Malingering’s World

Sorry Nationals. You lose.

It was a very, very hot day. Something like 94 degrees for most of the game.

Yay for Russell Martin’s home run!

And yay for broken bats.

Furcal turns yet another double double play play.

Fick goes face first.

Russell in the run-down.

Saito came in the 9th with a 9-9 tie.

Kent scored the winning run in the bottom of the 12th on a sac fly from Shea Hillenbrand.

Woo hooooooooo!

Still collecting donations for the Prostate Cancer Fight Gone Bad. Anything helps.

August 29th marks the day I was introduced to a phenomenon I have been kept in the dark about for some time: RENTAL MAN. I am ashamed to say I have lived on the westside for so many years without ever coming to know RENTAL MAN the way I experienced today, but I feel certain that my life will never be the same.

Today was one of my favorite days of summer: ditch work and go to the game with Dad day. I’m not sure whether it was the biased selection process or simply random independent events, but we ended up sitting near some pretty cool Dodger fans: The kind that know their stuff, don’t act like fucktards, join in my cheers, and have a quick wit. We were also sitting a few rows up from the great legend himself, RENTAL MAN.

I first noticed this being after Matt Kemp homered in the 7th. I was so distracted by the upright grand mal seizure in red striped spandex with asscrack sweat, I missed Matt Kemp’s little “thanks God for the homer!” salute to the heavens as he crossed home plate. I briefly chastised myself for my inability to attend to what is truly important (the baseball) until I learned that this was not just any looney white guy on meth but actually a soon-to-be legend.

It didn’t matter if there was music, if the game was going on, or if anyone was watching because this guy would start having epileptic fits for no apparent reason. They lasted for 30-40 seconds and while there was no loss of bowel or bladder continence, it seemed there was a loss of control of his tongue movements.

The rather cool fans next to me tried to predict what Rental Man’s demise would be in the end. Dehydration from extreme 94 degree heat? A trip to the county jail’s psychiatric evaluation unit? Running off with a scantily clad tube-top tittie woman? What would become of him?

Rental Man started in our aisle, but slowly made his way around Dodger Stadium until he had blessed all corners of Chavez Ravine with his presence. From the first base side foul pole to the last row behind third base, he spread his enthusiasm as effectively as possible. The game went into extra innings and he continued on, dancing frenetically into the 10th and 11th innings.

Unfortunately, Dodger Stadium security was not nearly as amused. We weren’t sure exactly what Rental Man did to upset them, but he was forcibly pushed out after penetrating the sacred area behind home plate. Security swarmed around him and shoved him up the stairs.

Most interesting was the crowd’s reaction to this act. The entire field and loge sections, perhaps delirious from 4 hours in the heat or maybe just looking for something to believe in, started chanting “RENTAL MAN! RENTAL MAN!” throughout the bottom of the 12th inning. It didn’t matter who was batting or what was going on, the stadium shook with “RENTAL MAN! RENTAL MAN!” I watched the replay of the game on TV when I got home and sure enough, you could hear us on Fox Sports. Even dad was cheering.

Whatever magic Rental Man laid upon Dodger Stadium will forever remain sacred, as the Dodgers pulled together in the spirit of Rental Man, and won the game in the bottom of the 12th as Kent slid headfirst into home plate on Hillenbrand’s sac fly. Thank you Rental Man.

Thank you.

This image wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the woman attached to this ass. She talked so loud that everyone in the restaurant was staring at her (except for the man she was with). We were 4 tables away and could hear everything out of her mouth. And everything into her mouth. She complained about the quality of the poached egg atop her eggs benedict and then proceeded to shove the entire thing into her mouth. In one bite. Our mouths dropped open. Then she yelled at the waitress again. Then when she wanted whatever was left over (nothing more than a piece of toast), to the utter shock of the kitchen staff she invited herself back into the kitchen and took a sheet of foil out to wrap up the toast. Incredible.

Taking the bus to work in the mornings is driving me insane. By the time I get to work I am pissed off and grouchy and I feel like my day has started all wrong. It’s starting to make me crazy.

Like I said in the last post about public transportation woes, I take the bus to work 3 times/week. These are the 3 days/week that I show up totally pissed off.

