Momogram

A burning in the lungs is expected when one is running from the police. And why not run? -assuming you’re guilty. They may not even be aware of it yet, or you for that matter, although, suspicion that a law you’ve never heard of might be broken accidentally, without either party being aware is good enough reason to run in the first place.

The story goes easy if you’re willing to listen.

A criminal has to be told that he is one. No that’s not always true, there are some lifers out there hustling, but in this case Yacoub was just doing what he felt was normal: reading a book and watching a ball game. But that’s illegal in most states, you can’t even BUY a book without breaking a law or two. So he was guilty. Everyone saw him do it, hell he didn’t deny it; he was not ashamed. He was in fact nothing at all about the ordeal. But he ran.

He ran because deep down he knew, that in the end it wasn’t the reading of the book that made him have to flee, but it was the mere act of there being a cop to run from in the first place which was enough to make him feel like he was being smothered in a pillow. And in the end, he ran from the cops because he felt happier this way, so he never looked back.

Tyrone

This one year I was jealous of my friend Margarito because he was more romantic then me. As a gift to get a girl to notice him he stole the sign of the street which bared the same name as her. I don’t remember what her name was, so let’s just say it was Marylou Wy. Now I’m pretty sure Marylou didn’t like Margarito and this was a mere token of unrequited love, but to me, it was Loyd Dobler. I must make this idea mine! So I did. I was to steal the street sign that bore true love’s name, Rosecrans Blvd.

I recruited the help of my best available friends, Raymond, and Tyrone. Now Ray and I had gone way back, I mean we had a real kinship towards each other. He was the cool guy and I was the guy that wanted to hang out with the cool guy. We were tight. Tyrone I had met the year before, he was a pity friend I made as a favor to my ex-girlfriend, but he was cool and fun to be around. The “mission” was to start at 3AM, Saturday morning; a good hour I thought to get away with a crime. I still think it’s probably the best time to commit a robbery, you just have to avoid looking creepy, which is harder than it sounds at that hour.
Now I trusted Ray to show up but Tyrone, not so much. No disrespect, I’d played Walter’s Joe Montana at his house but I mean, I just didn’t think the guy had much interest in going. Ray though, gave me his word.


So Friday night rolled into Saturday morning and it’s like 2AM. My dad’s still awake. That bastard loves to stay awake and he never goes to sleep. You knew if it was 2AM he was just thinking about going to bed. I used to wake him up at 6:45 on school mornings too, and I’d do it with an attitude. What a punk, if I could go back in time I’d kick my high school self in the balls. Anyway, I get the idea that if I pretend to go to sleep then he would probably go to sleep soon after. Some strange father son competition to see who can stay up longer. You win pop, I’m dog tired. And it worked too because he went right to bed afterwards. Success! Now all I had to do was stay awake in a completely dark room. It wasn’t easy but I lay in bed with my arms strapped around the alarm clock.

3AM, time to bounce. I crept out of the house avoiding the creek in the floor. I got in my car, and rolled it like half a block with my lights turned off so I can start it without my parents hearing. And just like that I was off. I drove to Ray’s house, the lights were off. I went to his window and called his name, nothing. There were no cell phones back then, so that was all I could do. I did it for like 15 minutes, but there was no answer. He fell asleep and short of breaking into his house and shaking him awake there was nothing I could do. And if you know the layout of Raymond’s old house you can totally see yourself doing it, it was a piece of cake in fact. But this was Paramount, and those sorts of things aren’t done there unless you’re in the mood for at bare minimum, a shovel to the head. So I left.

To Tyrone’s house, empty handed. Now you don’t understand, without Raymond this caper is impossible for me emotionally, but unrequited love being what it is, I had no choice. Now Tyrone was the youngest bachelor I had ever met. For reals. His parent’s house had a little bachelor apartment attached to the garage. It was small and I’m sure, cold in the winter but it was all his. And there wasn’t much in there that I can remember. Just a messed up bed and a T.V. I walked through his gate, went to the back room and the light was on in his room. I peered in the window and his TV was on. He was awake! I knocked on the window, nothing. I called his name, nothing. The son of a bitch had fallen asleep watching TV. Fuck it, I banged on his window. That woke him up. And that’s how two dumb, sleepy, idiot teenagers found themselves out in the streets of suburban Los Angeles at 3:30 on a Saturday morning way back in the Winter of 1991.


Now I found the sign, which was no easy task, and I was disappointed ultimately because I had failed to bring a ladder. Almost 4 in the morning and two high school Latinos loitering around a street sign. So we gave up. I drove us back an utter failure. I came down Imperial, making a right onto Wright and just after the Shell station, just before that first light, a woman with spandex pants and no top came running into the middle of the street and flagged my car to a stop. She was ranting about how her boyfriend was trying to beat her and she jumped out the bathroom window. She was like, mid twenties, pale skin too much makeup and definitely fresh off the boat. I let her in. It was a two door so Ty had to get out in order for her to jump in the back. I gave her a jacket I happened to have in the back seat and my high school mind thought about how her bare breasts were rubbing the inside of my jacket. Tyrone got back in the car, he didn’t blink. This whole ordeal as far as I could tell, didn’t faze him in the slightest.

