The year 2024 marked a change in this site, as I veered away from photo blogs. It wasn’t so much that I set the camera aside and lost interest in photography. It was more a function of WordPress affordability and not wanting to shell out the $$$ to support photo blogs. It was also a function of turning towards writing in a year that was filled with political and social fireworks. To celebrate the year end, here is a short collection of some favorite photos.
This year my wife Cora and I traveled to Chicago, Vienna, Bavaria (highlighted by Munich), and Krakow, all of which provided magnificent photo opportunities. As always I also ventured to San Francisco.
The cities provided opportunities to focus on both modern architecture and what I like to call urban grit. Both of these aspects have caught my fancy. Away from the cities there is always natural beauty and rural charm to focus on.
I’ve included twelve photos in no particular order, each one representing a month of the year (though in honesty there were months in which my camera sat idle), and just for the hell of it, one banner photo.
As you’ll see in a few photos I took some license as regards editing. I avoided AI (something that PS is making difficult to do), except for a feature in Lightroom which reduces noise (that fuzzy appearance when a shot is taken in low light using high speed).
Comments, both positive and negative, are encouraged. What style do you like and what turns you off?
Urban Geometry (San Francisco) What is urban geometry? Hell, I don’t know if it’s a correct term but it’s my term for close ups of modern buildings and the various patterns, shapes and colors that I think combine to make an interesting image. This photo was taken in the Financial District of San Francisco on New Year’s Day when there was less chance of a photo bomber.
Chinatown San Francisco This photo was taken during the same photo walk as the photo above. It’s an example of the urban grit which I like to feature in monochrome.
“My thoughts & prayers were out of network.” ~ A Facebook post reacting to the shooting of Brian Thompson
The vitriol was swift and caustic. Not against the gunman, Luigi Mangione, but against the victim, UnitedHealthcare CEO, Brian Thompson. A Facebook post put up by UnitedHealthcare announcing the death of Thompson received 46,000 responses. UHC took the post down when it was discovered that 41,000 of those responses were laughing emojis.
Indeed, reading social media posts, one had to wonder who was the killer and who was the victim.
There’s something uniquely American about healthcare nightmares. The torments go something like this story seen on social media: “My health insurance denied a PET scan for my husband,” wrote one woman on social media. “He had been diagnosed with a very rare cancer with possible metastatic spread. The first denial claimed it was because he hadn’t had a liver biopsy yet, which he had. The second denial claimed it was because PET scans hadn’t proven their efficacy (they were the ‘gold standard’ test for a decade at that time). The cancer metastasized, and he died six months after diagnosis. He was 51.”
The preceding story begs the question, does one have to pull a trigger to be deemed a killer? Writ large, our broken system is the killer, and it’s a serial killer that’s been at it for decades and decades. The weapons of choice have been, and continue to be, politicians, corporations, executives, courts, and shareholders. And frankly, ourselves. Ourselves for allowing it to go on for decade after decade while screaming about the inequity and cruelty of it all.
Do I condone the murder of a man because he’s the CEO of a healthcare insurer or a pharmaceutical company. No, but more so, I condemn the deaths and ruination of millions of lives in order to gain wealth and to satisfy faceless shareholders. One user on X summed up the quandary quite neatly, “When you shoot one man in the street it’s murder. When you kill thousands of people in hospitals by taking away their ability to get treatment you’re an entrepreneur.”
And while death by denial might not be the outcome of an insurance claim refused, or a procedure delayed for pre approval, the outcome is often financial ruin and/or diminished quality of life.
When Sara England discovered that her infant son, Amari Vaca, who had recently undergone open heart surgery, was in distress, she took the child to the emergency room at Natividad Medical Center in Salinas, California. The doctors, who had to keep the boy alive by putting a tube down his throat and manually pushing air into his lungs with a bag until he was stable enough to go onto a ventilator, told England that the boy needed immediate specialized care at the nearest hospital; care that Natividad was not equipped to provide. When the University of California-San Francisco Medical Center informed doctors that they could care for Amari, the boy was flown by small plane and transported between hospitals and airports on ground ambulances. When the bill for $97,599 was submitted to Cigna, the claim was denied on the grounds that air transport was not medically necessary. Link to full story, here.
David Cordani, the CEO of Cigna, has a net worth of $570 million dollars. He could figuratively pull 98 large out of his pocket, pick off the lint, say ‘keep the change,’ and then go and have a quick $200 dollar lunch at Benjamin Steakhouse Prime. In the meantime, Sara England will likely spend years, if not decades, making herself whole, all the while conserving and foregoing while Mr. Cordani indulges in whatever the fuck strikes his fancy.
