Take me out to the ballgame at Dodger Stadium

The first live Major League Baseball game I ever attended was June 8, 1964, with cousin Rick, who taught me how to keep score, and Uncle Dave and Dad, who chain smoked and talked. Sandy Koufax and Maury Wills faced the Reds and Frank Robinson and won 2-1. And the second game at Dodger Stadium came 48 years later, thanks to Shoe and the Shoe Family. We saw a game in the "Freeway Series" between the Dodgers and the Angels, which the Dodgers won 5-2.

It was a hoot to see Albert Pujols, Andre Ethier, Bobby Abreu, Torii Hunter, and Mike Scioscia in the flesh. It was Mike Scioscia bobblehead night. (I saw him with the Albuquerqe Dukes back in the day, along with Davey Lopes, Ron Cey, Steve Garvey, and Tommy Lasorda, among many others.)

Getting the honor of throwing out the first pitch was Ret. Army Col. Bea Cohen, 102, California's oldest living woman veteran. She threw a wicked slider.

A true Orioles fan, I was the only one who sang, "O's!" during the National Anthem.

Right fielder Torii Hunter batted second.

Albert Pujols was in the three spot.

Andre Ethier agreed to a five-year contract extension earlier that afternoon. He went two for four with one run scored and a run batted in.

Traffic in LA is scary for me. The parking lot at the stadium was a Boschian anthill as we were coming into and going out of the parking lot. Fortunately, Shoe is a fearless driver, while I, who regard a brief wait behind two cars in Los Alamos as a traffic jam, thought about crouching on the floor and getting all Catholic again by doing laps around a rosary.

The silence of the Kool-Aid stand: the Rock Fight

Of that ingenious heroine who travelled to the end of the street and ruined the Kool-Aid of David J. and his sibs, sing Heavenly Muse. Sing, O Muse, also of the one who ended the fight, the one who did not throw like a girl but like Achilles hurling the arrows of death from his silver bow.

In fifteen minutes, David J. and his minions had assembled at the south end of the dirt service road behind our houses. We ourselves gathered near the water tank. The rules were clear: get the rocks, continue the name-calling, and then start throwing. Silence reigned in the woods as both sides gathered rocks in preparation for the battle to come. After a few minutes we had our piles of rocks at the ready.

Because Bobbie had done our bidding with the dog-doo, she was allowed the honor of the first epithet.

"Fart face!"

The silence of the woods was immediately rent by the bitter, malicious names we hurled at each other.

"Poop head!"

"Booger brain!"

"Puppy breath!"

"Wait!" Beth turned to the kid. "You can't call them 'puppy breath.' Puppy breath is nice. It smells really cute, like the puppies. You've been over to see Lulu's puppies at the Jennings's, haven't you? Didn't you smell their breath? It's nice!"

"Hey, you wanna go over to the Jennings's and see the puppies? We could smell their breath! Hey, Kenny, can we go pet Lulu's puppies and smell their breath?"

"Pay attention, you guys! Get some rocks! You can see the puppies after the battle."

"Well, what can I call those creeps? They just called me 'booger brain.' What are my options for a retort?"

"Anything but 'puppy breath.' How about 'fatty' or some other term that describes what they look like?"

"Yeah! FATTY!"

"Potty mouth!"

"Snotslinger!"

"Pooter scooter!"

Someone from David J.'s side threw a piece of tuff. The battle was joined.

Throwing tuff is a lot like throwing potato chips: you can do it, but the rock lacks sufficient heft to go very far or inflict much damage. After five minutes, a cairn began to grow between the two armies. We continued to hurl tuff and insults. It was easy to dodge the rocks that did make it to our lines, because they fluttered and whiffled and piffed like dying knuckleballs. At this rate, the rock fight could go on for days and not injure a soul.

I had to take action. I left the lines and ran behind the water tank. Hiding myself behind the trees and circling through the woods, I was soon even with David J.'s line. From behind a tree I picked up a heavy piece of rhyolite, stepped out, and let it fly. It bounced off Paul's head. He started crying, and David and his minions raced toward home. We won! We marched in triumph down the road from the water tank to the street.