I drove her back to the shell station and we called the cops, they came in a flash. Our job is done; we can go home, but not so fast. The cops spoke no Spanish, and she of course spoke no English, I would have to translate. Looking back on it now that makes no sense. Ty knows infinitely more Spanish then I do. Now about this time I am starting to notice on my little Casio that it’s 5AM and about 56 degrees Fahrenheit. I gotta get home, but the next thing I know I’m in the front seat of a Police cruiser with the girl in the back, part of me thinking that being in the front seat of a police car is kinda cool. Siren, shotgun, SCMOD, neat! At this point I have no idea where Tyrone went. I think he stayed back at the gas station with more cops. We drive back from where we picked her up and this wiry brown figure dashes across the street and down the road. “That’s him!” She shrieks from the backseat. We lose him but the other squad car picks him up.

We translate some more for them and then the cops let us go home, never once thinking twice what two teenage kids are doing on the road at that hour with pruning shears and a half naked lady in their backseat.


Nowadays I consider Tyrone a close personal friend. One of my favorites in fact. We play golf and talk baseball. Ray, I have no idea what ever happened to him.

That’s the story I think of when I think of my friend Tyrone.

The Grapes of Macgrath (A Duckfirth Story)

Wine and me go together like whipped cream and lime pickle. Make mine whiskey, so big it’s whiskey double. But, wine is what brought me here and so wine is what I’ve got, mostly because the flask in my coat just went dry, and so did my mouth. I roll into one of those wine bars with a quaint, rustic sounding name like Oxtail, or Smokewood lounge. The girl behind the bar is more like a lady in upscale clothes that don’t fit right, she’s no peach but circumstances being what they are I start with the chit chat.

“One wine please.”

“And what kind of wine would you like sir?”

She’s feisty, “Strongest one you’ve got.”

“Well this is our Shiraz, it’s a blend of three different kinds of grape aged in a..”

“I don’t care about the schematics sweet heart, I’m just looking for a drink.” She looks offended, “and an ear, if you got one.”

“I’ve got two.”

“Well then you’ll do just fine gorgeous.” It’s obvious that no one’s called her that in a long while. She likes it.

“What’s your name stranger?”

“Duckfirth.”


“Well Mr. Much-mirth, what brings you to this neck of the vineyards?" She says in long drawn out words, relaxed, flirty. I think I like it. "Is there a jacket and tie convention in town?” Her phony coat comes off and she doesn’t look half bad in the t-shirt she had on underneath. Maybe I was wrong about her, maybe she’s a dame in snobs clothing.

“A case.”

“A case?”

“Yeah I’m a private dick. Someone went missing up here a couple of days ago and they want me to find him.”

“Oh you must mean the Macgrath boy.”

“Boy huh? From what I understand there wasn’t too much boyish about him.”
She liked that one, she laughed, “Yeah. He had one way with trouble I guess.”

“Yeah, a freeway, with no speed limit.”

As she made her way from around the bar I learned that she was a slinker. She sat next to me and I could tell her innocence was just a play in three acts. I didn’t mind, in fact I kinda liked it. I drank the wine. “Not bad. If you like drinking rose petals. What do you call this thing?”

“Boring. Why not let’s you and me go out and get a real drink? I know just the place. It’s cozy and they serve something right up your alley.”

“Oh yeah? What’s this place called and what do they serve?”

“It’s called my place, and they serve me.”

She planted a kiss on me that was both soft and merciless at the same time. I thought about struggling but then a voice entered my head saying, “Aw what the hell?” I like that voice, it always tells me what I want to hear. I kissed back and that was the last good feeling I would have all night, because the next thing I know, something blunt and made of metal made it’s acquaintance with my skull and everything went all blurry like. The last thing I remember was hoping that I turned off the stove in my apartment because it was going to be a long time before I ever got back there again.

Lung Collapse

If you've ever had a gaping hole
surgically created somewhere in your chest then you'd understand. Like most amputees there's not only a feeling of still wearing the limb but of it actually weighing even more then it had before. Imagine a slab of concrete attached to a forty pound chain welded to your ribcage and you have an idea. You walk slower, and you breathe more shallow, but I guess that’s what to expect when you have your heart removed. Luckily it wasn't permanent. Mine was in India at a ceremony for her Grandfather.

The surgery was a complicated affair which took about ten days during which I was free to perform almost all of my normal functions but at half wattage. Surprisingly aside from the afore mentioned ailments I was as nimble as usual I just possessed a tenth of my usual joie de vivre.

