PittGirl is Back and That's Church

Today was the day I’ve been waiting for and I almost forgot about it. I was walking across the floor today when it hit me… “It’s PittGirl Day!” (You know, the day I’ve alluded to in the last 2 posts… the day my favorite blogger PittGirl was to issue her Big News.) As I mentioned in my first ever post on this site, she was a major inspiration for me to begin writing again.

I dashed back to my computer, looked up her site and… wow.

She’s out. All of it. With pictures, even, of her and her whole crazy family.

I could list all the salient details but they really should come directly from her, so you can get the lowdown here, at her new blog, That’s Church.

Now before you get the wrong idea about the site, know that “Church” has nothing to do with religion… it’s just one of her expressions. “That’s church” means “that’s the bottom line… the truth”. You know, like “Word” begat “That’s Gospel” which begat “That’s Church.”

So it’s a great day for the written word… for the snarky written word, in particular. And it’s a day that serves notice that it’s time for all other bloggers to step up their game.

Welcome back to the Artist Formerly Known as PittGirl. Game on!

The Eagles Have Landed

News broke last night that disgraced footballer Michael Vick has signed with the Eagles.

No word on whether he’ll be able to work out his differences with Don Henley and Glen Frey.

Joe Walsh was unable to comment.
PittGirl Countdown Continues
Blogger and personal inspiration, PittGirl, has posted that she’ll break her big news on August 19, (next Wednesday). In the meantime, she posted links to some of her favorite items… a Greatest Hits, if you will. Check some of them out; then you’ll understand why I go on about her like I do. I especially recommend the “What They’re Really Thinking” posts, The Giant Eagle story, and the Bug story.

Now, what is the news going to be? If anyone knew, it wouldn’t be news. But I have a prediction.

Ahem… I predict that August 19th is the last day at her job… her job that would be jeopardized if her alter-ego were to become known. I think she’s moving on to a job that has no such peril, and as of August 19th she can resume tickling the funny bone of current and former Pittsburghers, as well as anyone that appreciates good writing.

At least that’s what I’m hoping. Maybe I’m right, maybe I’m wrong. But I’ll be checking in next Wednesday.

Odd Bits - PittGirl Edition

Payback’s a Bitch
I read a story this week about a married Wisconsin man who planned to meet up with one of his several mistresses at a local hotel but instead found himself naked, blindfolded and tied to a chair with his junk super-glued to his stomach, courtesy of his wife and two of his mistresses.

Not exactly what he had in mind, I’m sure. Yeowwwww!

This maneuver ought to have a name; I’m suggesting “The Green Bay Package.”

After-Birthers
Online magazine Salon published an invaluable guide for people that are fed up with this ridiculous “Birthers” movement. You know… those people that are consumed by the idea that President Obama is not an American citizen and is therefore ineligible to be President.

I’m not sure how much good a guide like this can really do. All it has to offer are corroborated facts and stone cold logic. Since when do the wing nuts like these ever respond to facts, especially when they disprove something in which they believe? (Like all the flack that Snopes or FactCheck.org get when they shoot down a right-wing smear piece…)

You want a more effective way to shut them the hell up? Confiscate their tinfoil hats.
Let’s Get Physical
Yesterday I had my first complete physical in about 20 years… a very thorough physical. You know the best thing about having a female doctor?

Small fingers.

All one can do is try to block out what’s going on and pretend that you still have some dignity left. And I still have a colonoscopy to look forward to in a couple of years...

But now I know how a muppet feels.

PittGirl Returns?
I learned via Facebook this week that legendary blogger PittGirl has restored the archives to her site and has a big announcement in the coming weeks.

PittGirl is an anonymous blogger from Pittsburgh (duh) and up until last November, had written the funniest, coolest, “Burghiest” blog I’ve read. She wrote about all things Pittsburgh, from the sports teams, to the media, to local politics, to her own crazy family and her undying hatred of pigeons. I consider her a major influence and she is a big reason I took up blogging again. She wrote the kind of blog I always wished I could.

Then in November, someone from the local media discovered her true identity and even though they pledged not to spill the beans, she felt compelled to fold her blog and so her site was wiped clean.

I don’t know what the big announcement is going to be but I’m hoping that she’s found a way to continue her old blog. The fact that she’s restored the old postings is a gift in itself. I heartily recommend you give it a look. You may want to start with the “Lexicon” up top, because the site has quite a number of terms and references that are unique.

