Zen and the Art of Batting Practice

I had more to write about the Orioles game I went to last Sunday, but it would have made the previous post way too long.  So here we are.

Like I mentioned before, I went to the game by myself.  I have no qualms about doing this because then I get to ramble around where ever I want and stay as long as I like.   Obviously, my first priority was to document the ballpark upgrades for the post, but that still left me with plenty of time to take part in one of my favorite things: watching batting practice from the flag court.  The Orioles are usually done before the fans are allowed in so you only get to watch the visiting team.

If I go to the game with Pinky, we have to get there close to game time.  She’s bored and ready to leave by the 6^th inning as it is, let alone if I drag her there two hours early.  And if I go with Sitcom Kelly, we usually hole up in one of those bars by the Brooks Robinson statue and drink cheap beer up until the National Anthem.  (Lord knows how many give-away shirts and bobbleheads (available to the first 10,000 fans) that I’ve missed because I’ve been drinking and carrying on with her…)

So, like I mentioned in Sunday’s post, you have to pay attention when you’re on the flag court during batting practice, lest you get clobbered by a home run ball.  This was especially true on Sunday because the Twins’ lefties were raining homers down on the flag court like it was their own personal Shock and Awe campaign.  (Not that it did them any good during the game, what with being 2-hit by the Birds.)  But in BP, they were mashing.  There were at least 2 or 3 that went clear over the flag court, over the iron fence, and onto Eutaw Street in front of the Warehouse.  A half dozen more bounced out through the fence.

Director’s DVD Commentary: If you’re not familiar, Eutaw Street is not really a ‘street’ once it runs inside the gates of the ballpark.  It’s a cobblestone corridor full of food and merch vendors that runs between the outfield wall and the B&O Warehouse.

Quite a number of batters have hit Eutaw Street on the fly during games.  And when they do, the team embeds a small plaque wherever the ball landed. 

You can see 15 of them here, between the flag court and the Warehouse.

This is what they look like.

It’s a pretty cool thing that just keeps adding to the ambiance of the park.  It’s fun to stroll along and check out all the batters that hit these bombs.

Although you’d think otherwise, especially during the “Steroid Era,” no one has ever hit the Warehouse on the fly, during a game.  The only hitter with a documented Warehouse strike was Ken Griffey Jr, during the 1993 Home Run Derby before the All Star Game.  They put a plaque up for that too…

 Griffey’s plaque, right beside the doorway to one of the shops in the Warehouse.

Here, you can see where it hit, relative to the wall and doorway.

If you strain real hard, you can see the little spot at the end of that arrow.  I took the picture from about 8 feet from the outfield wall, so you can see just how far he cracked that one.

Back in the old Three Rivers Stadium, they used to paint the seats yellow wherever a home run ball landed in the upper deck.  Those really had to be monster blasts.  Famed leftie slugger Willie Stargell put a few up there, I know.  I think he would have certainly broken a few Warehouse windows, had he spent his career playing at Camden Yards.

During the Twins BP, one guy smacked one just to the right of the flag court and it landed in the last row of seats and just settled there. Some dude just jogged over and snatched up the easiest ball ever.

This was the chair where the ball landed.

I wrote all about my game ball-seeking exploits back in June of 2009, here.  Long story short, I was close a bunch of times until I finally got a foul ball, on one bounce off the warning track.  I still have aspirations, though, of nabbing another one.  It’s better if it’s during a game, but BP is cool with me too.  But you really have to be careful.  Even a big guy like me can get trampled.  I was up there once when it was pretty crowded and a ball started coming out way.  It was like a sea of dudes started moving toward the ball all at once and there was no way to fight the tide.  It was unsettling to get moved with the crowd against my will.

I think the reason everyone packed in was because the wall was so high.  If you weren’t up close, you couldn’t see the ball coming, so everyone tended to pack in close.  Now with the lower railing, you can stand farther back and still see the incoming rounds.

My strategy was to stay back and try to pick up a rebound.  Once a ball lands, it ricochets around like crazy, especially with all the flagpoles.  (There’s one for each American League team, set up to represent the current standings.)  When a ball lands there, it’s like someone throwing a foosball onto the foosball table… it just caroms all over the place.  If you’re lucky, it might come right to you.

I wasn’t that lucky… They all seemed to carom away from me.  But I tell you, if I had a baseball glove on, I’d have had a ball for sure.  I was standing relatively in the clear and someone smacked a long one right at me.  I saw it coming and backed up a bit, entertaining thoughts of trying to catch it.  But as it got close, I could better gauge how fast it was moving.  This is where the wisdom of advanced age kicked in.  I quickly thought to myself, “No fucking way,” and stepped aside.  I could hear it hissing through the air as it bounced about 2 feet to my left.  Probably would have broken my hand if I had tried to catch it bare-handed.  Best case scenario, my hand is swollen with contact hives on Monday morning.

If I’d had a glove on, I could have snagged it as easy as pie… it was right there.  Of course, I didn’t have a glove on because I’m a grownup now and have managed to acquire a degree of self-respect.  (Seriously!)  Plus, I’d have to lug the thing around all day, which might have put a crimp in my beer drinking.

Oh, that’s another thing… you don’t want to have a beer in your hand if you’re on the flag court for BP.  The odds of spillage are very high, especially if you have to move quickly.  It’s especially hard to go down for a ball on the ground with a beer in your hand.  I have my priorities.

Batting practice is the best time to see some of the game’s premier sluggers at work.  Some of their shots are epic.  I remember seeing Vladimir Guerrero (when he was with the Angels) mash one just under the upper deck in left, which then bounced up and down real fast between decks.  I’ve seen Sammy Sosa (when he was still with the Cubs) blast one off the back of the far bullpen wall in dead center, a distance for which if he had hit it to right, definitely would have hit the Warehouse.

