Another West Title, but.....

With another win over the Yankees, plus a loss by the Rangers up in Seattle, my beloved Angels have won the AL West for the 4th time in 5 years.

If you've checked my profile, you know that I'm a resident of Los Angeles. However, I must admit that I'm not a Dodger fan. I hate the Dodgers. Absolutely hate them. With a passion.

I grew up in Orange County; about a 15 minute drive from "The Big A". This was back when they were the California Angels, and for the record, I wish they had kept that name. Not only did I go to Angel games with my brother and dad as a child, but a school classmate's father had season tickets, up on the Terrace Level right behind first base, and I caught several games from that vantage point. I remember those dark years in the late 70's, with Nolan Ryan and Frank Tanana on the mound, Dick Enberg calling the games on KLAC radio, and the Kansas City Royals constantly kicking our ass.

But, then there was 1979. They finally got the Western Division, beating the hated Royals at the Big A to do it. The game was running past my bedtime, but I remember being under the covers, listening to Dick Enberg calling the final out. The fact that the Baltimore Orioles beat us 3 games to 1 in the Championship Series didn't dampen my enthusiasm; we finally won the Division.

Later, there were the Division titles in 1982 and 1986. The 1982 choke job in the ALCS to the Brewers didn't bother me, but the gag fest in 1986 broke my heart. In '86, I was a sophomore in college, up at UCLA. I was watching Game 5 on TV, and I was going to sit there and watch the final out, then figure out how much of my CalGrant money was going to be needed for bleacher seats for the World Series.

But of course, Gene Mauch happened. That idiot, coupled with Donnie Moore, who was running on fumes by then, coughed up Game 5 when we were one strike away from the Series. I knew that we had no shot in either of the next two games at Fenway Park, and didn't bother watching the collapse. And, of course, I got my revenge when the Mets stole the Series from Boston.

As the years progressed, it became obvious that the Angels, and their fans, were cursed. In addition to having to hear from sanctimonious Tommy "I even crap Dodger Blue" Lasorda every October, we endured: the shooting death of Lyman Bostock, the bus crash outside Baltimore that nearly killed manager Buck Rodgers, and the surreal collapse in 1995, which featured Mark Langston sprawled on his back at home plate in Seattle's Kingdome, as jubilant Mariners circled the bases in a 163rd game laugher.

But, all of those tears and rendering of garments were forgiven and forgotten in 2002, when Darin Erstad caught Kenny Lofton's fly ball in center, and the Angels were World Champs. Watching the celebration at home, my wife was shocked to see tears in my eyes. I couldn't explain to her what that championship meant to me; only a Cub or Red Sox fan in 2002 could understand those tears of disbelieving joy. To this day, I look at my ThunderStix sitting on my bookshelf and smile.

And since then? A plethora of riches: one MVP (Vlad!), one Cy Young (Bartolo "Have another churro" Colon), and 4 Division Titles. No World Series, but, who cares? I still have 2002.

And, there's the rub. I still love the Angels. I take pride in seeing the national media recognize them as a model baseball franchise. We have a great manager, solid ownership and front office, and free agent players now want to play here. This year's team has a great chance to win another World Series, and, in fact, the season will be a disappointment if we don't even make the Series. But, a World Series win won't reduce me to tears. I'll be happy, but not moved to write a letter to the editor of the LA Times like I did in 2002. To this day, that letter to the editor is the only time I've ever seen my name in print. I still have a copy if you want to see it.....

So, what am the moral of de fable? I guess it's this: Just like you never forget your first love, the first World Championship after years of bad luck is such an experience that nothing else compares, including subsequent World Championships.

That's unfortunate. Only one team every year goes away happy. Unless you're a Yankee fan, World Championships shouldn't be a "ho-hum" experience. And yet, what have I become? A jaded Angel Fan? I sincerely hope not. But, we'll just have to see what happens in October.

In the meantime, congrats to the Angels, and I hope the Dodgers choke.

My night with James Lipton

I think "Inside the Actor's Studio" is one of the most self-congratulatory, obnoxiously pretentious shows ever created. But, I confess that in my more messianic moments, I dream of being fawned over and blown by James Lipton. I have had this dream so many times that I have come up with answers to the questions first made famous by Bernard Pivot and stolen by "Soupy":

What is your favorite word?
Goiter.
What is your least favorite word?
No.
What turns you on creatively, spiritually, or emotionally?
Laughter.
What turns you off creatively, spiritually, or emotionally?
Depression.
What sound or noise do you love?
The purring of my cat.
What sound or noise do you hate?
The screech of an animal suffering.
What is your favorite curse word?
Shit.
What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
Astronaut.
What profession would you not like to do?
King Crab fisherman; those guys on "Deadliest Catch" are nuts.
If Heaven exists, what you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
"Welcome to Heaven, what would you like to know?"

