I wrote a little essay about the lack of children in my life for Vox. Warning: reading this might get you a little depressed.
If I may be perfectly frank – until this current postseason, I had not seen one single complete game of baseball all year. And that’s including the live game I caught at Wrigley Field last month. Even there, I left in the seventh inning.
If I may be even franker, I have not paid much attention to baseball in quite a few years. Which probably also explains why my fantasy baseball teams have been so awful. Not that I need an excuse for my usual subpar performance in my leagues – I kind of suck.
But now I’m glued to the TV set, because my favorite team, the Mets, have come out of nowhere and no expectations to be in the World Series this year. In fact, they are less than an hour away from playing their first game against the Kansas City Royals. And I am going to watch.
You can call me a fair-weathered fan. I deserve it, even if I don’t think it’s entirely true. No, the real reason why I’ve stayed away is because of Armando Benitez. That was back in 2000, the Subway Series against the Yankees. I knew as everyone else knew that we didn’t stand a chance. And every time Benitez came out to “close” the game, I wanted to just turn off the TV. But of course I couldn’t.
And there’s another reason why I’ve ignored baseball: Carlos Beltran. Striking out looking to end the series against the Cardinals, the NL team I hate the most (I know you guys are the nicest fans in the world, but screw all of you, because when I think of the Cards, I see a slideshow of horror starring John Tudor, Vince Coleman, Willie McGee, Terry Pendleton, Jack Clark, Ozzie Smith…oh my goodness, please, all of you, leave my brain alone), nine years ago.
So it took almost a decade and a miraculous run to bring me back to my beloved Mets. I did write about them earlier this year in the Times, so maybe this reunion was presaged. My dear Mets, please believe me when I say I never left you. I just couldn’t watch you for a while. It was me, not you.
Now let’s win four more and bring the trophy home, okay?
p.s. You know that guy named Sungwoo who’s the Royal’s Superfan? Well, guess what — my name is Sung Woo and I’m the Mets Superfan. So consider me your bearded Spock (sorry, Star Trek reference), Mr. Sungwoo Lee.
I’m driving a rental in L.A. It’s a Ford Focus, the cheapest thing I could find. Still has way more power than my Prius, so I still feel like I’m redlining every time I press the gas pedal. This Focus has Microsoft SYNC, which is supposed to make connections to smartphones via Bluetooth bulletproof, except my phone, for whatever reason, will not connect.
So I’ve been relegated to listening to the radio. After clicking through the channels, the one I found I liked the best was 95.9 FM, the Fish. I found myself liking just about every song from this station. It might be because many of them have these soaring melodies, almost Jim Steinmanian (that’s the guy who wrote those Meatloaf sagas, plus Bonnie Tyler’s “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” etc.). And then the DJ came on, Delilah, and she was talking about such deep, meaningful things, about the difficulties of life, the elusiveness of salvation, how we can find ourselves in this confusing universe of ours. Wow, was this a cool station or what? So very different. Must be an L.A. thing.
And then came on a commercial about a movie I’d never heard before, War Room.
On the outside, Tony and Elizabeth Jordan seem to have it all—great jobs, a beautiful daughter and their dream home. But their appearances are deceiving: Tony relishes in his professional success and flirts with temptation, while Elizabeth resigns herself to increasing bitterness. Their marriage is on the verge of crumbling until their lives take an unexpected turn. When Elizabeth meets Miss Clara, she challenges Elizabeth to create a battle plan of prayer for her family by establishing a “war room.” This new film from the Kendrick brothers is a vivid reminder that prayer is powerful weapon.
The next song that came on was Carrie Underwood’s “Jesus Take the Wheel,” and then I finally realized I’ve been listening to a Christian Rock station.
One strange thing about me is that I hardly ever listen to the lyrics of any song. If I like a song a lot, then I’ll eventually pick up on the lyrics, but even with those, it’s entirely possible I just learn the words on a pure sound level; i.e., my brain isn’t actually processing anything.
Even stranger? I’m still listening to the Fish. What can I say, I like the music.
There are a lot of billboards in L.A., which probably comes as no surprise to anyone, since it’s a large city with lots of people. What I did not know until I got here is that almost all the billboards are for TV and movies. Here’s a collection.
I guess it makes sense, since Hollywood is the town’s biggest export. But it’s just a little strange.
Speaking of strange — I took a drive up Sunset Boulevard this afternoon and climbed up Doheny Road, which led to the Doheny Estates. Here are some photos from that little drive.
Initially, I found them impressive. But as I kept seeing these monoliths of wealth and power, they creeped me out. These people have such a ridiculous amount of everything…while on the streets, I see beggars, homeless people, mentally unwell people (the usual trifecta of the severely disadvantaged). The L.A. elite live high up, like kings and queens atop their castle, looking down at the city, at their subjects, I suppose. I don’t know. We all know the world isn’t fair, but wow, you really see it here in Los Angeles.
It was on this drive up that I experienced one of my quintessential L.A. moments. Because I was following my GPS, and because the road was very snaky, I was going slightly under the 25-MPH speed limit. Right behind me was a guy in sunglasses in an Audi who was absolutely livid, and it was hilarious. Hands flailing, head shaking, gesticulating wildly, he was like Ari Gold of Entourage come alive (“LLOYD!”). When I finally signaled a right, he made a “good riddance” gesture, at which point I gave him a slow, measured wave. I’d caught him off-guard — the whole time, he’d been assuming I was such a tourist dolt to witness his little angry show. That earned me a very firm bird flip from this very L.A. gentleman.
My final stop in the evening was Venice Beach, which was quiet and dark and lovely. I could listen to the breaking of waves all night long. I’d read they had a boardwalk, but it’s really more like board asphalt. How can they call it a boardwalk if there are no boards? Maybe I’m just being a stubborn New Jerseyian, but when I think of boardwalks, I think of Seaside Heights, Point Pleasant, Atlantic City. Real boards, made of wood!
Let’s just call L.A. an interesting place and leave it at that for now.