After what seemed like a decade the heart came back better than it had left me and I found breathing to be twice as easy. The air seemed cleaner and even food tasted better. To that end I had a taco for dinner and I plan on taking up running again.

On a separate note El Insituto Mexicano del Sonido is creating some of the best music I’ve ever heard.

The Autumn of Apu

Apu: Well hello Mr. Homer, what brings you to my store?

Homer: Well Apu the softball team wanted me to talk to you.

Apu: Oh? What about?

Homer: Well, frankly your numbers are falling.

Apu: Nothing to worry about Homer ol’ buddy, it’s just a dry spell. The balls will start dropping and when they do you just watch that batting average of mine soar!

Homer: Well that’s just the thing Apu, you don’t seem to be hitting those hard line drives anymore, not like you used to when you were…you know.

Apu: When I was what?

Homer: You’re gonna make me say it? Fine, when you were taking steroids alright!

Apu: I’m not doing it anymore. I swore I’d only use human growth hormones to heal from my elbow injury quicker. That was a long time ago.

Homer: Well it’s also been a long time since you lead all catchers in the league in every offensive category.

Apu: That’s not fair!

Homer: There’s no reason you can’t have numbers like that again. All you have to do is take the drugs Apu, come on everyone is doing it.

Apu: What about my defense? That’s got to count for something.

Homer: Listen, Nelson is in the wings, ready to take over for you at catcher if you don’t do something drastic here.

Apu: Nelson! I threw out 38% of would be base stealers last year. When has Nelson even come close to that?

Homer: It doesn’t matter man! He’s using HGH and you know what? -he’s hitting the cover off the ball. Homerun after homerun! The guy’s a machine who cares who throws out more runners! Look it’s this simple, get your numbers up or you’re out.

Apu: Please, don’t take this away from me. Playing catcher for the Springfield Isotopes softball team is my life!

Homer: Sorry, it’s out of my hands.

Homer takes a bite from his donut and turns to leave.

Apu: Homer, that donut is $10.25.

Homer: D’oh!

Fire!

Once, three overweight, right-winged Republicans with racists backgrounds and a penchant for war found themselves about to face a Spanish firing squad. They were as dumb as they were ugly, each one dumber then the first, but being resourceful tools of the devil they uncharacteristically managed to come up with a plan of escape; a plan well beyond their usual capacity for inspiration.


The first Republican was called up on Monday. The Spanish firing squad leveled their weapons. “Ready.” The Spanish commander bellowed, “Aim.” Just then the firstRepublican pointed behind the firing squad and yelled, “Tornado!” The squad panicked, ran in each and every direction, found a heavy bathtub located in the basement and huddled close to each other for safety. Meanwhile, the first Republican casually sauntered away, free to rape and pillage the world’s poor and underpaid.

The next day, the Spanish firing squad still feeling unnerved by the tornado which swept through the fort the night before, faced the second Republican. The squad commander again raised his sword for his ritualistic chant, “Ready. Aim.” At this time the second Republican seized upon the inspiration of his comrade and yelled, “Earthquake!” The Spanish firing squad dropped their weapons and again ran in desperate search, this time of a heavy table or doorway in which to hide under. Again, the Republican walked awaycasually, rubbing his hands together perhaps thinking of new ways to deny poor children medical care.

On the third day, the firing squad was not feeling so well having not been able to kill anyone since Sunday. Today was their day, they hoped, the wrath of mother Nature shall not interfere. The third Republican, the dimmest of the bunch, was brought before them. With a squeak in his voice the commander said sheepishly, “Ready. Aim.” The third Republican was no dummy. He had watched his brothers fool these Spaniards before, surely he could do the same. So with his best fear impersonation he pointed behind the firing squad and screamed the most horrific natural disaster he could possibly think of, “Fire!”

The firing squad pulled their triggers and the third Republican died slowly.

That joke, courtesy of the 5^th grade.

Chavez Ravine

The stairs went straight down. I mean straight down. What looked like thousands of feet below us, was the field. I held onto the handrail that ran down the middle of the isle with both hands as I climbed down to my red seat. And that's about all I remember. I was seven years old.

I'd love to tell you a romantic story of my first baseball game at Dodger Stadium. About how I saw the green of the grass, or that Garvey hit one out, or even what I ate. But the truth of the matter is that kids don't usually have the foresight of marking a milestone with a mental tag. At least I didn't.

I have since been going back, one way or another for 26 years. I've never caught a foul ball or a homerun, nor have I seen a no hitter.

This last year I sat in the upper deck for the first time since my first time. I held onto the handrail with both hands. I don't know if you know this but those stairs go straight down. I mean straight down.

I've had this camera for about two and a half years now and I've been taking her to Dodger Stadium for three seasons. These are some of the pictures I've compiled in that time. If you're an expert fan, you should be able to discern when most of these were taken.

If you're an expert fan...