My alltime favorite war story

This happened over 10 years ago, when I was a baby lawyer doing misdemeanors at the East Los Angeles courthouse.

I'm in the lockup, which in ELA, being a newer courthouse, was like a meatlocker. The airconditioning worked so well there that it wasn't uncommon to see your clients with their arms tucked into their shirts, looking as if they were prisoners sans arms.

So, I'm in the lockup and I'm reading a police report to this young woman who's sitting on the other side of the glass. She was really petite; about 5' even, couldn't have weighed over 95 pounds. If the Santa Anas were blowing, I could have put a string on her and flown her over Montebello. She was charged with prostitution, and she had a bunch of priors. She was a card carrying pro if ever there was one. I read the report to her and asked her what really happened. She gave me a story about how she is a hooker, but she wasn't working at the time she was arrested. She said that she was walking to the liquor store to get her drink on, when she saw that the LA Sheriff's Dept. was running a hooker sweep. She saw some colleagues getting hooked up, and she kept walking. She told me that one of the cops knew her and arrested her just on general principles. Of course, I wasn't really believing this, since the most common defense in a prostitution case is "I'm a hooker, but I wasn't working that day", but I told her that I'd plead her not guilty and set her case for trial.

About a half hour later, I bring her out for her arraignment. I'm standing to her left, right next to her as I enter her plea and set a pre-trial and trial date. The judge says that, due to her lengthy record, he was going to set bail and not release her on her own recognizance, unless there was a compelling reason to release her. At this point, my client whispers, "I have a compelling reason". I told her to tell the judge.

She says (and after all these years, I remember this as easily as I remember that low term for child molestation is 3 years in prison), "Well, your Honor, I was diagnosed with flesh eating bacteria about 6 months ago, and they had to amputate my arm. I still need to see the doctors for the followup". After she launched that verbal grenade, I turned, and sure enough, there was no left arm. Just a stub off of the shoulder. And I was standing right next to the stump. REPULSIVE.......

I didn't mean to; it was just reflex. But, I slid to my left and got away from the stump. I regret that to this day, but what the hell did I know?

The judge, whom I knew to be a compassionate man, asked her who the treating physician was. She said that she had been treated at County USC Hospital, which was akin to saying that she was being treated by whatever med student drew the short straw that day. The judge asked when was the last time she was treated, and my client admitted that she had missed some appointments. The judge, in a burst of paternalism heretofore unseen from the bench, stated that he was even more inclined to keep her in jail, but he would sign a medical order to make sure that a jail doctor (who possesses even less energy than a med student at the end of a 24 hour shift) would check her out. And so, with little fanfare, my one armed lady of the evening was led back to the fishtank.

I couldn't resist; I went to my DA, who was a spoiled, mixed race young woman who only knew misfortune as something she read about in a Dickens novel, grabbed her arm and said, "I touched her!". You should've heard her yell. My judge thought that was pretty damn funny.

I had to admit, I was pretty offended that the sheriffs had nothing better to do than to arrest a one armed woman for hooking. I had visions of doing the trial; cross-examining the cop, with my client seated at counsel table in a pretty sleeveless sundress, exposing her stump to the jurors. I was going to politely ask the cop, "So, when my client was allegedly selling herself to you and your colleagues, how many arms did she have?". I was really going to sell this case. I had it all worked out; my courtroom was designed so that, in the defense case, when I called my client to the stand, that stump was going to be paraded right past all 12 jurors. I figured the acquittal couldn't come fast enough.

But, we public defenders learn early that it's not good to plan ahead; shit always happens. What happened to my beautiful trial what that my girl was also a meth freak, and she had a warrant for an under the influence case. When she came back for pre-trial, they offered her 90 days for both cases, and she wanted to take it, figuring that if she went to trial on my case, she'd end up doing more time in jail waiting for trial, rather than just taking the deal. I couldn't argue with her logic; her goal was to get out, while my goal was to win a trial and embarrass the LASD. She plead out and walked away.

Every so often, I imagine her blowing some guy in an alley in Montebello, or lying on her back in some fleabag motel, getting pounded by some drunk who's staring at her stump while he's fucking her. What has to be going thru her mind? Even more interesting, what the hell is going thru his?