It’s very hard to tell who’s who in BP because the players’ practice jerseys rarely have their numbers on them, and you’re too far away to make out their faces.  I could recognize Vlad because of his dreads and distinct batting stance and when Sosa batted, everyone was calling his name.  But otherwise, I have no idea who is up.

I’m going to try to get tickets for when the Angels come to town, just to see Albert Pujols take his hacks.  I’ve heard it’s quite an experience.  I just hope I can tell when he’s up. 

Once BP was over, I went over to the beer stand there for my first ballpark beer of the day.  That’s my tradition.  I always try to buy my first beer from the beer lady on the flag court.  The same lady has been at that station ever since I started attending the games.  She’s an older black lady and she has such a great rapport with her customers.

She’ll go, “Whattya need, baby?”

I’ll say, “You got a Miller Lite for me in there?” and she’ll pull one out and say, “Now you come back and see me when you need another one, baby, I’m here for ya all day.” 

Then we fist bump.  I am rarely able to go back because I’m always elsewhere during the game.  But I love our ritual.  I have no idea if she recognizes me from my half-dozen or so games a year, but I’d like to think that she does. 

Speaking of beer, I was diggin’ on these 24-ounce Bud Light Lime cans.  They were going for $10, which I considered to be a “deal,” compared to the $8.00 16-ounce beers.  But it’s funny the kind of warped judgment that the ballpark nudges you towards.  Consider that 3 of those 24-ounce cans would be $30.  Would anyone consider a $30 six-pack a deal?

Thus is the allure of the old ball game.

The New Camden Yards

With another baseball season upon us, I decided to go see the Orioles play today.  I like going to early-season games before it gets too hot, and what better day for a heathen to take in a game than Easter?  I went alone; Pinky was working and Sitcom Kelly was occupied with her family’s Easter dinner.  All the more baseball for me!  It was a beautiful sunny day, perfect for baseball.

With this year’s 20^th anniversary of the opening of Camden Yards, they had an article in the paper this week listing the 10 most memorable events in the stadium’s history.  They included Cal Ripken breaking the Lou Gehrig consecutive game record, Ken Griffey Jr hitting the right field Warehouse during the Home Run Derby before the 1993 All Star Game, Eddie Murray’s 500^th homer, the day Cal Ripken ended his streak, and various brawls, skirmishes and accidents.  But it turned out I, a merely casual fan of the O’s, actually attended two of the games listed.  (OK, one was listed as “Honorable Mention.)

Memorable Event #10 was opening day in 2003.  I’d gotten tickets by accident… at the time, my company routinely bought season tickets for the Orioles, plus extra seats for random noteworthy games.  Opening Day in Baltimore is always a big deal.  Anyway, a buddy of mine scored 2 tickets and asked me that morning if I wanted to go.

Of course I wanted to go… the alternative was just another ordinary day at work.  So I got permission from the boss and off we went.  (This is where it pays off that the park is a 15-minute walk from my office.)  The thing was, I wasn’t really dressed for it.  I was wearing a button-down shirt with my dress slacks, and a simple leather jacket.  That year, Opening Day was on March 31^st.

So we took our seats in the temporary bleachers they put up on the right field flag court every Opening Day (and I think for the playoffs, but it’s been so long since they’ve made the playoffs, I can’t be sure.)

Round about the 2^nd inning, it starts to snow… HARD.  It was snow squall that was coming down like crazy and blowing in circles around the park.  Every time a gust would come through and swirl the snow through the stands, everyone would cheer.  It was bizarre.  You don’t expect that at a baseball game.

Pitching through the snow.

At one point, during the peak of the squall, someone hit a fly ball to right field.  Jay Gibbons, the right fielder, had no idea where it went.  The ball landed with a thud but he still couldn’t find it on the field. 

It was the damnedest thing I ever saw.  Finally the O’s manager came out and “suggested” to the umpire that maybe they should stop the game for a bit and the umps agreed.  Play was halted for 13 minutes, by which time the snow had moved on, and the game continued as usual.  Good thing, because I was most definitely NOT dressed to sit out in the snow for 3 hours.

The other noteworthy game I was at, (the “Honorable Mention” game), was not nearly that big of a deal.  It was only noteworthy because it was the first game played by the O’s highly touted rookie catcher, Matt Wieters.  I just happened to have tickets because the O’s were playing the Tigers and my Tigers-fan buddy Rik (the Chairman of Fuck Off), was in town for the game.  We caught games on Friday night and Sunday afternoon.

This was Wieters’ first at-bat.  I think he flied out.

Today’s game wasn’t overly remarkable, other than it being a nice day for baseball.  The Orioles pitcher did take a no-hitter into the 8^th inning, but then gave up two hits.  The O’s won, 3-1.  But this year, the Orioles have made a number of changes to Camden Yards, so I thought I’d give you the lowdown, with a little bit of Then and Now.

Aside from the various upgrades to food vending areas and changes in vendors, there were 3 major changes to Camden Yards, in an attempt to make the park more fan friendly.

1) They shortened the right field wall under the Flag Court.  Camden Yards has a relatively short dimension to right field, but a huge wall.  From a fans perspective up on the Flag Court, the wall comes up to about my armpits.  It’s convenient for me to rest my elbows on the wall and watch batting practice, but for kids and people that aren’t 6’3”, not so much.  So they lowered the wall and put in a railing instead, providing better visibility for spectators of all sizes.

This was the wall before:

View from the Flag Court, with the high wall. (Shot was taken BEFORE the "Eyesore Hilton" was built in centerfield.)

