I just took an extra-long run along the LAKEFRONT this evening, which under normal circumstances makes no sense. I never go the extra mile (ba-dump.)

But I spent this particular run losing track of time and forgetting that I’m ridiculously out of shape. I got lost in the 90 minute commercial free broadcast of a Counting Crows concert from last summer.

Did you catch that last part? Broadcast. It was on the radio. Unbelievable! For that to happen in LA, you would have to assume somebody broke into the station and held the DJ at gunpoint in some Airheads-esque situation. I love the radio here, ‘such a breath (er, transmission) of fresh air. And I haven’t heard one Matchbox Twenty song since I got here!

My dad happened to be in town this weekend, and today we joined up with my aunt & family to see Maya Angelou speak at my aunt’s old high school. It was an alumni event – no more than a thousand people - and my aunt gave an intro on the same stage before Dr. Angelou, which was pretty dope.

Even at 70-something with two bum knees, she’s an amazing speaker and a powerful presence – it’s no wonder she’s become a contemporary icon as a poet and a woman and an African-America. (Um, Maya Angelou, not my aunt. Although my aunt’s not the kind of woman who would let her Irish heritage get in the way of becoming a black icon.)

And this weekend I’ve been running around like a chicken with its head cut off, spurting loyal Dodger-blue blood out of my neck. The Boys in Blue entered a 3-game series against the Giants with a meager game-and-a-half lead over our hated, cowardly rivals to the north. Meanwhile, the Cubs are trying desperately to make the wildcard spot that the Giants currently hold, so in an interesting turn of events all the Cubs fans here are rooting for the Dodgers! As if I needed another reason to be glad to be here right now…

I’m praying our bullpen can hold on to the finish line, but after Brad Penny’s season-ending injury, Jose Lima’s thumb, and Yancy Brazerban’s propensity for giving up grand slams there’s no doubt it’s gradually dying. And as the bullpen dies, a part of me all these two-thousand miles away dies too. It’s as if the Dodger bullpen is E.T., turning all white and powdery, and I’m Elliot screaming on the operating table next to him. “Gagne don’t go!!” But I have faith. I believe that one day soon I’ll be putting my red hooded sweater back on, flying my bike silhouetted against the moon with little Eric Gagne riding in the milk crate, his beating red heart glowing bright (and his goatee's sensory whiskers navigating the way).

Seriously, where do you think Spielberg got his inspiration for E.T.? The whole film is clearly a metaphor for The Fan suffering a tight pennant race. And yes, I will go to my grave believing this.