Someone decided that we should rub a little salt in David J.'s wounds, so we headed down the street to gloat. When we got just past the Kirkpatricks' house, we saw David and his sibs standing in the front yard. They saw us. Paul immediately fell to the grass, and Jackie began pouring water on his head. "You knocked him out!" she bellowed in her deep, guttural voice. David looked around for an avenue of escape. The fir tree! He'd climb up and hide in it. Assuming a position like the Russian letter Ж, he leaped up and grabbed a low branch. He swung for a moment and then dropped to the grass beside his brother.

It was pitiful, just pitiful. They weren't worth gloating over. They were a pack of sissies. We turned and went back up the street. Kenny said, "You wanna go see the puppies? We can smell their breath!"

The silence of the Kool-Aid stand: the Catalog of Epithets

We watched as Bobbie trotted down the street with David J.'s paper cup in hand. David and his sibs seemed to be relieved that they were getting their cup back and stepped forward to receive it with thanks. But when she got back to the punch bowl, she announced, "Your lemon Kool-Aid tastes like potty. In fact, your Kool-Aid looks like potty." And she upended the cup, which contained a large piece of fresh dog doo, into the punch bowl.

The J siblings looked in horror at the turd floating in the Kool-Aid. Paul, the youngest, began to gag. Bobbie laughed, and she was off! David and Jackie ran after her, leaving Paul to guard the punch bowl from further violation, apparently by sitting on the front steps and gasping with his head between his knees.

Jackie and David skidded to a halt as soon as Bobbie crossed the demilitarized zone. The air became blue as we hurled vitriolic epithets at each other.

"Gunky!"

"Doo-doo head!"

"Booger brain!"

"Toe jam eater!"

"I'm gonna kick you in your B-U-T!"

"Zoo breath!"

"I know you are, but what am I?"

"Piddle pants!"

"Snot!"

"Poot toot!"

"I'm rubber and you're glue! Whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you!"

The two enemy camps faced each other in front of the Kirkpatricks' house. Only the width of a sidewalk square was between us. Only the width of a sidewalk square stood between a peaceful summer day filled with the innocent laughter of children and an entire neighborhood going up in flames. "You owe us for a whole bowl of Kool-Aid!" David screamed.

"Yeah, well, come get your money then," someone on our side taunted.

"Give us the money!" Jackie roared. She had a deeper voice than David did, and she meant business.

"Come and get," we repeated. "If you want it, meet us on the service road in five minutes."

"We need more time to get more people," David explained.

"Fifteen minutes," we said.

"Fifteen minutes," David said

It was on.

The silence of the Kool-Aid stand: the Opening Salvo

There's a lot to be said for cherry Kool-Aid: everyone loves it; you can eat the powder plain at recess; it's red, my favorite color; it's refreshing in the summer; you can color your hair with it; you can buy from the neighborhood kids on a hot day and realize too late that they've sweetened it to Kid Taste, and then feel the enamel sliding right off your teeth.

When we were kids, about the only way to earn a little money was by selling Kool-Aid. We'd pester our mom ("Who's going to pay for all the supplies? Sugar isn't free, you know!") until she finally relented. We'd dump a 5-cent packet of cherry Kool-Aid into a pitcher, add a scant 3/4 cup of sugar, add water and ice, and mix. Mmmmm! Then we'd set up in front of the house with a metal can from frozen juice concentrate to drink from, and a pan of water to rinse it in when our customer was finished. (Even back then we were good stewards of resources.)

"Kool-Aid for sale! Five cents a glaa-aaa-aaassss! Three cents a half a glass!" Usually the neighborhood kids and Seferino the letter carrier would come buy from us. But one day business was down. Did I say down? I should have said nonexistent. What was the problem?

The problem, as it was so often in the neighborhood, was David J. He and his sibs were selling Kool-Aid on the same day! The little jerk was taking all our business! But why? How? What made his Kool-Aid so special? We had to find out. We needed reconnaissance.

When you need somebody to do something without question, to follow instructions exactly, to risk life, limb, and being grounded in perpetuity in pursuit of another crack-brained scheme, and to keep her mouth shut afterward, you get Bobbie.

We gave her a nickel and told her to go buy some Kool-Aid from David J. and his sister Jackie and brother Paul. She was to learn as much as she could about the operation while she slowly sipped her Kool-Aid. When she was finished, she was head back to the house.

