Vin the Sky Poet

What's up, Strato-Cumulus:

Incredible sky last night. The sky couldn't figure itself out yesterday, all day. It rained early morning, was hot midday, then clouded over and rained warm and muggy. Unsettled sky, like a teenager, just volatile and in-between. During the Dodgers-Braves game, Vin Scully was moved to remark repeatedly on the state of the sky around Dodger Stadium. He said in parts it was like a used Brillo pad; adjacent were stretches of blue; overhead it was black. On the 10 East tonight I noticed an odd mix of types of clouds. In this case, the word "mix" doesn't really feel as accurate as the Spanish word "mezcla." That word has the colors in it required to describe last night's sky.

On the 5 in east L.A. at dusk, San Gabriel mountains in the clouds. I took these pics with my ancient flipphone.  It is an idiot-savant camera. 

I drove by Dodger Stadium as I usually do on my way home. I've been loving Vin so much lately, I want to somehow embrace him and keep him, forever. When I drive past and there's a game, the lights of the stadium shine in the dark sky, like there's someone home, and there's a big pot of chili and the stove and music on the hi-fi and the gate's open. And I know Vin is there.

As a radio lover, I am aware that Vin is probably the greatest radio broadcaster I will ever know. And as immortal as is clearly is, he is also human. As untouchable and essentially perfect as he has become, he is also mortal.

Over and over I think to myself, how lucky have I been to live with radio this good—all my life?

This is not just hometown sentimentality. Everyone knows it. Everyone in the whole country who knows anything about baseball knows it.

Vin Scully is probably the secret reason New York hates us.

That, and the fact that we get to watch the sun set over the ocean.

Venice Beach. 

Larb,
Kate