosing the most rash reaction by charging the mound. I've silently fumed about the past two weeks but now am fully ready to give my top five solutions for righting the ship.

#1- Get rid of Richie Sexson, freeing up millions of dollars and the hearts and minds of Seattle fans which have not seen one ounce of production out of this guy in three years.

#2- Fire McLaren and reinstitute a coach that's comfortable with breathing down the neck of pitchers and the pitching coaches (no more sitting back while relievers like Baek and Rowland-Smith put the game out of reach).

#3- Stop fucking with the rotation. Let hitters get in the groove a little bit and stop starting Burke one night and Kenji the next. A little consistency please.

#4- Bring back small ball. With extra speed in the batting order, attempt a bunt once in a while and start executing the hit-and-run (once again~ note: Mariners coach John McLaren couldn't pep up a fucking little league team).

#5- Pray things get better.