Whether you’re from Pittsburgh or not, The Burgh Blog is highly entertaining for all. I can’t count how many times she forced me to laugh out loud at work, after which I usually have to clamp my hands over my mouth, forcing my ears to pop.

The Internet is a much cooler place with her on it.

Odd Bits-Horsing Around Edition

I apologize for the length between posts. There was 10-days vacation in there plus a busy weekend back at home. So let’s see what’s new…

PENdemonium
There was a story this weekend about a Penguins fan that tricked his way onto the ice in Detroit for the Pens celebration following Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals. He then got pictures of himself with various Pens players, coaches and The Cup.

I have two conflicting thoughts:


* I hate him.
* He’s my idol.

This guy showed creativity to get on the ice and extraordinary balls afterwards. Here’s how it started:

“So I go over in position where a family member might be, and after about 15 minutes, (defenseman) Philippe Boucher skates over and points to the guy in front of me. When that guy raises his hand, I raise mine. The security guard sees both of us, opens the door and everyone just assumes I’m a relative.”

Brilliant! Quick thinking… he’s in the door. If it were me that managed to get on the ice, I probably would have stuck to the periphery and maybe taken a couple of pictures. Not this guy:

“A couple players pick me up and swing me around. I’m spraying a bottle of champagne. Amazing. I’m in the hallway to the locker room and (Mario) Lemieux is walking right toward me. My heart is racing, getting ready to pound out of my chest. I put my arm around him, put my camera out and snap the picture. That might be my favorite.

Holy crap. This guy goes up and clamps an arm on Le Magnifique… Hall of Famer. Team Owner and 3-Time Savior. One of the best ever to lace’em up. No shit it’s his favorite shot. Then he goes into the locker room and gets a shot of himself hoisting The Cup.

This exemplifies the Wedding Crashers model… Act like you belong there and no one will ever question it. Dude’s going to have a story for the ages. If he gets enough attention for this stunt, though, he may have to worry about Matt Cooke showing up at his door one day and belting him one in the mush.

“C” Sickness
I read this Salon article about a shadowy DC organization known as the C Street House. This is an organization that is propping up (mostly) Republican conservatives with undisclosed cash and providing cover when their peccadilloes come to light. (See Sanford, Mark and Ensign, John and many others.) Their core belief is that, and I’m paraphrasing, “If you come to power, it’s God’s will; therefore anything you do while in power is excused. Rules for the common man don’t apply.”

There they are again… God’s Chosen: staining the lives of millions with their callous power plays.

They have been around for 74 years, remaining in the shadows and twisting “God’s word” into a rationale to amass power.

Read the article, linked above. Also, Jeff Sharlet, the guy that wrote the Salon article, was on Real Time with Bill Maher this weekend; you can catch a replay. If my memory of the broadcast is correct, he worked undercover at the C Street House and he knows of which he speaks. If it doesn’t make your skin crawl, true believer or not, I don’t want to know you. I was on vacation when I read the Salon article myself, it made me drink for 9 solid days in a row, just to numb the pain. (OK, it wasn’t just the article.)

Doonesbury is also running a story arc on C Street House this week. Access it here if you don’t get the newspaper.

Say what you want about religion, and I usually do, using this holy halo to obscure the very common quest for money and power is an insult to all that are true to their faith. Last I heard, Jesus threw the moneychangers out on their well-fed asses. We ought to do the same to these ass-clowns.

Bugger and Fries
Speaking of horse fuckers, I don’t know if this guy is a high-level conservative but maybe the C Street House can help out a brother with a big PR problem. If you think boning your staffer’s wife or shagging an Argentine babe is a prickly problem, what if you were caught on tape screwing a horse?

A lady in Columbia SC kept finding stuff moved around in her barn and horse was acting strange and getting infections, so she set up a camera to tape the horseplay. She went back through the tape and there it was… Dude ambles in, piles up some dirt and hay behind the horse, and has at it. She didn’t call the cops yet because she was sure he would come back. (Apparently, once you go mare, you just don’t care.) So she staked out her barn with a shotgun and sure enough, there he was again…THE SAME GUY THAT HAD BEEN CAUGHT BUGGERING HER NEIGHBOR’S HORSE earlier this year! She chased him into his pickup truck and held him there at gunpoint. And that’s what they charged him with… “buggery.”