“Good food is very often, even most often, simple food.” ~ Anthony Bourdain, Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly
Kraków. It’s old. Fourth century old.
Put in American perspective, because for Americans it’s always about America, Krakow was the capital of Poland five centuries before a European landed in what would later be the United States. Jagiellonian University was graduating students three centuries before the first Harvard student said to the first ever Harvard prof, “My dog ate my homework.”
Krakow has basked in the grandeur of royalty and been chastened by invaders; Mongols in 1241, Swedes in 1657, Nazi Germany in 1939 and the Soviet Union in 1945. As a part of the Eastern Bloc, Poland was under the yoke of the Soviet Union until 1993. In Krakow, one doesn’t have to look hard to see the remnants and scars left by the latter two.
Today Krakow is a historic treasure, with two of its districts, Stare Miasto (old town) and Kazimierz (the old Jewish Quarter), having been designated UNESCO World Heritage sites, along with other UNESCO Heritage sites within a short drive of the city.
Today, Krakow is also old world made young and vibrant by a large population of college students and a lively cultural and nightlife scene. One can plunge into jazz at the basement Jazz Club u Muniaka, just steps away from a 13th century church.
Arrival The cabbie brought us to the city from John Paul II International Airport using mostly backroads. There’s a first for everything and this was the first time I’ve taken anything but a highway to or from a major city’s international airport. The ride took us past a few stands of woodland and modest homes until we arrived in the city.
Once in the city itself, the driver looped onto Plac Dominikański, drove one short block and dumped us out. It wasn’t quite that unceremonious. He turned, put his arm on the back of his seat and explained that cars are not allowed onto the old square, and so we would have to walk to our hotel.
Well, that sent a shiver. Whenever we pass tourists trudging along a clogged street, weaving through crowds of tourists, and dragging luggage clattering on cobblestones, I’ve always muttered to myself, “there but for the grace of God …” Now, here in Krakow, God’s grace had apparently run out. Full disclosure, whatever grace I ever had is long past its expired date. Being the heathen that I am, I’ve been on borrowed time. Maybe I’ve just been pulled along on the coattails of my devout wife and in Krakow, God was firing a warning shot across her bow.
The driver must’ve noticed my brief look of terror and said, in a kind voice, “It’s only about 200 meters.” He pointed to our right, “Go up that way to the square, and once you’re on the square, turn right.”
Like most Old World European cities, the first thing you see when you arrive at an old town’s main square is an imposing old church. Kraków is no different. We turned the corner onto Rynek Główny (Central Square) and the gothic spires of St. Mary’s Basilica loomed before us. A magnificent centuries old building unexpectedly presents itself and you’re compelled to pause, marvel and say something like, “Damn! Look at that.” It’s almost like a usual drill except the there’s nothing at all usual about the imposing sight that soars from the square.
The Venetian House is located right on Rynek Główny, in an old building with its own courtyard just inside the front entrance. We arrived well before check in and after leaving our luggage we headed straight for the nearest T-Mobile office. The often spotty coverage that we normally get in the old European cities was non-existent in Krakow. Just like the old days, we were internet blind.
Crossing the threshold of the 15th century Barbican, the old city gate, was like time travel, as just a few blocks outside of Old Town, Kraków turns to modern kitsch at the three story Galeria Krakowska.
Malls all over the world are all more or less the same; tawdry shrines to commercialism and materialism. Malls dot countries around the world but they all scream the same language of shameless consumerism. The same steel and glass and plastic plants, the same garish, blazing light, the same drone of zombie-like shoppers looking for something in particular and nothing at all really, the same food courts serving the same international versions of plastic food, and all of it to the sound of piped in elevator music and semi-hits from long forgotten almost pop stars. For those who aren’t looking to buy, the mall is the land of “I don’t have anything else to do.” To quote Frank Zappa, “Like, oh my god, fer sure, fer sure,”* at Galeria Krakowska we could just as well have been in Encino, California. It was, “like, so bitchin’.” * From “Valley Girl” Lyrics and music by, Frank Zappa and Moon Zappa
The nice man at the T-Mobile shop told us that T-Mobile in Poland is essentially a third cousin many times removed from T-Mobile USA, and all he could do for us, if we wanted internet, was to sell us sim cards for our phones. I got a sim card and Cora decided to just stay tied to me at the hip. “If we get separated, just ask someone for directions to our hotel and I’ll meet you there,” I suggested.