The right field wall and scoreboard.

This is what it’s like now:

View from the flag court, featuring a lower railing.

View of flag court from the new center field patio.

I always kind of liked the high wall because it fit me just fine.  My biggest problem was that if you weren’t right up to the wall, you couldn’t see the batting practice balls coming in and were liable to get conked in the melon.

But the new railing will make for much better viewing for all people, including the vertically challenged.

2) Statues added to the picnic area.  They used to have picnic tables and stuff set up in the center field area, and more recently they began broadcasting the pre and post game shows from a tent there.  While they haven’t been set up yet, plans are to unveil statues of Orioles who have had their numbers retired.

Unfortunately, I don’t have a good shot of the picnic area, but in 2009, they set up a sports desk in front of the area, just behind the bullpens in center field.

This is the Statue Court.  Each of those big granite blocks will have a statue put up on it later this year.  Seeing those blocks makes me want to hop up on one and start to rant.

As you may remember, I’ve complained at great length that their only tribute to these players is some giant metal numbers, randomly placed outside the entrance to Camden Yards.  It’s a cheap and highly impersonal “tribute” to the local heroes and is done so much better in places like Pittsburgh’s PNC Park.  So I’m glad the Orioles are taking steps to rectify the situation.  They already put up a Brooks Robinson statue outside the stadium.

The statue is in a small median strip outside Camden Yards, between the park and a row of bars and food vendors.  Note the name on the orange and black street sign, “Brooks Robinson Plaza.”  Painting the glove gold was a nice touch to pay tribute to the raft of Gold Glove Awards he won.  (The orange scarf is not part of the original design.)

3) Patio area and bar on top of the center field camera stand.  The O’s have a big, green, ivy-covered wall in center, to serve as the batter’s backdrop for watching a pitch come in.  This year, they’ve put in a patio with a bar up there.  Any ticket holder can wander up there for free and stake a claim to one of the (few) tables and seats, or just stand at the rail (to effectively block the view of the people that are keeping YOU from sitting down).

The backdrop, before:

The centerfield camera stand, with the Five Bars Tower in the background.  (I really need to learn the name of that building.) 

I don’t have any pictures from up on top, because I’ve never been an Orioles cameraman, so I’m pretty sure I’d have gotten tossed out or arrested if I’d ever climbed up there.  But this is what it’s like now:  

There are 2 tiers of seats, available on a first come-first serve basis.

This is from up on the patio.  The bar is no joke!  The patio should be able to service quite a number of people.  There are TVs all around the bar, so you can sit there and watch the game on TV, while it is taking place live, right behind you.

You can see the dual tiers of seating.  The TV cameras are down to the right in the front row.

They have several clusters of modular sofa seats, which are ideal for a group of people that want to hang out and don’t care too much about the game.

All in all, it was a very pleasant day at The Yard.  I made conversation with a couple of 20-year old dudes, provided them with some tips about sneaking booze into a game, enjoyed a couple of beers and soaked up a little springtime sun.

Life is good.

This is how I “go green” at the ballpark.

All photographs were taken by me, except for the two “snow” pics, which I downloaded back in 2003, I believe from the Baltimore Sun. 

Winning the Mega-Millions: An Alternate Take

This afternoon, my buddy the Carpetbagger suggested in the comments from the previous post, that if he had won the lottery, he would literally hire the actor that played the lawyer character on Seinfeld, Jackie Chiles, to be his spokesman, staying completely in character.

I can’t even begin to say how brilliant that idea is.  And it got me thinking of a whole other way to go with lottery winnings: using all that dough to pull off unbelievable stunts, just to mock everyone and everything, especially the media. 

How cool would it be if I could find a way to keep my whereabouts unknown and just show up from time to time to do outrageous things, like a flash mob of one?  Like Bagger said, hire Jackie Chiles to be my spokesman.  (As far as I can tell (on Wikipedia), he’s still alive.)  I could hold press conferences to announce, among other things, that I’ll give $5000 to the first person that brings me a cheese omelet… right there while I’m speaking. 

I could announce I’m funding my own presidential campaign and just go out there and rip on all the other candidates.  How liberating!  I could say shit that no one else would ever dare to say, like Harry Truman on crack.  Then if the other candidates take any kind of legal action, I sic Jackie Chiles on them.

I could hire Tina Fey to act as Sarah Palin and be my VP candidate.  (That’s one way to meet her!)  Actually, strike that… I’ll hire her to just sit there and talk to me.  Easiest million she’ll ever make.

I could show up for debates and demand that everyone refer to me as “Your Excellency.”  If they won’t do that, I’ll insist then that they call me by my given name, (stolen from the classic Monty Python “Election Night” sketch), Tarquin Fintim-limbim-limbim-wimbim-limbim-busstop-fatang-fatang-ole-biscuit-barrel.  And I won’t even show up… I’ll just have Jackie hold up a laptop with a live feed of me on it.

I could pay a guy with Tourette’s to record all my radio spots.

I would make a commercial, just to mess w/ the other candidates.  It would only be a 15-second spot… I’d have it run following every other campaign commercial and it would be Joe Pesci from My Cousin Vinnie, saying “Everything that guy just said is bullshit.  Thank you.”   (The remaining 10 seconds would show a long Chuck Lorre-esque vanity plate like he puts up at the end of his shows.  I’m the bluzdude and I approve this message n’at.

I could do commercials using nothing but internet cats, with graphics in “LolCat-speak,” extolling my virtues.

“Da kitteh sez voat 4 bloozzz.  He gud hooman.  He give kitteh da wet fude.”