First, I have to admit that it totally cracks me up that there is an actual crime called buggery. Hedley Lamar would be impressed.

But geez… I’ve heard of guys addicted to horse, but this is ridiculous.
Mr Ed was not available for comment.

Drink Comes With Free Prize
On a lighter note, there was an amazing foul ball catch by a fan (aside from my previously related one-bounce foul ball a couple posts ago) at a Phillies/Diamondbacks game, in which said guy one-handed a foul ball on the fly, while holding his toddler son, who was in turn holding a giant Pepsi cup. You can see the video of it here.

This is the kind of catch that should be heartily applauded. However it should be noted that the game took place in Arizona, and not Philadelphia. Otherwise he might have been tempted to throw it back and probably end up tossing his son back onto the field.

Odd Bits 4 - Judicial Edition

I Am SpartiCuss
There was an article in Live Science about a test that concluded that swearing can increase one’s tolerance to pain.

Those are some clinical trials I would like to have seen. I wonder if certain words were more “therapeutic” that others. I’d guess, the more taboo, the more bang for your buck, so to speak.

And I wonder how much the test subjects got paid. It’s a miracle they got anyone to answer their ad.
Wanted: subjects to be tested on pain endurance. Must have potty mouth and be unafraid to use it. Insurance should be up to date.
Judge Not
The confirmation hearings have started up for Judge Sonia Sotomayor, although there has been a lot of hoo-haa going on ever since the nomination. And it’s been coming especially since that speech came to light where she hoped “a wise Latina” would be able to use her experiences to render better decisions than white male judges.

The Republicans flew into a predictable tizzy because of the intimation that a Latina could do anything better than a white male that didn’t involve cleaning their hotel rooms.

“Would she be capable of rendering an unbiased judgement?” they wonder, eyes wide with astonishment.

What they really mean is “Will she continue the Roberts Court’s tradition of finding in favor of white males running billion dollar companies?”

I say they need to take a chill pill. One liberal is going, another is coming in. White males will still be able to enjoy their 5-4 decisions until Justice Kennedy retires. Then you’ll really see the heavy artillery come out.

I say nominate Al Franken.



Assault and LeBatre
President Obama has picked his Surgeon General, one Dr. Regina Benjamin. Dr. Benjamin is a family physician from Alabama, who is nationally known for establishing a rural health clinic in the small shrimping village of Bayou LaBatre LA.

What happened after that, you just can’t make up… It was blown down during Hurricane Katrina, rebuilt, then burned to the ground the day before it was to reopen.

Bubba Blue was unavailable for comment.

Cup of Dreams

I've been putting this entry off for a while so I could be sure I had proper perspective and all facts were at hand. But now I can safely say that on Friday June 12, at approximately 10:30 pm, I had a big giant hairy conniption fit.
My Pittsburgh Penguins defied the odds and won the Stanley Cup. They were the first team since the 1971 Montreal Canadiens to come back from a three games to one deficit to win the Cup. They were the first team in ANY of the 4 major sports (and I mean the original 4 major sports… fuck NASCAR) to win a Championship after being down 3-1 since the 1979 Pittsburgh Pirates won the World Series.

I’ve documented my love of hockey before at my original Darwinfish site and worked through a near emotional breakdown after the Penguins secured funding for their new arena. This was needed to dismiss the very real possibility that the team was going to relocate from Pittsburgh to Kansas City.

This is the Penguins’ third Stanley Cup. Their first 2 came in 1991 and 1992 and even though I was in my 30’s, I really don’t remember much about them. At that time, there wasn’t much hockey on TV. NBC had given up the broadcasting rights and ESPN had not yet picked them up. There was no ESPN2, or NHL Network channel or Internet. I didn’t live in Pittsburgh, so there was minimal local coverage. In fact, I remember going to a sports bar in Green Bay with my folks just to see game 2 of the Finals against Chicago.

It’s different now. A couple years ago, figured I had enough extra scratch that I could get the Center Ice package on cable and get to see every freakin’ game. And even if I didn’t have that, I can get games streamed live to my PC.

Hockey has a tremendous online presence now. You get instant highlights on YouTube, analysis from the local news sites and all of the above from a dedicated world of hockey bloggers. Three of my daily stops are the Pittsburgh Post Gazette’s razor-sharp Empty Netters, the hilarious thePensBlog and then PuckHuffers for high-spirited Pens coverage from a female point of view.