I walk the streets. Aimlessly. Desperately. I’m looking for everything – and – nothing really. Oh, but there is that one magnificent place, or colorful stroll, or enduring taste that I have to experience just one final time.
Is there something that I missed?
Of course there is. I’ve missed what I ran out of time for and I’ve missed the hundreds of things I’ll never even know that I missed, until someone mentions something two months from now and then I’ll say, “No, I missed that.”
“We can’t see everything.” That’s what I tell Cora every time the itinerary is too full to squeeze in anything else.
This desperate exploration has become a tradition that occurs on every final day of a trip.
Back at our hotel, Cora is feet up, relaxing. She’s traveled-out, and walked-out, and ready to go back home.
Me? I’m the one who never wants to go back home. If it wasn’t for the dog waiting for us at home I’d be sorely tempted to stay. But right now I’m trying to squeeze the last drops of juice from the fruit.
“No class or group or party in Germany could escape its share of responsibility for the abandonment of the democratic Republic and the advent of Adolf Hitler. The cardinal error of the Germans who opposed Nazism was their failure to unite against it.” ~ William L. Shirer, The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich: A History of Nazi Germany
It’s all coming back to me. The memory of getting up every morning, going downstairs and turning on the news. It started in 2017 (actually it started in November of 2016). Turning on the television wasn’t unlike looking out the kitchen window to see a leering demon staring back at me. Each day delivered a new demon. It might be a policy (I use the word loosely) statement or a blasphemy launched at someone who got under the guy’s skin, or words of praise for a tyrant on the other side of the planet, or another word salad from a buffoon who couldn’t construct a coherent sentence. Hell, it could be as simple as – “covfefe.” The demons didn’t even have the decency to take Sunday mornings off. They worked 24/7/365.
And then in 2021, the demons disappeared.
And now their back. It’s the sequel, and sequels are usually worse than the original. I wish I could say it was political PTSD – gremlins bouncing around my brain from a chaotic past. But no, we’re going through it again. To date most of the daily demons have names; Tulsi Gabbard, Matt Gaetz (known informally as Rapey McForehead), Pete Hegseth, and a guy who admitted to having a brain worm.
Today’s daily demon was a reality show quack known as Dr. Oz. The good doctor didn’t arrive in the morning. He showed up while I was at the gym. They do that. Tap you on the shoulder, look back at you in the rearview mirror, or jump out of the closet when you least expect it.
I guess the difference this time around is that the current demons are exponentially more horrific than their forebears.
Mandate – shmadate As is its wont, Trump-land is calling Donald Trump’s victory a “landslide.” Hardly. The margin of victory will end up at about 2 percent (his margin comes in at 44th out of the 51 elections that have been held since 1824), and once the last signature is verified, will be less than 50% of the vote. LBJ’s 60+ percent in 1964 was a landslide.
But Donald Trump lives in his own “like the world has never seen before,” fictional universe. And the cult, as is the wont of cults, hangs on every word and believes Trump’s fictions of landslides and mandates. The bigger problem is some of the people who possess actual sway in how things are going to work, also believe the fictions. Or are simply willing to turn away from reality because it suits their ambitions.
Corey Lewandowski, the creepy political commentator and former Donald Trump campaign manager, along with others, has been claiming that the people have given Trump a mandate. A mandate for what? Tear apart our institutions? Immolate the Constitution? Endanger our safety, our health, our well being, and our right to enjoy “life liberty and the pursuit of happiness?”
The meager American electorate (and I’ll get to the meager part in a bit) voted to entrust Donald Trump (The very concept of entrusting Donald Trump with anything is mind boggling) with its future. The voters who chose Trump did so in the belief that he would make life more livable (you know – eggs and milk). The electorate didn’t give Trump carte blanche to fuck the world. And yet, here we are, looking at a cabinet lineup of unqualified, sycophantic ideologues which indicates that Trump is in the mood to do a lot of screwing.
After my recent post, I decided I needed some time away. I was poised to crack open the bottle of Polish vodka that I brought from Krakow for my son and to listen to hours of blues but I thought better of it. So I buried myself in a good book and a mixture of jazz, and head banging rock; walked the dog, watched basketball, and did some photo processing.
But the political junkie can’t stay away for long. Pretty soon he starts jonesing for the three P’s; polls, podcasters and pundits. And so, let the self-flagellation commence.
Acceptable casualties: A military euphemism used to indicate casualties or destruction inflicted that is considered minor or tolerable.