Unfortunately, I’d probably wind up with the dreaded “Producers” situation and win the election!  I guess I’d have to make sure that no one does anything to actually put me on the ballot.

Meanwhile, I keep feeding the internet celebrity “news” sites a steady stream of cellphone footage of what appears to be my downward spiral, featuring Tony Montana-sized piles of blow, Keith Richards-like blood replacement machines and Charlie Sheen-like paranoid rampages.  In fact, maybe I can hire Charlie Sheen to do them for me.

Eventually the very media that built me up will tear me back down as I go down in a paparazzi-fueled blaze of glory.  I can secretly hire Criss Angel or Penn Jillette to make me mysteriously disappear right in front of the press, thus enabling my return to a life of blissful anonymity.

Soooo many possibilities here… I tell you what… if I win the lottery a second time, I’m definitely doing it!

The Zeroes Can Make You Crazy

Well, lest anyone get the wrong idea, the person that bought a winning Mega Millions ticket in Baltimore was not me.  I woke up just as ‘po as I went to bed.

It was funny though.  Friday night, I finished watching a DVR’d show about 10:55 pm, turned of the TV and went over to shut down my PC.  A few minutes later, I realized that the drawing was on and I missed it (…by that much.)  I tried to Google the results but there was nothing posted yet, so I gave up in short order and went to bed.

Pinky woke me up first thing in the morning… “Hey, where did you buy your tickets?”

On the news, they were saying that a winning ticket was sold in Milford Mill, MD.  That’s in the neighborhood of my subway stop.  But I bought my tickets downtown… so endeth the dream.

When I finally dragged my sorry ass out of bed, I checked the paper for the numbers.  Alas, out of my 5 lines, I had 2 numbers on one line and 1 on the other.  So much for that mess.

But it’s all good.  Round about Friday, I was wondering if I shouldn’t just toss my ticket away.  Judging from all the articles online, winning the lottery sure seemed like a lot of work.  You’ve got endless meetings, financial decisions, life decisions… It looked like a lot of hassle.  It just seemed easier not to win.  If I bow out ahead of time, I still have family and friends that like me, or at least take the minimum steps to conceal their contempt.

There were so many stories about how the winners are robbed of their privacy and hounded to the ends of the earth by people that want donations, investments or handouts.  (And these are the ones that don’t blow their dough on houses, cars and gambling.) 

Remember how I was going to hire someone whose job it would be to tell people “no?”  I decided I’d have to take on more headcount for that task.  I’d have to create a whole staff.

I’d have to have a series of business cards made up.  First card is for the “Director of No.”  He handles all the routine requests from family and friends.  My brother might do for this position.  They don’t call him Evil Ed for nothing.

The second card would be for the “Vice President of Hell No.”  He would handle all the requests for me to partake in investment opportunities.  I’d tap my buddy John for the job, who’s been known to drive off interlopers with a giant pink “fat-bat.”

Lastly, for charitable and political donations, I’d establish the “Chairman of Fuck Off.”  I’d need a big guy for this job… I’m thinking my buddy Rik would do nicely. 

The VP of Hell No and the Chairman of Fuck Off, aka The Pain Clinic.  This ought to keep the riff-raff off my doorstep.

If you’ll recall from my previous Lottery posts, as far as donations go, it will be an “I’ll call you, don’t call me” kind of deal. 

At work, Friday, a bunch of us were talking about some of the offices that pool their money and buy a whole bunch of tickets.  (For the record, we did not do this.)  I made the point that in order to do it right, one would have to be really careful about keeping records.  I’d want to put in writing the names of the people that participated and circulate copies of the tickets that were bought with the pooled money. 

The object would be to minimize the possible misunderstandings that can come when one of these communal numbers hits, when everyone at the office shows up to claim some money whether they participated or not.  Once the big numbers start getting tossed around, people lose their freakin’ minds.  And shame.

That scenario may already be coming into play with the Maryland winner.  Rumor has it that a McDonalds employee hit the jackpot with numbers she bought herself, aside from the communal tickets she bought.

The story goes that 15 employees put in $5 apiece.  She went and bought the tickets, then returned them to the store.  Then, her boss gave her another $5 and she went and bought more tickets… some with his $5 and some with her own money.  The problem is that she went straight home.  She claims that the winning ticket from the ones she bought with her money.

When she called in to work on Saturday to quit, and intimated that she didn't intend to share the winnings, a couple of employees went to her house and beat on the door until she answered.  One of them told her, “These people are going to kill you.  It’s not worth your life.”

See what I mean about the crazy?  All those zeroes do something to your head.

As far as I’m concerned, the only one with a claim is the boss.  And because she didn’t turn over or show a copy of the ticket to him ahead of time, they should split her share.

As for the rest of the lot, I say “Tough shit.”  They bought some tickets; they have the tickets, the tickets didn’t win.  End of story.  If I was her and I liked my co-workers, I might spread a little joy over at Micky-Dee’s just out of the goodness of my heart.  But after people coming to my house and threatening me?  They’d never see my ass again.  Have some fries with that!

I have suspicions, though, that all is not what it appears to be.  As of this afternoon, no one has gone to the lottery office to claim the prize.  And the lady seems to be backing down from her initial claim.  When she was pressed to produce the ticket, she told the newspaper, “I don’t know if I won.  Some of the numbers were familiar.  I recognized some of them.”

Are you freakin’ kidding me?  The numbers were all over the TV, newspaper and internet.  How do you not know if you won?  And why would you call in to quit without being certain?  The whole thing sounds fishy.

Also, there are reports that they went through the store video and backtracked to the time the ticket was bought.  The reports say that the buyer appeared to be a man.

I wouldn’t be surprised if an entirely different person is sitting on the ticket, until the heat dies down. 