We watched her as she completed the transaction at the end of the street. Suddenly she turned and ran, a paper cup in hand, with David, Jackie, and Paul in hot pursuit. Bobbie beat it past the Kirkpatricks' house, which marked the demilitarized zone between the south side of 48th Street, where the losers lived, and the north side, where all the cool kids lived. David and his sibs screeched to a halt.

"Give us back our cup!" they screamed.

"You want it? Come and get it," we sneered. Bobbie waved the cup to taunt them. They took a step toward us. Our friends Lynn, Kenny, Ralph, John, Susie, Doug, Mike, and Gail closed ranks around us, and we took a threatening step toward the interlopers. David and his posse high-tailed it back to their house like the pale, rabbity little cowards they were.

Bobbie reported that David was selling the new lemon-flavored Kool-Aid. He presented it in a punch bowl with a ring of ice and had a stack of paper cups. David would daintily ladle out a cup of the brand-new flavor and present it to customers with a flourish.

Son of a—

We needed a plan. We conferred for several minutes and agreed on our next step. We called Bobbie over and whispered the plan to her.

"Okay, Bobbie, here's what you do. Go back to their Kool-Aid stand with the cup. Only this time, wspppsh shssh spshwhsp whsp shhspwhsp."

"AH-hahahahaha!"

"Be quiet! And when you get there, wspppsh shssh spshwhsp whsp shhspwhsp, then wspppshshssh spsh whspwhsp shhspwhsp really fast, okay?"

"Got it." She went into the back yard with the cup for a minute, then set out toward David's Kool-Aid stand.

Erin graduates, world put on alert

We were so happy to drive out to Santa Barbara for Erin's high school graduation. As usual, Shoe had planned everything so that the festivities would go smoothly.

On Wednesday night after dinner, we went back to the house for cake. Trish arrived just in time for dinner.

We toasted the graduate with champagne and sparkling cider. Grammie enjoyed her drink and the company.

Thursday afternoon, the last, for which the first was made: Erin and the other students march into the stadium for their last event as DP Chargers.

Proud parents of a proud graduate!

And here we have the youngest child (center) of the youngest child (right) of the youngest child (left).

I'm looking forward to following Erin's career. Will she be the successor to Annie Leibovitz? Will she apprentice as a techie at the Santa Fe Opera and then succeed Raymond Menard at the Metropolitan Opera? Become the president of the International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees, Moving Picture Technicians, Artists and Allied Crafts of the United States, Its Territories and Canada? Whatever she sets her hand to, she'll be a success!

Crasher alert

I liked Shoe's pictures of dinner and BobBIE's boss machine. Somebody kept crashing the party, though.


"I can haz sopaipillas?

I can haz tacos?

Play teh radio!

Dinner at Gabriel's

For Mom's birthday dinner, we all went to Gabriel's Restaurant between Los Alamos and Santa Fe.

Here's the Birthday Mom.

To commemorate the event, Chuckbert took a picture of Mom's dinner.

And then Chuckbert took a picture of P-doobie taking a picture of Chuckbert while Mombert and Bobbert cracked up.

Bobbie and Izzy posed nicely with some bunny ears.

Bobbie picked up the check. Seeing her distress, I snapped my fingers to summon a waiter and said, "¡Garçon! El desfibrilador, por favor!" He brought us a parachute and some dried apricots.

A birthday present!

This weekend we celebrated our mother's big 9-0 with family, friends, and relatives. The first order of business on any birthday is, of course, presents!

The present was wrapped in fabric that was pinned together. Something this big and cool deserved more than the Sunday comics pages that our dad favored.

L to R. Mei, P, Bobbie (back to camera), Chuckbert, Mom, Xian.

As Erin used to say, "I'm so exciting!"

We decided to replace Mom's boat anchor old computer with an Averatec all-in-one PC with a 25.5-inch screen and wireless keyboard and mouse.

It took only a minute to set up.

L to R. Chuckbert, Mei, P, Xin, Mom.

It looked great!

L to R. Izzy, Mei (back to camera), Chuckbert, Mom, Xin (back to camera).

Mom took it out for a spin.

And she wins her first game of Spider Solitaire!

L to R. Xin, Erin, Xian, Bobbie, Mei, Mom's head, Chuckbert, Izzy.

TA-DA!