So for the last 3 or 4 seasons or so, I’ve just been immersing myself in this team. The lousy seasons they had in the first half of this decade resulted in their receiving some very high draft choices, so this team is stocked with phenomenal young talent.

Sidney Crosby is arguably the best forward in hockey. His first 2 years were just a blur of dazzling goals and pinpoint passes. He was named Captain of the team at age 19, making him the youngest NHL team captain ever. Think about that…19! This kid commands the respect of everyone in his locker room from the gnarliest old veterans on down. What were YOU doing when you were 19? I could barely find my ass with both hands and a funnel. Sid won the league’s Most Valuable Player awards and the scoring title.

After he was drafted, Sid moved in with Penguins owner and former Penguin (and either the 1st or 2nd greatest player of all time) Mario Lemieux. Thus far, he has not made plans to leave. Heck, if you were staying here, would you leave?
Evgeni Malkin, or “Geno” as he is now known to fans and teammates. He was drafted right behind Alex Ovechkin of the Washington Capitals. (Both of these two figure into the argument over who is the best forward in the league, along with Sid.) Geno was basically forced by his Russian league team to sign a new contract after he was drafted by the Penguins. He then had to sneak away from his team late one night before training camp opened in Finland. He arrived in the US not speaking a word of English, which made him seem very withdrawn and aloof. Over the next few years, he’s taken great strides to learn at least enough English to get is points across in interviews and his humor comes across endearingly.

My favorite, in the locker room right after they won The Cup, a reporter asked him “How does that champagne taste?”

He answered, “It has big taste,” so now I have a new favorite line.

His parents are now Mellon Arena mainstays and cult heroes in their own right. They seem to have been adopted by the entire city as surrogate Russian parents. They don’t speak any English, but fully understand what their son means to Pens fans everywhere.

Marc-Andre Fleury… “The Flower”… is a 24-year old goalie, but already has 5 years experience, starting his first game in the NHL at age 18. Fleury is one of those “ever-smiling” guys… always happy, always seems to be in a good mood.

I admit that this guy lets in the occasional soft goal, but he made some saves during this playoff run that were as stunning as they were clutch. At least 3 of them would have changed the outcome of a game.

Jordan Staal… “The Gronk”… is another youngster that started in the NHL at age 18. That hadn’t been the plan, as far as the Penguins management was concerned, but the kid was just too solid to send back to the minors. Now he’s 20 years old and will be the 2nd of his 4 hockey-playing brothers to get his name engraved on The Cup.

Staal had a game changing moment in Game 6 of the Finals when he scored a shorthanded goal to kick start a Pens comeback and completely change the momentum of the game, if not the series. Once this kid fully realizes what a physical force he can be, he’ll be unstoppable.

I could go on and on about the players and characters on this team… there are so many stories and legends… but I’ll stop with just one more.

“Mad” Max Talbot… the “Supe-air-Star”. He’s known now as “SuperStar” because of his appearance in a couple commercials for a Pittsburgh area car dealership. You know… the kind of commercial that’s just so cheesy it becomes an instant classic?

See the commercial by clicking here. (I’d embed it but the embedding function for this video is disabled.)

(Note: I still miss Colby Armstong, (the first guy in the commercial) another goofy “character guy” who was traded from the Pens last season. And I still wonder what it is that Sergei Gonchar (the 3rd guy) is saying right there at the end. At least they knew enough not to give Geno any dialogue.)

Max is one of those high-energy guys that populate the 3rd and 4th lines of hockey teams… a guy whose job it is to dig pucks out of corners, bust ass up ice, hit anything in an opposing jersey. But Max is also clutch. He came up huge in Game 7 of the Finals and I totally called it. All the guy does is score big goals, like the one with 22 seconds left in Game 5 of last year’s Finals that sent it into overtime, (which the Pens won in the 3rd OT)

While he didn’t score all that much, it seemed that all year long, whenever he did score it was to win or tie the game, or maybe get that all-important first goal. He did it in the playoffs too, not to mention getting his ass kicked in a fight that sparked his team into a rally in Game 6 that put the Flyers away for good.