If it were me, I’d be firmly entrenched in an “Undisclosed Location.”  (Where there would be sand and umbrella drinks.)  And anyone that needed to speak to me would be referred to schedule an appointment with my Under-Secretary of Scram.

Breaking Records

I saw a post by Uncle Crappy yesterday about his long-time love affair with record stores.  As I was considering my comment to his post, I realized that writing about records and record stores has been on my Blog Idea List since forever.  This was the perfect opportunity to have at it.

I know I’ve written extensively about my time working in record stores and for my record retailer’s home office.  (See my “Brushes with the Great and Near Great,” a series in 10 parts about meeting various famous people, posted in March of 2010.)  But long before I ever got paid to work in a record store, I would haunt them like Tony Siragusa haunts the Fox Sports buffet table.

Even before I could buy my own albums, I’d hang out at my local mall record store and spend a couple hours browsing through the records.  At the time, (mid 70s), that was my primary source of information on the bands I’d hear on the radio.  To me, it was a “win” if the band’s picture was on the album cover, because otherwise, I’d have no idea what they looked like.  (Remember… no MTV, no Internet, no YouTube, etc.)  And if there were lyrics on the back, that was the holy grail.  Then, just like now, it was often impossible to figure out what the singer was saying.

Eventually, my little weekly allowance would afford me the means to buy a 45-rpm single or two, if I hadn’t already blown my dough on candy at the drug store.  So after I’d peruse the records, I’d hit the 45s bin and prowl for favorite songs.

The most trying part of the experience was that so many of the 45s I’d buy would skip.  A lot of that had to do with the fact that we had a really crappy home stereo.  Sometimes I could jerry-rig it so that the song would play if I put a quarter on top of the needle, but that solution was iffy, at best.

So I would go through every copy of a 45 that I wanted and peer intently at the grooves, trying to avoid anything that looked like a possible skip.  Unfortunately, that process was as iffy as the quarter on the needle.  So consequently, I’d just get used to the skip being there.  It got so that years later, when I’d acquire the song on a CD, it would sound weird to me without the skip.  35 years later, I still expect a skip when I play certain Stevie Wonder or Ringo Starr songs.  Once the skip is in your head, it’s in there for life.

It was always such a cool atmosphere to me in the record stores, especially once I got a bit older and got out of the malls and began frequenting the smaller chains or independent stores.  Those were the ones with the cool posters, buttons, sheet music and other music paraphernalia.   (In other words, just like my current apartment décor.)

I never really dealt with the people that worked there.  Then, as now, I just wanted store clerks to leave me alone, but be available in case I had a question or couldn’t find something.

Once we moved up to Toledo, it was like I was surrounded by record stores (once I drove the 15 miles into town).  At the mall, we had a Camelot and a National Record Mart.  Nearby, there was Boogie Records, the Head Shed, and my favorite, the enormous Peaches Records.  Peaches was a 64,000 square foot record store that could have easily housed a bowling alley.  I could hang out in there forever, and of course, I did just that, especially once I got a job there while I was in college.

When I started at Peaches, they still actually sold 8-tracks, albeit at cut-out prices.  Cassette tapes were still pretty new and they had them on a giant tape counter, under glass.  You’d have to get a clerk to get them out for you.  Unfortunately, they no longer sold concert tickets there.  I don’t know if word ever spread about that, because for as long as I worked at that location, (which was about 3 years), people were always coming in for tickets and would look crestfallen when we told them we didn’t sell tickets any longer.

The best part about working there was the employee discount!  Between that and the free promotional albums (or “promos”), my album collection exploded.  It seemed like every other month, I’d have to buy a new Peach Crate to house them. 

I remember being there the first day we ever got a shipment of CDs.  They seemed so exotic.  There was so much debate about whether CDs could ever sound as warm and inviting as LPs did.  I never had any problem jumping from LPs to CDs.  To me, the sound quality was perfect and the odds of the CD skipping were almost nil.  That alone was enough to make me a believer.

But as much as I’ve loved amassing CDs since 1986, I still miss the immersive experience of the LPs.  There was just so much more going on.  I miss the excitement of sitting down in the living room and slitting the cellophane at the open end of the album jacket.  Usually inner sleeve was packed with pictures, song lyrics, credits, liner notes and special thank you’s. 

I’d get the record on the turntable, gently ease the needle down, (I always did it by hand, never using the automated startup), and as the record would play, I’d pore over every detail the album sleeve and jacket provided.  I always wondered what someone would have to do to get mentioned inside an album jacket.  (You can read about how I actually accomplished this feat, in Brushes with the Great and Near Great, Part 8.)

Sometimes the album contents were a disappointment, like with ZZ Top albums. They rarely had more than just the names of the band members and the producer… no pictures, no lyrics, no notes… nada. 

But other times, the album would be packed with goodies.  Elton John’s “Goodbye Yellowbrick Road” comes to mind.  That was a double-album that had a “duel-fold” jacket.  On the inner surfaces, they had the lyrics to each song, along with the musician credits and a small graphic artwork inspired by the song.

The Yellowbrick Road album versus the CD.  Because the CD is very old too, (one of the first I ever bought) the fold-out booklet is generous. Suffice to say, if you buy it now, you get diddley-squat in the jewel case.

CDs just don’t compete with that.  If you’re lucky, it will come with a booklet but more and more, the extras are fading away.  (Also, with my aging eyesight, I wouldn’t be able to see the freakin’ print that size anyway.)