The nearest bus stop to get me from my apartment to work is 1/2 mile from my apartment at one end and 1/2 mile from my office at the other end. I suppose I could transfer and take a bus on either end for that half mile, but this means waiting for another two buses which is aggravating in itself and increases my bus travel time to 32 minutes and my fare by 60 cents each way, which is stupid. THIRTY TWO minutes to go less than 3 miles, and it would still be a 5 minute walk to each bus stop making this a 42 minute trip. In my car: 7 minutes. Cost of gas to go 3 miles: about 40 cents.

Wait, what?
7 minutes vs. 42 minutes.
$2 vs. $0.40. Damnit.

But despite the fact that time is money and I’m losing out on both here, I have decided to take the bus because it seems dumb to drive 3 miles and I hate looking for parking and because I’m afraid to ride my bike with all of the stuff I have to carry because I am super clumsy and will probably get run over and I am trying to do my part to not use up so much gas, even if it is less than 1/20th of a gallon. Also I get nostalgic for NYC and try to prove to myself that I can burst out of the car culture bubble that we call LA. 

So I take the bus and I walk the 1/2 mile on either end of the trip which reduces my bus riding time to about 10 minutes but my walking time to about 20 minutes so we’ll call it an even 30 minutes plus bus waiting time. I don’t mind walking, but carrying my books, my laptop, my lunch and a change of shoes (can’t walk a mile in my working shoes) makes it a bit more than just a walk. Add in that it is 85 degrees outside and I’m already sweating by the time I get to the bus stop. Then I get on the bus and there is never, ever a seat so I’m standing up the whole way with all of my stuff and the bus driver never, ever turns the A/C on so I start sweating even more. Then I get to my destination and walk the next 1/2 mile, so that when I actually get into the office I have sweat running down my face and back. At this point I have to go into my office, lock the door, take off my clothes and stand in front of the fan for 5 minutes to cool off. No one’s walked in on me yet. Then I change my shoes, comb my hair, put my clothes back on and start the day.

The other problem I’ve been having is the “exact change” issue. I only ride the bus 3 times/week because the other 2 days I am at a location that literally would take 3 1/2 hours by public transportation (or 35 minutes by car) and I absolutely refuse to waste 6 hours/day on the bus which is like a double header every single day which is too much for even your best trained athlete. At 3 times per week it does not pay off to get a monthly pass, so I have to use “exact change” to get on the bus. Despite scrounging for coins, hoarding quarters, picking up dimes from the side walk, checking pay phones for loose change, digging in the couch cushions, and closely following overweight men whose pockets jingle, I still can’t seem to come up with the right number of coins to ride the bus. I may have to start panhandling.

This morning, a passenger got into an argument with the bus driver about where the bus stopped. He’s causing a ruckus which forces those people in between to raise their voices because they are all making important phone calls. The driver yells back and I realize he’s never going to turn on the A/C now because this jackass pissed him off. People start talking louder. Ipods are turned up. Everyone escalates. I’m trapped in a rectangular box of chaos with no way out.

Then there is the issue that causes the most anxiety: the schedule. In my car, if I am running one minute late then I get to work one minute late, which I can handle. On the bus if I am running one minute late (and miss the bus) then I am 15 minutes late to work because I have to wait for the next bus. This is more pressure than I can handle. Also Milo and Zumi are getting upset (no I can’t scratch your chin, I might miss the bus) and I’m feeling rather neglectful (open the cat food yourself, I’m late!) which I hate. It seems that no matter what time I leave the apartment, the bus arrives (and departs) my stop about 20 seconds before I get there. This is nice because I get to see it pull away from the stop and take off down the street while I’m huffing and sweating and angry at the realization that it happened AGAIN. I’ve started taking notes on my Treo of what times the buses come, but it’s never the same time from one day to another and despite my best efforts I cannot come up with an algorithm to optimize my bus boarding time.

This is why I will never, ever tell people that they should take the bus and if they don’t then they hate Mexicans or whatever was said in the other articles. It’s a pain in my ass, it doesn’t save me anything, and the experience is not particularly enjoyable. But I will continue to do it myself, mostly because I am stupid. 

 

What better place to show off your boob hicky than at Viva Los Dodgers?

