Sticksicle
06-29-2010, 12:43 AM
I'm a Bay Area Native that was raised right.
Although I left the Bay Area twenty years ago and have subsequently been to the four corners of the Earth, there are two unwavering pillars in my life, Giants baseball and Niners football. The rest is negotiable, provided that I get to be the brewer...and get to cook at least half the time.
My name is an adaptation of Fudgesicle. For those of you that didn't have the "pleasure," the Stick's bleachers were murder for adults, but absolute hell for kids. I grew up in the freeeeeeezing outfield bleachers of Candlestick, when the "Industrial City" sign was something we grimly agreed was the correct order of things and something that should be restored--if only the country would...
My father and uncles used to take me to the bleacher seats packed with other burly, hairy men and the smells that followed them: wet wool, light machine oil, hours-old stale sweat recently reborn and shared by the new sweat of stress, the occassional trickle of urine that would bob and weave its way by if you were seated in the seats that had wind abatement panels, lousy hot dogs with slimy buns, and a bouquet of booze to rival the spice markets of India, all amplified and made closer by the fog and damp.
"Don't listen to those words, they're very bad words," my aunt would coo as she poured a tipple of rapberry brandy into my lousy, watery hot chocolate.
That's how I grew up, as a Sticksicle.
What a way to grow up!
Although I left the Bay Area twenty years ago and have subsequently been to the four corners of the Earth, there are two unwavering pillars in my life, Giants baseball and Niners football. The rest is negotiable, provided that I get to be the brewer...and get to cook at least half the time.
My name is an adaptation of Fudgesicle. For those of you that didn't have the "pleasure," the Stick's bleachers were murder for adults, but absolute hell for kids. I grew up in the freeeeeeezing outfield bleachers of Candlestick, when the "Industrial City" sign was something we grimly agreed was the correct order of things and something that should be restored--if only the country would...
My father and uncles used to take me to the bleacher seats packed with other burly, hairy men and the smells that followed them: wet wool, light machine oil, hours-old stale sweat recently reborn and shared by the new sweat of stress, the occassional trickle of urine that would bob and weave its way by if you were seated in the seats that had wind abatement panels, lousy hot dogs with slimy buns, and a bouquet of booze to rival the spice markets of India, all amplified and made closer by the fog and damp.
"Don't listen to those words, they're very bad words," my aunt would coo as she poured a tipple of rapberry brandy into my lousy, watery hot chocolate.
That's how I grew up, as a Sticksicle.
What a way to grow up!