The steppes of Casa Gordon

The thing is, I kept worrying that one of us would fall, break a leg and tumble into the pool.  I’ve looked at those steps for months, noting that the top step was nearly twice the height of the one below it, which was higher the one below it. Plus, there was nothing remotely resembling a railing, “just in case.”

At length, my shrewing paid off — or rather, we paid off the last of three bidders who agreed to do the job. And surprisingly, it took all of four hours to do it all. I’d anticipated one of these marathon affairs of the type that became famous in southern California on the heels of the 1994 earthquake where the guy shows up at your house on Tuesday, announces his price and then returns once a week for the next month and a half to finish a project that could have been completed in about six hours. But not this time. These guys arrived at eight and were out by noon.

At no time did I offer more than observation.

It was two guys overseen by the boss, who occasionally handed out tools while pitching Kris on a re-surfacing of the pool.

As I’ve noted, this was done on the basis of need, i.e., a slowly declining sureness of foot. Oh sure, if you’re nine a trio of steps, all of an uncertain match, you’re talking about an irresistable challenge. By the Boomer years you’re more inclined to pass. Consistent with that approach we considered it a no-brainer to let someone more apt do the work involved.

See, I’ve never been, and never will be, a project guy. My dad says he’d never hire a job done that he could handle himself. I hardly agree with that, which might explain why to this day the general consensus that I’m not what you’d call handy. In truth, I’m not terribly interested, when it comes to that, of watching. For the most part, I’ll swing by at the end of the day to get a sense of the progress.

In fact, I’m not a big fan of “project guys” in any context. The last thing I want in life is to live next door to a man with a skill saw and a maddening urge to build an ark.

So the Steppes of Casa Gordon were torn down and re-built by others, but, I must say, thoroughly put to good use and enjoyed by us. This was especially the case for our annual planting of Kris’ tomatos, which are already springing into action — if the spider mites leave them alone this year (that’s another story).

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Who’s a kid?

Last night we went up to San Dimas to a favorite haunt, a country bar with a huge dance floor and canned music. The head charge is a mere five bucks and the drinks are cheap. Another couple showed up at nine-ish and we shared a table at the edge of the dance floor.

Now generally, we’re outta there rarely later than 9:30, having arrived two hours earlier, but with the arrival of our friends, we stayed until 11. It was revealing.

Back in the day, one hour before midnight was the shank of the evening, with another two hours-plus to go. I would arrive at 8:30 and git perhaps a half-hour before the house lights came on — this to preserve the illusion of rock ‘n roll going on forever. Now, of course, those of us who can claim Boomer status prefer an earlier, lighter schedule.

Staying those extra couple of hours last night, however, meant rubbing shoulders — almost literally — with ourselves, one generation (and more) removed.

Kids. Kids who carry their drinks everywhere. Rude kids. Loud kids. Overbearing kids. Kids who have suddenly decided that true adulthood has been secured, along with ownership of their known world.

Sure, it sounds like us, 40 years ago, and it makes you wonder: Were we really that obnoxious and that clueless?

With the obvious advantage of hindsight, there has always been, and always will be, a generation gap, and the four of us at the table last night were aware of it, coming and going. I wouldn’t go so far as to say there was resentment, at least on our part. But the difference in ages — I’d say some 30 years or more — was uncomfortable, with a strained feeling of being in a much younger crowd. Sure, we soldiered on as we made our way around an increasingly dense dance floor, but more and more the pace seemed faster and faster, moving away from “us” and toward “them.”

A couple of decades ago, a crowd like that would have been very much to my liking. Now it really isn’t. And more to the point, what I experienced suggests that the priorities we once had have changed — the whole business of social dynamics, of self, of conquest. By contrast, you like to think that a less demanding perspective is a bona fide indicator of growth, that a couple of drinks with friends and tour or two around the dance floor is all it really is. Then to the parking lot and home with a comparatively clear head.

Pa-tooey.

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DUGOUT HYGIENE

(And most of these guys are millionaires.)

I love baseball, especially its traditions, among which is a steadfast resistance to machines making play calls. No instant replays. The umpire’s call stays, no matter what, and a blown call remains a blown call, even if it determines the outcome of the game. That’s a very good thing. Football was diminished when video recordings came to rule the day.

But the spitting? The ceremonious, public, incessant, revolting and seemingly all-inclusive spitting?

Think of any game that is played outdoors. You will not find any where spitting is so rampant, to say nothing of voluminous. Even the collision sport of football is not host to the expulsion of saliva from everyone in cleats (unless they use their helmets as recepticals). So why baseball? Is it the inviting grass? Is it a throwback to the days when players had a fondness for chewing tobacco, where gagging was inevitable if one did not release some of the juices inherent in the practice? Or is it an extension of the general disregard for hygiene that players enjoy exhibiting in the dugout.

Hard to know. Some say for batters it’s a way to release the tension while awaiting a 95 mph fastball, but when have you ever seen a big time tennis player awaiting a blinding serve ease the moment by lofting a prize lugie three feet in front of the baseline? Has Kobe ever prefaced a free-throw by making a small puddle to the left of his sneakers? Can you imagine Phil Mickelson lining up a potential eagle putt and pausing just for a moment to contribute a sample of his DNA on the green at Augusta?

Only in baseball. Only on national television. Only when the camera is in closeup.

Andre Ethier of the Dodgers is currently the leading batter in the National League in at least three categories. Were spitting a competitive entity, he’d likely be at the top in that, as well. The routine goes something like this (in honor, I guess, of Reggie Jackson): Approach the batter’s box. Spit. Settle in. Spit. Take a couple practice swings. Spit. Wait for the pitch. Swing and miss. Spit. Next pitch is hit to right field. Run to first. Reach the bag and pause with hands on hips. Spit.

What would that be? Half a cup? Is dehydration next?

And so on, down through the entire lineup, turning, you’d think, the batter’s box into a swamp.

O.K. I can live with grown men turning the dugout into a dump with crushed soft drink cups, pieces of paper, sunflower seeds, and yes, gallons of saliva. You’d think that guys who can snare blazing ground balls and hurl same with amazing accuracy to the proper base could deposit debris to a nearby trash can with equal elan, but it never seems to happen ( the dispair of passing the age of 14 can be a daunting thing). But there it is. Except for the needless shots into the dugout we don’t have to see it.

But spitting out in the open? Come on. Can a quick whiz on the grass near the expensive seats be that far into the future?