Every year since 1997, Dodger Stadium hosts the Viva Los Dodgers festival prior to the game. It is a celebration of the Latino community as well as a place to get a ton of free stuff. This was my first year in attendance, and of course I chose the year that it was 95 degrees outside. Good thinking.

This man was incredibly dedicated to collecting the free loot: insulated coffee mugs, t-shirts, lunch bags, soccer balls, hats, necklaces, foam fingers that were available that day. This task was less a scavenger hunt than a test of patience and will. There were lines which put the crowds in front of Dodgers concession stands to shame; people literally waited for hours in 95 degree heat under the glaring sun for a chance to spin the wheel of fate at the Farmer John booth to end up with a free soccer ball or lunch box.

Even the chance at a free Dodger foam finger couldn’t lure me into one of these time sucking vortices. It was hot enough that you expected satan to emerge at any moment welcoming us to his barbecue. I nearly melted.

This family was smart enough to bring grandpa in the wheelchair. Although the handicapped placard didn’t bump her to the front of the line, the wheelchair provided a place to hang all of the bags of freebies. Plus grandpa could hold their place in line while they went to the beer garden. Good thinking on that one.

‘

There was a ton of entertainment going on, of course I hadn’t heard of anyone and should be ashamed.

The headliner of the day was Gloria Trevi. Since I am a social outcast and out of touch with reality so far as to not even listen to the radio, I have no idea who this woman is. I can tell you a few things: she’s not a great dancer, she’s not a great singer, she has a severe case of leopardsy and she wears her underwear on the outside of her pants.

Quite possibly the best moment of the entire day was when she sang the National Anthem before the ballgame. She was still wearing the leopardsy tights with gold sparkly cowboy boots, but had put a Dodger jersey on to cover up her camel toe. Her singing was so atrocious that Matt Kemp started giggling – right when they put his face up on Dodgervision. Of course then the entire crowd started giggling; fortunately for Gloria, one’s ability to perceive the reactions of others is markedly decreased in most cases of leopardsy, so she remained unaware of the situation.

Now this is why I attend festivals. It wasn’t for the free stuff, it wasn’t for the music, and it wasn’t to share the Dodger spirit. It was for this.

Free face painting!

Trying to figure out which unfortunate volunteer had to do this woman’s titties.

There was so little relief from this heat that people plunked themselves down and filled every inch of shade they could find. The Dodgers also provided misting fans (a.k.a. cool zones) which spray water at you and blow it around full force. This may have accounted for the veritable wet t-shirt contest that was going on in each corner.

All these years I thought Grimace had died from coronary artery disease. Of all the McDonald’s folk he seemed the most likely to be suffering from the adverse effects of poor nutrition and excessive amounts of trans-fats. You knew the Fry Guys wouldn’t have such a problem as they were always on speed and had no appetites, and Hamburlgar was in jail frequently enough that he was saved from super-sizing. I was happy to see Grimace alive and well, though at this point he’s probably on Lipitor and Plavix.

Unfortunately, the Hooters girls never made it to the Cool Zones and just fanned themselves with cardboard fans handed out by the radio station vans. The Hooters girls were there to hand out stickers that say “I HEART HOOTERS” to little 9 year old boys. It’s important we train them early so by puberty there is absolutely no question in their minds that females exist to be sex objects. Why leave room for doubt?

Viva Los Dodgers!

But beer is definitely a depressant, as we can see here.

I really don’t understand how people can get comfy in these seats. I have a hard time being comfortable in them, and I am 1/3rd their size. Either the beer has numbed their senses or they are just amazingly tired.

Either way, baseball should be appreciated, not snored at. Sigh. Rookies.

I was sitting in the grass enjoying a fine afternoon and all of the sudden these dirty nasty exhibitionists come up in front of me and splay out their pigeon privates as if this is Noah’s Ark or something. Freedom isn’t free, I can tell you that much.

If you can’t keep your pants up, DON’T DO THE WAVE.

This poor man would never survive the South Bay way of life. Once he crossed into a beach city they would strap him down, wax him, yank his pants down about 4 inches and tattoo his back. I’m not sure what they’d do with his nightstick. I haven’t spent THAT much time down there.