A reader has pointed out that Søren Kierkegaard was born on this day in 1813. To complete the triad of philosopher birthdays, I would like to add my mother ("I speak therefore you do").
In case Cinco de Mayo isn't quite your cup of Tecate, you can always head to your corner, working-class bar and take a swig of the hard stuff in honor of Karl Marx's birthday. Or you could just stay at home and watch the Lakers game like I plan on doing.
Monday morning blues, drained from a Cinco de Mayo eve spent in the left field bleachers of Qualcomm Stadium watching a baseball game (thanks Geoff). It really is hard to beat a Sunday afternoon baseball game, even when you aren't a fan of the two teams you are watching. (Luckily, the wife let me use her web-ready cell phone, so I kept tabs on the beloved Braves until I wore the battery out and was left knowing that in the top of the 11th, score still tied, the Braves had runners on second and third and one out: Technology giveth and the battery taketh away.) Where else can you pay $7.50 for a hot dog and a small coke and smile about it? Ah, baseball...
Watching baseball, sitting in the sun, eating popcorn,
reading Ezra Pound,
and wishing that Juan Marichal would hit a hole right through the
Anglo-Saxon tradition in the first Canto
and demolish the barbarian invaders.
When the San Francisco Giants take the field
and everybody stands up for the National Anthem,
with some Irish tenor's voice piped over the loudspeakers,
with all the players struck dead in their places
and the white umpires like Irish cops in their black suits and little
black caps pressed over their hearts,
Standing straight and still like at some funeral of a blarney bartender,
and all facing east,
as if expecting some Great White Hope or the Founding Fathers to
appear on the horizon like 1066 or 1776.
But Willie Mays appears instead,
in the bottom of the first,
and a roar goes up as he clouts the first one into the sun and takes
off, like a footrunner from Thebes.
The ball is lost in the sun and maidens wail after him
as he keeps running through the Anglo-Saxon epic.
And Tito Fuentes comes up looking like a bullfighter
in his tight pants and small pointy shoes.
And the right field bleechers go made with Chicanos and blacks
and Brooklyn beer-drinkers,
"Tito! Sock it to him, sweet Tito!"
And sweet Tito puts his foot in the bucket
and smacks one that don't come back at all,
and flees around the bases
like he's escaping from the United Fruit Company.
As the gringo dollar beats out the pound.
And sweet Tito beats it out like he's beating out usury,
not to mention fascism and anti-semitism.
And Juan Marichal comes up,
and the Chicano bleechers go loco again,
as Juan belts the first ball out of sight,
and rounds first and keeps going
and rounds second and rounds third,
and keeps going and hits paydirt
to the roars of the grungy populace.
As some nut presses the backstage panic button
for the tape-recorded National Anthem again,
to save the situation.
But it don't stop nobody this time,
in their revolution round the loaded white bases,
in this last of the great Anglo-Saxon epics,
in the territorio libre of Baseball.