The price of eggs. It was the voter’s rallying cry that drowned out all others. The price of eggs was the hill, the electorate’s objective, and it was hell bent on making a suicide charge up that hill.
And the acceptable casualties?
Everything.
“As hard as it is right now, we have to find a way to tune in, not out. If we don’t, Trump wins again,” said the meme on Dan Rather’s Facebook page.
“Let the bastard win,” the me in my nightmare says. “Who are we kidding? He won a long time ago. I’m tired and done. Nine years it’s been. And at least four more to go. Thank you, America. A voice inside me wants Trump to go all Trump and accelerate the pain and I want all the people who allowed this to feel some pain. I want them to feel remorse. But the voice in response reminds me that the people who will feel the most pain are, as Matthew said in the Bible, “the least of us.”
I made the prediction to my wife in October, while riding in a subway train in Vienna. They play short video news clips on small screens in the trains. There was Trump, mouthing something. Couldn’t understand the closed caption. All in German. Turned to Cora, “He’s gonna win, and win big. Fucking guy.”
Trump’s victory was crystal clear to me and I wasn’t feeling a trace of disappointment. No disappointment, just resignation. Because for years I’ve realized just what America has become.
A few days later, when a waiter in a restaurant said he wanted to go to America, I said, “Don’t. it’s not a good place. You have it better here.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Donald Trump for one,” I responded.
“Yeah, there is that.” His English was so excellent that I asked him if he is an expat. He responded that he was Austrian born but went to an American school in Vienna.
We went to bed early on election night after having watched enough of the returns to decide it wouldn’t be healthy to continue. Sometime after midnight, I woke up when my wife went to the bathroom.
Looked at my phone and glanced at the returns.
When Cora came back to bed I said, “Trump won.”
“My lord.”
Yeah, Trump, my un-sweet lord.
Actually I’d fibbed. Trump wasn’t yet at 270, but it didn’t take a long look to understand that there’s no such thing as a 150 yard hail mary..
Well damn, I thought, the corpse is still warm and they’ve already started. “Your body, my choice. Forever.” It was the work of Nazi, and Trump acolyte Nick Fuentes in the immediate wake of Donald Trump’s victory. Like the man said, forewarned is forearmed.
Following his post and the ensuing outrage by normal people, and support by knuckle draggers, Fuentes was doxxed. But there may be some sweet irony in this story. This may just be another social media yarn but the story goes that after being doxxed for trolling women, rough, tough Nicky ran home to hide in his mommy’s house. We can safely assume that Nick’s mom is, you know, a woman.
Fuentes wasn’t the only one. The wake of Trump’s victory carried with it a flow of filthy vitriol aimed at women. The Institute for Strategic Dialog reported that in the 24 hours following Trump’s victory, there was “a 4,600% increase in mentions of the terms “your body, my choice” and “get back in the kitchen” on X. Similarly misogynist language, such as the use of “dumb cunt” to target Harris, television personalities such as Rachel Maddow and others, received more than 64,000 mentions on X from more than 42,000 accounts on November 5.”
But, but, Trump didn’t say those things. Nor has he criticized those statements. Let’s remember, Fuentes is Trump’s guy. Trump broke bread with Fuentes and that whacko Ye or Kanye or whatever he calls himself today. Maybe they broke McDonalds filet o’ fish sandwiches, a Trump favorite. Trump should’ve been investigated for his bad taste in sandwiches alone.
I had a brief delusional moment of hope that the fucking guy would repudiate the misongyny. Of course he didn’t.
On the way back from the gym the other day. A guy in the car next to mine at a red light was sporting a cap that said “My dick ain’t racist.” No? But you sure are a racist dick. I’m not surprised. Racist dick fashion has become chic. Waiting for Macy’s to sell torn versions of racist dick fashion (Made in China) and bump the price up by a factor of ten.
Knives out. The traditional national pastime of a post election pie fight within the losing party started sometime around midnight, PST when it was clear that Jabba the Hutt would be moving back into the White House come January.
Harris ran a bad campaign.
Why didn’t she address that “taxpayers are paying for prisoner sex change operations” ads? (A fair question actually)
“That’s not who we are,” said the politician. It may have been a member of Congress, a governor or a local sheriff. Certainly I’ve heard Barack Obama say it.
“That’s not who we are.”
That statement of denial, a far too late attempt to pick up the shattered and scattered pieces of our national reputation, usually follows some act that stoked widespread outrage; a(nother) school shooting, a bombed mosque, a right wing rally that devolves into violence, an outrageous statement that stokes violence against some marginalized group (You know, like immigrants eating pets).