I remember in the mid-70s when I was really into KC and the Sunshine Band, (don’t judge, it was the disco era), I would arrange the floor speakers and lay down on the floor with my head in between them like they were giant headphones.  (I’d do this because we didn’t have any real headphones.)  I’d put on their album that had “Shake Your Booty” and “I’m Your Boogie Man,” open up the gatefold album jacket and stare at all the “live in concert” pictures contained inside and imagine I was seeing a live performance.  Boy, was I ever glad when they invented MTV.  It made things so much easier.

The other great thing about LPs is that they are perfect for getting autographed.  Granted, even though you have to have access to a rock star, it’s much easier to get a CD booklet signed then an LP jacket.  But after that, what are you going to do with it?  If you’re like me, they just end up in the CD rack with all the others.  But signed album jackets?  That’s art.  That’s something you can put up on your wall.  And I know from which I speak…

My “Wall of Fame,” of autographed album covers, which also includes a couple of picture discs.  I’ve had a version of this ever since my record store days.

When I moved to Cleveland in 1986, to manage my own record store, I learned that there was a hall nearby where a couple times a year, they’d have Album Swap Meets.  This was where record dealers would set up tables full of used albums, picture discs, bootlegs and all kinds of music memorabilia.  God, I loved those.  I used to drop WAY too much cash there, but I’d always come away with treasure, like AC/DC bootlegs, Joan Jett picture discs, or out-of-print albums for which I’d been searching.

This is a small selection of the picture discs I’ve managed to acquire over the years.

Later, as CDs became the dominant medium, used record stores began popping up all over the place.  I loved those too… they were like permanent swap meets.  Any time I’d go to visit a new place, I’d try to get my host to help me scope out some used record stores.  Always looking for a score, I was.  Used records were the perfect way to pick up that album that you never bought because you only liked one song.

Anyway, time marches on.  Like I said, I totally appreciate the upgrade in sound quality and the ease provided by technology.  I love that I can download individual songs so that I don’t have to lay out more money just to get stuck with a bunch of songs I don’t particularly like.  Sometimes I’ll still buy the physical CD, like when there’s a new one out by an artist that I know I like and want to support.  The new Meat Loaf CD comes to mind… I bought that from Amazon when it came out two weeks ago.  But you better believe that I listened to snippets of all the songs first.  If there had only been one or two that I liked, I’d have just downloaded them.

As soon as the CD comes, I rip the tracks I like to my PC and then load them onto my MP3 player.  That is now my primary method of listening to music.  Then I just have to wait for the tracks to surface via “Shuffle-play Mode.”

Downloads are fine but they’ll never replace having that physical entity in your hands.  But for all the convenience and efficiency, I still miss the old LP ritual. 

The skips… not so much.

An Instant Lottery Post

I was working on a post subject I’ve wanted to write about for some time, but I’m giving you this today instead.  First off, the Penguins play tonight at 7:00 so that won’t leave me enough time to do the post justice.  Secondly, I bought $5 worth of Mega Millions lottery tickets this afternoon, ahead of the $363 million dollar drawing tonight.  That means I’ll also be busy composing my resignation letter, which may or may not include a scan of my nether regions.

To do so, I’ll probably have to remove my printer/scanner from its place on my desk and set it up on the floor, because I’m not sure if the desk will hold my weight.  I can probably do this during the 1^st period intermission. 

Also, what kind of cleaner is good to get butt prints off the scanner glass?

I saw an article online today about lottery strategy tips from an “expert.”  I only note it here because it just seems like so much bullshit.  I mean, you have to remember that the odds are exactly the same for any arrangement of number combinations.  (Those odds being “astronomical.”)  There is no “momentum” or odds against a repeated drawing of the same number.  It’s just hard, cold math: one in a bazillion every time. 

Be that as it may, here are the “tips” from a lottery “expert.”

1. Pick your own numbers, as opposed to using the machine to do the “quick picks.”  This is completely irrelevant.  As I stated above, the odds are the same for every combination of numbers.  The source does not matter in the least, unless there is some kind of nefarious programming plot at work, which keeps machine-picked numbers from ever coming up.

(I love the word, “nefarious.”  I feel the need to twirl my moustache every time I type it.)

2. Do your homework to see if your numbers have ever come up before.  Also bullshit.  Same odds, all the time.  If the numbers were taken out of play, it would be another story.  But they aren’t.

3. Stick with your strategy.  More bullshit.  It still doesn’t matter what strategy you use.  Same odds every time. 

4. Avoid Lottery Fever, i.e. don’t spend more than you can afford to lose.  OK, this one is bang-on.  Let’s not get crazy.  You have to acknowledge that you’re throwing your cash into a black hole.  All you’re buying is a night’s happy dreams and possibly a cheap blog post.

Now before you start crying foul about the apparent disconnect between my well-documented support for game jersey mojo and its affect on game outcomes, versus any kind of lottery mojo,  let me just say this… Mojo is about the “vibe” created by fans’ rituals and superstitions, and people… namely athletes… can be affected by a vibe.  Call it being In The Zone, or coming down with a case of The Yips; it’s the human element.  There is no human element with a lottery drawing; it’s random by nature and therefore immune to outside “forces.”

Last year, I went into considerable detail regarding what I’d do if I actually hit a huge jackpot like this.  (Exactly one year ago today, oddly enough.)  If you’re a new reader, you can check out that fascinating post by clicking here.  So now you get a full post chocked full of my customary brilliance, and I can make sure I have time to select the proper Pens jersey and then embed myself in my easy chair by the opening face-off.  Win/win.

Director’s DVD Commentary: I was going to run the old lottery post here in its entirety and just add a short intro, but then the intro grew to where it was long enough to be a short (by my standards) post that could stand on its own.  To add it all now would just seem like piling on.

Art Imitates Life

From today's comics...

