INDIAN HILL

     "I'm seeing a lot of things I never thought I'd see … No one's explained anything to us … I find it ironic that Mr. McCourt has not come down to address the players at all. I just don't understand that." — Dodgers first base coach Davey Lopes.     Los Angeles Times  Tuesday June 28, 2011   The fans will get a new owner.  Players will be paid, traded, optioned, waived, they will retire rich men rewarded for reaching the pinnacle of their profession.  Networks will prosper, advertisers will take a wait-and-see approach, pinpointing the optimum time and place to secure future airtime.  MLB will wipe mud from their eye, Frank McCourt will slink into the desert, withered and shriveled.  Jamie?  Nothing that a good salon makeover won’t cure; a new hairdo, facelift, clothes and shoes from Rodeo Drive, sell a house or two, Louis Vuitton bags to hold the cash.      Who gets hurt?  Hot dog ven...

   Fishing boats tie up along the dock;the Santa Maria , the Maria T , fish traps cage turquoise flotation buoys, piles of working nets spill along the waterfront on the San Pedro marina.  I walk past sandy-haired captains working on their boats in the sun.  The Midnight Hour lurking on the other side of the channel, a haunting flat black vessel watching the clock.  Nearby busy seafood markets and restaurants do a local, blue collar tourist business.  The San Pedro Fish Market , Crusty Crab , Baja Fish , Alaska Seafood and Sushi , the Pan Pacific Restaurant , all featuring local catch laid over shaved ice along with shrimp, mussels, scallops.  Live lobster and crab float in salt water tanks.  Women wearing white smocks and rubber gloves package it to go or take it to the kitchen to grill, sauté, broil, deep-fry or poach to your order.  The markets are a frenzy of eyeballs peering over glass partitions into icy display cases classy as a p...

             At night I think of going out into the warm air and down to the corner of Arrow and Indian Hill, or further south, and watch for the souls who fill the shadows, the night people.   I talk to the clerks, the waitresses who work late shifts, liquor store people, maybe get a room at the Ramada or one of the hotels near the freeway.              These days are spent wandering around, driving in my Jeep, picking up items that may or may not be useful; groceries and prescription medications, magazines, cigarettes, trips to the surplus store buying socks and trying on hats of all shapes and styles, picking through piles of outdoor gear, back packs, shooting bags, fondling knives and compasses, outdoor pots and pans and cooking utensils, looking at camp grills and stoves, gas and butane stoves, little burners that spew blue angry flame at all altitudes and tempe...

            The rejection yesterday ‘was as positive as any I’ve ever seen’ my editor told me.  ‘Seriously’.  She said ‘Please sent the manuscript out to more agents’. She underlined the word ‘Please’.  She’s been very encouraging.  The agent, a serious, big named agent, had the manuscript for a month and I’d emailed a note last week to get a status update.  I don’t have a huge collection of rejection slips, but it was polite and he had some nice things to say.      Twenty-four hours later, I’m still kind of emotionally drained.  I’m supposed to go to a movie screening tonight in Hollywood.  A friend of mine works for a television distribution company and she invited me.  I could talk about my really positive rejection notice, to any one who would want to listen to something like that.  Over drinks before the screening, during the host-bar reception. ...

     The night has grown cool, several innings now after the sun dropped below the rim of the stadium on the third base side.  The San Gabriel Mountains loom behind left field, the light of night fades in.        The ballpark has a romantic feel during early hours of evening when the sun has gone and night time takes over.  A hawk glides between light stanchions in the outfield.  The ballpark lighting takes effect.  The infield is groomed like fine-grain sandpaper, the grass smooth as a brush-cut DI haircut, it's forest-green hue sends chills down my back.   The park is a gem, and it’s nearly empty on this Monday night.  

In the early evening of February 1959 my father led me up a path holding my hand, winding through red rock to the top of a flat mesa in Southwest Utah to look at stars in the night sky.  We were very cold at first, holding heavy coats in our arms, field glasses and water in small packs slung over our shoulders like men.  The trail was dark and father told me to not turn our flashlights on. 'It will hurt your night vision,' he said.  Father said light affected the eyes and made it hard to see in the dark. Large flat red rock spread out across the mesa top and we sat and pulled our packs off and held them in front of us to pull out our water bottles. A slice of amber moon hung in the low western sky and one star was near it big and bright. 'That's Venus,' my father said.  'It is always close to the sun or the moon'.  My father tried to explain how planets, the moon, sun and the elliptic were like a big arc in the sky, and these celestial bodies followed that...