Invariably a politician who hasn’t met a microphone he doesn’t love, stands in front of a crowd or tells a panel of CNN pundits, “That’s not who we are,” and I reply to the television, “The fuck it’s not.
Welcome back my friends to the show that never ends We’re so glad you could attend, come inside, come inside There behind a glass stands a real blade of grass Be careful as you pass, move along, move along*
*Karn Evil 9. Keith Emerson, Greg Lake, Peter Sinfield.
A forecast of sunny and bright weather belies my mood this morning. I’ve been dreading this day for longer than I can remember.
Wait, that’s wrong, I have a vague recollection.
Yeah, that’s right, darkness began to fall two years ago, in November of 2022, when Donald J. Trump decided to make another run at the presidency.
As if the previous seven years that included his initial disgusting 2015 candidacy, his tumultuous presidency, his run for a second term, his election denialism, an insurrection and two years of whining weren’t enough, Trump decided to put the nation and the world through another spin cycle of incompetence, despair and chaos.
These past two years (years 8 and 9 if you’ve lost count) have only magnified Trump’s unfitness for office. Trump has not only gone unapologetically all in on fascism, he also seems to be a few bricks shy of a load (or to put it in rougher terms, he’s off his fucking rocker).
In the final weekend of his campaign, at a rally in Milwaukee, Trump decided that it would be a good idea to simulate giving a microphone holder a blow job. Now here’s where I’m going to descend into outraged geezerdom. I am 100 percent certain that most people’s parents or grandparents, regardless of political stripe, upon seeing a grown ass man, much less a grown ass man wanting to be the leader and face of the nation, simulate a blow job in public, would denounce that grown ass man as a classless lout who never outgrew prepubescence and should never hold a position of responsibility and maybe, just maybe, should be institutionalized. But, for some perverse reason (and I use the word “reason” with copious looseness), Trump world is okay with that. They’ll figure out a way to excuse it.
Come inside, the show’s about to start Guaranteed to blow your head apart Rest assured you’ll get your money’s worth The greatest show in Heaven, Hell or Earth You’ve got to see the show, it’s a dynamo You’ve got to see the show, its rock and roll, oh
Not to be outdone in the election cycle’s overall carnival of the bizarre, the Democrats decided to add to all the turbulence by first trying to anoint old Joe to a second term only to unload him after watching in horror, his June debate performance.
It was the preemptive coronation of Biden (the second out of three election cycles after Hilary crashed and burned in 2016) that compelled me to leave the Democratic Party and register as an Independent.
These days I wonder if we’ll ever return to the old normal times. I have a vague recollection of those times, when Trump was still just a two bit reality show host, when election day came and went with a winner and a loser, and the loser would concede and say ‘We’ll do better next time and I promise to support the incoming president,’ and the winner would graciously accept the concession and the lame duck would carry on until inauguration day and then the new guy would step in.
In the normal times if your candidate won you might be giddy with hope and if he lost you figured the country could gut out four years of the other guy. Oh maybe you were a little panicky but, really, how bad could it get?
How bad? This time the potential knows no bounds.
Oh God, the nostalgia of it all.
The normal days are a fleeting memory and I’m not certain that they’ll return anytime soon. Trump tossed the banquet table and we’ll be mopping up the chow mein and the Jello salad for a long time to come.
Right before your eyes see the laughter from the skies And he laughs until he cries, then he dies, then he dies
16, October, 2024 Munich has been dank and gloomy throughout our visit. It’s the risk the traveler runs when choosing to vacation in autumn. It’s part of the trade off; you’ll take dodging raindrops in exchange for dodging the hordes of travelers. The irony of being a traveler and wanting to avoid the hordes of my own vacationing species doesn’t escape me. I am what I’m trying to avoid, what I often curse.
“Damn tourists.”
The city woke up to a low fog that obscured the top third of the magnificently, architecturally busy, neo-gothic Rathaus (town hall) in the Marienplatz, the city’s old town square. The shroud has lifted but the murk persists.
Cora and I are walking through the Hofgarten, a pleasurable peace (yes, you read that correctly “peace”) of green in the center of bustling München. It rained last night, and the macadam path before us is pocked with puddles. We’re drizzled on by occasional spits of mist that have kept the park largely devoid of visitors. The garden is left to those of us who’ll accept muddy outer soles as a small inconvenience for the benefit of an inner soul cleansed by a walk in the park.