Apparently the "Blondie" writers saw my post last Monday.

Search for Reality - The Spring Edition

First off, I’d like to thank everyone that participated in the Great “Argument” Argument of 2012.  I knew I could count on you to come across with the spirit, wisdom and insight.  Now I’m off to not touch that subject again with a ten-foot pole.

I’ve again been collecting the weird searches that have landed people here and I figured I’d trot a few of them out for your amusement.  And in light of the previous post, I must appear sexist to the search engines too.  I still think it’s a bad rap.

But first I’ll go with just the strange ones.

“Vandalism of Darwinfish” – Arlington VA.  Wow… someone else has this problem?  I got the Darwinfish on my car ripped in half last year in a WalMart parking lot.  Either someone else had that happen too, or someone is looking to enter the field of heathen car-emblem destruction.

“Did all the drunks make it home on St Patty’s Day” – Manteca, CA.  This has to be a “thing”… who could possibly ever answer that question?  As far as I know, there is no National Drunk Retrieval Toteboard, from which to tally the safe return of holiday drunks.

“Terrorists throwing horseshoes” – Baton Rouge LA.  This person landed on an old post that showed a picture of some Texans pitching horseshoe-shaped toilet seats, but they’re not necessarily terrorists.  I just wonder if the person was searching for the recreational habits of terrorists, or looking for a good way to weaponize a horseshoe.

“God is a dumbass” – Czech Republic.  And this was an Image Search, too (like most of the searches I’m listing today).  But I’m not touching this one… I may have issues with formal religion but I never referred to the Big Guy as a dumbass.  This is what I get for using Red Forman quotes.

“Which direction to put in a tampon” – Thousand Oaks, CA.  Now we’re leading up to the sexist stuff.  Believe it or not, I see this search a lot, but I have no idea why.  I wonder how they mean it… like, do you have to keep the tampon facing north?  Do they not know which end is the front of the tampon?  Are they wondering if they’re supposed to come straight in the front door, or use the reach-around?  No idea… But how anyone could land here on that search is way beyond me.  There must be dozens of legitimate health sites that could be of use, but here?  The Google works in mysterious ways. 

“Junior high school whore” – North Las Vegas, NV.  I think someone didn’t get a date to the prom.  I wonder if they were looking for someone in particular.  This reminds me of the old joke…

Q: What’s the difference between a slut and a bitch?

A: A slut sleeps with everyone; a bitch sleeps with everyone but you.

Come on, that’s not sexist… it’s making fun of men’s insecurity-ridden thought processes.

Now we come to a cluster of “ass” searches:

“Big ass woman” – Black Mountanin NC

“Hermione ass” – Wichita KS and also the UK

“Hot mom’s ass” – Romeo MI

“Smokin hot ass” – Vero Beach FL.

All of these were Image Searches, but to my knowledge, I’ve never posted a single picture of a hot ass, other than maybe a donkey.  I may have USED the expression a number of times, but mostly it’s as an adjective, like, “I went to Pittsburgh and ordered this big-assed fish sandwich.”

I get a LOT of searches regarding Hermione (from Harry Potter.)  I don’t recall ever writing anything about her bum though, small and cute as it may be.  (I think… not sure I’ve ever had a good look.  Darned robes…) But all the Hermione searches (plus searches for the picture of the Twilight Moms) have put a post from last November in my #1 slot of Most Popular Dfish Post from the last 30 days.  You can see the top 5 referenced on the right-hand side bar.  And to think, all I did was write that Hermione (Emma Watson) is smokin’ hot.

Director’s DVD Commentary: The previous #1 has been there since I installed the widget; my post on Delayed Pressure Urticaria (or contact hives).  In that case, I feel most gratified that so many people from around the world have landed here to read about this malady (because it’s probably affecting them).  If they were like me at all, they felt like they were the only ones in the world with this weird-ass condition.

Great, now I’ve done it.  Bring on the searches for “weird asses.”

“Budweiser frog tittites” – Hudson FL.  “Tittites?”  What are those, pointy boob-like things that hang down from the top of a cave?  Or are “Tittites” the followers of some new sexist religion?  And what in the hell do they have to do with the Budweiser Frogs?  This one is just so strange… (and I’ve actually seen it twice… same spelling and all.  It had to have been the same person.) 

And now for the grand finale…

“Poon sammich” – San Francisco CA.  This could be my new punk band name.  First of all, as seen in prior posts, you know how much I love the term, “poon.”  It just sounds so cute and friendly.  So not only does the idea of a ‘poon sandwich’ crack me up, they actually spelled it as “sammich,” which makes it all the more colloquial, like the bread is a resting place for working-class poon.  Poon of the People! 

You know how they have those Twitter memes, like #ReplaceSongTitlesWithPizza and the like?  They should do one for poon.  Like #ReplaceWordsWithPoon.  I’m all in.

Poon River.

Poon Over Miami.

Fly Me to the Poon.

Name that Poon.

Daniel Poone and his poonskin cap.  (ew)

High Poon.

Sci-Fi epic “Pune”.

Benny and Poon

Winnie the Poon.

Pepe Le Poon

Driving a Poonbuggy on the beach

James Bond classic Poonraker (I think that was a porno.)

The Poonies (I know that was a porno.)

The scourge of modern pop radio: Auto-Poon.

The age of Aquarius, where the Poon is in the seventh house…

I wonder how many “poon” searches I’m going to land now…

Argument Clinic

This is either going to be a great discussion or going to get everyone mad at me again.  I hope it generates good discussion because I really need to know what I’m dealing with. 

What I want to know is: do women all argue the same way, or just every one I’ve been with?