National Poetry Month and Chuckie and Bobbie

When Chuckie and Bobbie were little kids, they would crack up so easily together. It didn't matter if they'd made the joke a hundred times before, it was always new and always hilarious. 

For example, whenever we went to Albuquerque, they'd look for a Sherwin-Williams Paint sign, and when they saw one, they'd say, "Sherwin-Williams Paints cover the earth--with ketchup!" 

Ketchup covering the earth.

The afternoon cartoons were another source of merriment. Mighty Mouse would urge us to "hold on to your seats as we blast off to this and all of your favorite cartoon stars!" So Chuckie and Bobbie would grab their butts and crack up.


Hold on to your seats!

Every year at Christmastime, they'd laugh like little nuts as they limped around the house using candy canes for support. But the most fun was their reading of Clement Moore's "A Visit from St. Nicholas." They'd read aloud with lots of expression and seriousness until they reached the lines

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Then the giggles would start.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw out the trash!

A visit from St. Nicholas

That was usually as far as they got. They'd be limp with laughter. And so would we.

Crapture: the Musical

We're fine. Really.

Friday, Izzy, Bobbie, and I cleaned out the three crawlspaces under the house. Izzy pitched stuff out onto the lawn; I did a preliminary triage; and Bobbie drove the truck to the dump, where Izzy and I had the satisfaction off-loading everything. We took 1000 pounds of crap to the dump on Friday. 

We also went through several dust masks and many pairs of latex gloves. With all the dust, mouse droppings, and a hunk of asbestos, the project was just made for respiratory distress, hantavirus, asbestosis, and general malaise. 

Mei and Xin came home from school while we were in the middle of things. Mei wanted to hug me, and I told her not to because I was so dirty. She said, "Okay. Good-bye, Stinky." After I got home I felt I should have taken a garden rake and a box of matches and burned my clothes in the driveway.

Foreman Izzy, who has been On Task since the day she started to walk, was thorough and merciless. The key to working with her is to keep moving, because if you don't, you'll find yourself deep in a carton next to a half a salami and an opened jar of mayonnaise, and Izzy writing "perishable" on your forehead with her Magic Marker.

We found a couple treasures, including the box of Magic Lantern glass slides of penitentes and a Japanese rifle from WWII. The trash included a bald tire, two garbage bags of styrofoam meat trays, strips of curled linoleum, carpet scraps, gallons upon gallons of homemade wine-now-vinegar, and boards. Izzy left the desiccated squirrel under the house.

On Saturday Izzy and I went through the triage pile and separated out items that would be of interest to the family and sorted through some boxes. Bobbie drove us to the dump with a small load.

Today Izzy and I tackled the storage shed and went through some of Dad's stuff. We have a pile of stuff that will go to Casa Mesita, recyclable cardboard, and several bags of trash that we can take to the curb.

Izzy and P-doobie carried baskets of crap to Bobbie's truck.

A sure-fire crowd pleaser or death on a cracker? You decide!

Even the mere mention of Velveeta imitation processed cheese-like food product gives BobBIE the All-Overs. This concept, featuring Agnes and her best friend Trout, might send her right over the edge.

Does it bother anybody else that Velveeta is not refrigerated in the grocery stores?

Famous men born on May 23

Here's Jack.




Here's Chuckbert, Mr. Spiff.

Moms and birthday girls on parade

Two happy moms and today's birthday girl.

The best mom in the whole worldwide world.

May 2: a very good day

May 2 is the birthdate of many famous people, but I don't see the most important person who was born on this day. Oh, wait! Here she is!

A copying cat

In The Return of H*Y*M*A*N K*A*P*L*A*N by Leo Rosten, the class is discussing Christopher Columbus, who shares the same birthday as Hyman Kaplan himself. In the discussion of other explorers, Miss Caravello accuses Admiral Byrd of being a copying cat when he set out to discover the "Sout Pole." "Is only da one Columbus! No more lak--before, behinda!"

I, too, am a copying cat. Three of my four siblings have blogs that are very interesting, and everyone in the family can tell a good story. I think my postings will address quotidiana, that is, the everyday and the commonplace.

Is only da one Chuckbert, Izzy, and BobBIE-Baby! No more lak--before, behinda! Still, I'm going to be a copying cat!