An old fellow eats his lunch on a bench, sitting close by his equally old bike which leans against the end of the bench. A few younger people are strolling the path or sitting on benches, all likely taking a midday break from work. A short pause for serenity in a city that, if you judge from the madness of the underground, is anything but serene on any given weekday.
We’re flanked on either side by rows of trees that stand in perfect lines. Wooden soldiers. It’s autumn and these soldiers are clad in neither steel gray nor green camo, but in brilliant yellow.
Soldiers.
Wooden soldiers.
That’s the tag that the Germans wear.
They’re grim, rigid, officious, much too serious, and overly scrupulous. Prone to being engineers, scientists, staid pipe smoking philosophers, and uber patriotic soldiers. It’s the cross of iron that the Germans bear.
And it’s bullshit.
A visit to any biergarten or rathskeller will disabuse you. It’s rousing, jovial, and communal. No reservations. Pull up an empty spot on a bench, sip your beer and munch your pretzel next to a stranger who, before that stein is half empty may just become your friend.
Hell, how staid can the Germans be, given that they invented Christmas – at least the one most of us celebrate, the one with trees, lights and Santa Claus. You know, the fun Christmas.
At the same time, an American’s first visit to a German restaurant can seem a bit off putting. Don’t expect a perky, “Hi, I’m Kimmie and I’ll be your server today. Here’s our list of signature cocktails.”
Nope, you’ll get pointed to a table, and handed a menu, sometimes wordlessly. The server will return and likely say, “So?” or maybe if you’re lucky, “Bitte (please).”
At mealtime’s end, they aren’t going to come by your table and bring you a check. That’s on you. And that’s a paean to hospitality – and something of a repudiation (gasp) of capitalism. Stay as long as you want. Linger over your coffee. Don’t want more coffee? No beer? No schnapps? No problem. There’s no bourgeois rush to turn tables. Hell, in a coffee house where there are often servers who, one would think, would love to see a healthy turnover of tables, there are racks of newspapers for coffee sippers to choose from and linger over.
Go to a hofbrau and you shouldn’t be surprised to see regulars, often dressed in traditional Bavarian garb, hovering over a chess game or just shooting der Scheiß while nursing beer in steins big enough to hold enough brew to fill up a Benz fuel tank.
In America the server drops off the check and says, “No rush.” Loosely translated that means, “Hurry the fuck up. I need to turn this table.”
It was an unusually large crowd at the Oakland Coliseum on the final day of the Oakland Athletics home season. Some came for the love of baseball. Some came as fans of the team. Others came to pass a sunny afternoon at the ball yard.
The rest? The rest was most of the crowd, and they came for the wake. Someone dies and the family, friends, loved ones, and hangers on come to remember the departed. It’s that odd mixture of sorrow and joy, bereavement and comfort, tears and laughter, closure and commencement. Maybe commencement is the hardest part. You move on. But to what?
The last pitch on this day wasn’t just the last of a season, it was the final pitch of an era. After years under the ownership of a penny-pinching billionaire named John Fisher (according to Forbes, Fisher is worth 3 billion dollars), the A’s are pulling up stakes and moving to, well, God knows where. Fisher certainly doesn’t.
For the foreseeable future (3 years is the stated timeline), the team will play 85 miles up Interstate 80 in little Sutter Health Park, home of the minor league Sacramento River Cats. Yeah, it’s come to that – MLB in a minor league park.
After squatting at Sutter Health Park, the team is expected to move to a new stadium in Las Vegas, although depending on what news you hear or when you hear it, that move may be a pipe-dream – on again, off again.
And if it’s off? Off to Portland? Salt Lake City? Charlotte? Nashville? Some city starving for major league ball, and if you’re willing to accept Fisher, you are fuckin-A starving.
Why move?
Fuck if I know – at least not the gritty details.
The owner, John Fisher, was the chief instigator in making the move a self fulfilling prophecy with his propensity to trade away on field talent, or simply let them walk away, and his obtuse and inept approach to finding a stadium solution. At times, one might have thought that Fisher himself was trying to sabotage a Bay Area stadium.
True, the A’s needed a new stadium. For years, the Coliseum has been a dump. Built a short distance from San Francisco Bay and 22 feet below sea level, a healthy rain and backed up pipes had been known to bring flood waters into the players shower area. The stadium has long been in need of a facelift, some TLC, and, oh yeah, there’s a mountain behind the centerfield wall that needs to be razed. None of that will happen now.
The Life in My Years 