I swear, I really try to understand and argue fairly but sometimes I have to wonder if there are any rules of logic that apply.  I’m not just talking about Pinky here, I’ve seen this from everyone with whom I’ve been in a relationship.  It doesn’t matter what the argument is about, or whether it’s trivial or life-changing. 

Here’s what I see:

Get out of jail free card.  It comes out like: “Because I was the one that did the job, it doesn’t matter that I did part of it wrong… Example: “I just did all the shopping.  So what if I didn’t get the one thing you put on the list?” 

I don’t see why it’s an argument.  She’s shopping anyway, I put it on the shopping list, I mentioned it, and then she either forgets it or gets the wrong variation.  I don’t care about the zillion other things that I won’t eat or use, I needed the one thing.  But I’m the shit for mentioning it because she did the shopping?

Litany of side issues.  Starts when I disagree with an idea or notion.  I can expect a whole list of issues and statements to be brought up, none of which have anything to do with the situation at hand.  These usually come up right around the time I begin to win the argument on facts.  Once penned in by logic, change the subject.

Twisting my words to suit her needs.  This is when she takes what she thinks I’m saying, changes it into some unholy perversion of what I actually said, then attacks that.  (In other words, the “Fox News Defense.”  Also known as the “Straw Man” technique.)

Claiming personal attack when there is none.  Haven’t we all been taught not to attack the person, just the argument?  I try to do that but it doesn’t really matter.

Me: That’s a ridiculous statement.

Her: Don’t call me ridiculous!

Now for the rest of the argument, I get to hear how I called her stupid.  It doesn’t matter if I literally say, “Honey, I don’t think you’re stupid, but that idea is just not right (and list the provable reasons,)” all I hear back is the “you called me stupid” refrain.

List of Grievances.  Pretty much every argument I’ve ever had with a female devolves into a list of perceived slights, errors, grievances and everything I’ve ever done wrong since the moment we met.  In almost all cases, none of it has anything to do with the case at hand.  The Ex-Wife was particularly adept at this one, in fact, it was her specialty.  It guaranteed that we would be having the same argument in perpetuity, any time we disagreed over anything.

Do ladies really keep all those transgressions ready to use at a moment’s notice?  Or is there a sacred list that you keep somewhere so that when you get together with your girlfriends in the restroom, you can compare notes on how awful your husband or boyfriend is?

As far as I’m concerned, anything that happened 2 months ago is inadmissible.  There has to be a statute of limitations in there somewhere.  This also goes for anything I’ve ever said.

I honestly don’t know how women do it.  When I have a conversation, I pretty much consider it a transient event and when it’s done, it’s gone from my head and I move onto the next thing.  I’m constantly amazed when a partner can trot out something I said 6-months ago, although it’s not necessarily something I said, but something she heard.  (See the “that’s ridiculous/you’re ridiculous” effect.)  But I can’t prove that because I don’t really remember the conversation.  I only know it’s inaccurate because it’s some wingnut statement that I would never make, without the influence of hallucinogens.

Seriously, can you remember a conversation you had with your mate 2 weeks ago?  I can’t.  That shit would take up too much room in my head.  I might run out of space to put the cast members of MASH or what year Bat Out of Hell came out.

Constant interruptions.  This one drives me berserk because it usually happens when I’m making a solid point.  Apparently, the best defense is to not let the complete thought be expressed, so loud interruptions (usually on side points) are the natural defense.  Works on talk radio…

Raging generalizations or over-simplifications.  I hate them.  I should have a T-shirt made that says “Generalizations are Always Wrong.”  (See, that’s a joke, but I kind of mean it.)  The ones that start the most arguments are like “All [these people] are…” because I can’t stand such broad-based swipes.  If all I have to do is come up with one instance where the claim is not true, then why make such a claim? 

The one I so frequently hear during the quarrel is the accusation of “Yeah, you’re always right,” or “You’re always perfect.”

To which I answer, “So there, was that so hard?” 

Naturally, that rarely ends the conversation.  So I say, “Of course I’m not always right, no one is… but I am this time.”

No, that doesn’t end things either, but it’s so hard to turn off the Smartass Button.

Is all this really just an inbred difference in the way men and women think?  Is it as simple as men needing things to make sense but women are not so encumbered?  Please tell me that there are women that can have an argument in a rational manner, without throwing everything in the warehouse against the wall to see what sticks.  (I know that my Mom is one.)  I would be so happy to know that logic and reason still have a place in domestic disagreements.

I should note here that I’m only talking about disagreements at home.  All but a very few women with whom I’ve worked make their points during a disagreement or discussion at work in a completely logical and rational manner.  I have to assume that domestic issues with a loved one trigger a different set of impulses.

I also fully acknowledge that my choices of companionship may have a lot to do with it.  I tend to seek out feisty, high-spirited types.  Could be I’m just getting what I’m asking for.

I know that the obvious answer, the one that’s been passed from Father to Son for generations, is to just drop it and let her win.  And you know, I used to do that, a lot… and not just with women but with everyone.  But the older I get, the less I’m content with letting things go.

Is that just a natural consequence of getting older? 

Or am I just becoming a more of an asshole?

I know there are some points I should not even start with but sometimes I can’t help myself.  And most of the time, I’m perfectly content to just let the point drop.  But unfortunately that rarely stops the argument; it just means it continues one-sidedly.

Please weigh in… I really want other women’s opinions on this.  Do you go batshit crazy during an argument, or do you calmly and rationally work out your differences of opinion?  Be truthful… how many of those things I listed do you do?  The last thing I want to do is labor under a raging generalization of my own.

Meanwhile, the clip below demonstrates the Male Argument at its best… one of the all-time great Monty Python sketches.