Gary Carter reminds me of a classic story from adolescence:
When I was about fourteen, I was standing in line with my brother and a couple friends at a local Sav-On in San Pedro, CA. In front of us, paying for his merchandise, was MLB catcher Alan Ashby, a contemporary of Carter’s. Ashby was sort of a hometown legend, as he hailed from San Pedro, attending San Pedro High School. He was probably in town to see family.
The few of us were behind him, starstruck, whispering amongst ourselves, staring, looking totally obvious. I remember catching some eye contact. Ashby was cool about it. I think he was even holding back a laugh.
After he left the store, we took our turn at the register. The cashier was male. Tall, lanky, with a new wave mullet and a skinny tie. His inflection made it clear that he wasn’t exactly into girls.
“Dude!” I told him, expecting him to be sharing the same excitement that comes with interacting with a big league ballplayer. “That was Alan Ashby!”
“Who?” he asked. Blank stare.
“Alan Ashby,” I repeated. “Come on! You know, the catcher for the Houston Astros.”
“Sorry guys,” he said, turning to the register. “I’m not into football.”
Be Kind
by Henry Charles Bukowski (b. 1920; d. 1994)
we are always asked
to understand the other person’s
viewpoint
no matter how
out-dated
foolish or
obnoxious.one is asked
to view
their total error
their life-waste
with
kindliness,
especially if they are
aged.but age is the total of
our doing.
they have aged
badly
because they have
lived
out of focus,
they have refused to
see.not their fault?
whose fault?
mine?I am asked to hide
my viewpoint
from them
for fear of their
fear.age is no crime
but the shame
of a deliberately
wasted
lifeamong so many
deliberately
wasted
livesis.
Source: Internet
SIDENOTE: In the eighth grade, for Mrs. Loo’s Science class, we had to pick an element from the Periodic Table and create a paper origami cube. On the cube, using markers and crayons, we were to decorate each panel to represent various qualities and properties of our chosen element. I chose Nickel, and wrote “HEAVY METAL” on each panel, with typographical variations. This was in about 1982, before “heavy metal” was a household term used to describe the music of bands like Ozzy, Maiden, Priest, and Motley Crue. Mrs. Loo didn’t notice. I think I got an A.
Whitney Houston died five days ago. Saturday, February 11, 2012. In these past few days, there has been a surprising number of vocal people who seem to be finding some sort of twisted delight in slagging her character. What is the point of this? Why so much energy? I don’t remember this happening with, say, Michael Jackson.
Whitney was a great singer. That’s what I’ll always remember about her. But there are apparently those who are choosing to not only focus on her flaws as a human being, but to obsess over them. With an undying passion. I’m not sure what’s fueling all this. For now, I’ll say that you show me a dude who delights in Whitney’s reputation as a coke whore, and I’ll show you a dude who’s girlfriend dumped him back in the ’90s for a coke dealer.
Enough already. Get over it. Have a little class. You’ve made your point, you self-righteous fuck. You know who you are. Whitney Houston was not as good as your responsible and mighty self. She was a horrible role model for her kid, yes. She wasted her talent at the end, yes. She became a coke whore, sure. But let’s also remember:
You’re fat. Your kid’s ugly, just like you. You lie. You can’t spell worth shit. You can’t keep your dick hard. Your husband left you because your tits sag. You can’t function with out meds. Your wife fucked your best friend. You can’t even play a musical instrument. You have no identity of your own. You mimic others. You’re a sheep. You suck.
AND YOU DRIVE TOO GODDAMN SLOW.
Whitney Houston RIP
