Low And Outside
When my mom moved us into Corona in the late 1980s, I was not happy about it. Of course I was in my mid-teens, so I wasn't happy about alot of things, mostly stemming from the constant hormonally-induced erection I couldn't seem to get any mid-teenage girls to help me out with.

I had lived in Riverside County for most of my life, never really knowing I was supposed to be horrified and ashamed by the association. After my mom's second divorce, our circumstances (that's our euphemism for "homelessness") once again forced us to retreat to my aunt's house Mission Viejo, Orange County.

The streets in Mission Viejo all had medians and gutters, not to mention the meticulous landscaping. There were rec centers with pools and pool tables and tennis courts and a giant members only lake. There were country clubs and BMWs and Spanish-tyle tract houses and white people as far as the eye could see.

This was ninth grade. It was pointed out to me--sometimes directly, sometimes not--that places like this is where functional human beings should always endeavor to stay and places like, say, the gigantic tract of land in Riverside and (gasp!) San Bernardino counties were for those who strived and failed. I was determined to make it work. Even if I had to be the Uncle Tom of poor kids, I was gonna be one of them. I wasn't going back.

So when mom let her stupid personal dignity and one-income financial limitations cloud her judgment, she dragged my sisters and I to Corona, the first city just to the east of the Orange Curtain, undeniably part (again) of Riverside County.

Unlike the 1970s pre-fab planned communities of South OC, Corona was (and still is, come to that) over a century old. It had... old stuff all over it. Parts of it were positively distressed.

When you're fifteen, everything and anything remotely negative that happens to you is instantly the Worst Thing In Your Whole Life Ever. So at that point, moving to Corona was the Worst Thing Ever.

Fast forward 15+ years to last Saturday. My oldest boy is a Riverside County kid. It no longer means what it used to mean, quite (unless you ask an Orange Countian, who will insist it's all cows and meth labs out here). We have a Nordstrom for Christ's sake.

The unbelievable economic success of Orange County has driven many, many people east, fleeing crazy house prices and rampaging hordes of yuppies and their hip-hop ridiculous (or alternatively, White Power skinhead scary) teenage spawn. To their own personal shock and dismay, they find themselves by and large in Corona, by now almost entirely gentrified. The streets all have medians and gutters, not to mention the meticulous landscaping. There are country clubs and BMWs and Spanish-tyle tract houses and white people (more or less) as far as the eye can see. The population has doubled since I first moved there and they brought their Jamba Juice and their Pick Up Stix with them.

So when it came time to sign up my boy for his first-ever organized sports experience, I had my eye on Corona, my polished, come-of-age neighbor to the east of me. My ZIP code is Riverside, but I live in kind of a shadowy undefined space floating near the border of the two cities. It was worth a shot.

The boy and I turned up at the pizza place where they were doing the Little League sign-ups on Saturday. Full of kids, giant wall-sized TV, lots of noise and good humor. We drove past the LL park on the way: all green and open with shiny new play equipment.

I honestly wasn't sure if we were supposed to go to that particular LL or not, so I asked. The very nice man in the satin Corona LL jacket pointed me to the giant map. In the middle was a giant red ploygon indicating the designated Corona LL area.

And there, just to the east, clearly excluded, was my community. Bastards!

So I trudged up to the other Little League nearby, in an old part of Riverside, with old equipment that screamed tetanus. Sign-ups were inside the "community center". A homeless dude was sleeping under the eaves.

Being a Democrat I suppose this shouldn't bother me. I should take what community Little League program I'm assigned to and like it. It's not that I don't like homeless people either, I do. Heck, when I see one, I'll invariably smile, wave and shout at them loudly "Hello homeless person!" and then run like hell. Those fuckers are crazy, most of them.

But that's my story. That's my lot. It's not alot, but it's mine. The only real solace I take is that my son just wants to play baseball and doesn't care about the where so much. It isn't fancy-pants Corona, but it's organized and the field has grass. In places. And used condoms and hypodermics, probably. But still, I'll let him play.

Completely unrelated I swear, but does anyone know how to get a gun permit? Thanks.


This post on the Narcissus Scale: 9.996 (.004 for the geographical information)


Pops

- posted by Pops @ 12:24 PM