So early in the day before Game 7 of the Finals, I was emailing with a friend who was as anxious as I was. (Because who can think about work at a time like that?) I wrote the following:

“They were out of it in February… 10th in the conference… got waxed by a bottom-feeding Toronto team… fired their coach…
Went on a 5-game road trip with a brand new coach and were supposed to get whipped… won all 5.
Were supposed to squeak into the playoffs… came in 4th, giving them home ice advantage for at least the 1st series.
Were supposed to lose to the Flyers, who had five 20-goal scorers and a more physical team… they out-scored and out hit them.
Were supposed to lose to the Caps and the “best player in the world” and were dismissed after losing the first 2 games. Came back to force a game 7 and annihilated them in the Caps’ own building.
Were supposed to be cooled off by the Playoffs hottest goaltender, Cam Ward of the Carolina Hurricanes. Swept their asses…
Were supposed to be done after losing the first 2 in Detroit and then getting killed in Game 5. Still, here they are in Game 7.

They’ve overcome adversity and “common knowledge” all year. It’s one game. One fluke bounce, one big save, one breakaway. Any play can decide where the Cup goes.
They can do this. We can do this. Sid will “show them his gunfighter’s eyes.” Malkin is going to rampage all over the ice.
My call… look for Mad Max to come up big again. All the guy does is score clutch goals.
If they can just play like they did at home… screw getting last change… just beat on people… keep up the pressure…
The city of Pittsburgh can raise The Cup tonight.”

What does The SuperStar do? He goes out and scores the Pens' only 2 goals of the game.

We were nursing a 1-0 lead midway through the 2nd period when Sid got his knee smashed against the boards and hobbled to the bench. The Pens Nation swallowed hard, wondering if we could hold on without the captain.

Suddenly Max is sprung on a 2 on 1… he looks off as if to pass, then lasers a wrist shot into the top corner. Pens go up 2-0. I was going absolutely ape-shit at home.

The 3rd period was tense. Sid tried to go but could only skate 1 shift. Better to sit, however much it hurts not to play, than to go out there and be a liability.

The Wings scored with about 6 minutes to go in the game, making it 2-1. A 1-goal lead means that any fluke bounce can lead to a tying goal. God, it was intense… like a 6-minute penalty kill. I was sure the Wings were going to put one in and take it to overtime. The boys were up to it though and suddenly there was just over a minute left and the Wings pulled their goalie.

Man, that was a long-assed minute. It seemed like just one face-off after another. The defense was blocking shots and when they weren’t, The Flower was kicking them out.

Six seconds to go… I’m totally perched on the end of my chair, hands clenched around a Terrible Towel, for luck. Puck comes out to the point… shot taken… Fleury kicks it out… Holy Shit! The puck’s going right to (All Star Wings defenseman) Lidstrom just to the left of the crease… 1 second left… He shoots… Fleury dives across the net and the puck hits him in the ribs… Huge save… then… 0:00. Game over. Penguins win The Cup.



I don’t remember exactly what I did, but I know there was howling involved. My neighbors probably thought someone was killing a wolf in my apartment. 17 years of Stanley Cup drought washed away in one magnificent flurry. These kids… these magnificent Penguins were standing on top of the hockey world, after one of the most improbable seasons ever.

I spent that weekend chained to my computer, reading every word of coverage I could find, saving picture after picture of the game, the celebration, The Cup. I probably dropped over $200 on Stanley Cup swag. I was just so happy, common sense just evaporated. I wanted to savor every second of that feeling… and to stretch it out during the rest of the year.

The parade was an unbelievable sight… They say it outdrew the Steelers parade back in February. I don’t know about that, but you could definitely see a younger crowd. I loved seeing the players hopping out of the cars and walking the lines, slapping hands with the crowd.
2009 has been an incredible sports year for Pittsburgh, and the year is just barely half over. I don’t see how it can get any better… maybe the Pirates break .500, but I’m not holding my breath. But it doesn’t matter. I get to walk tall for the rest of the year. If you can’t strut when your teams win the Super Bowl and the Stanley Cup in the same year, when can you strut?

The Allure of the Olde Game Ball - An Update

About two years ago, I blogged at my old site about the allure of snagging a baseball from a ballpark. Last night, I had a dream come true by catching a foul ball. What follows is an update of that post, plus a new chronicle of last night’s story.

I love going to baseball games. I live in Baltimore so I have ample opportunity to see the Orioles play at Camden Yards. One benefit to having the hometown team suck is that you can always get walkup tickets. I love when I can get up one Saturday or Sunday morning, see the bright sunshine and decide, “Gee, I’d like to go the game today.

There's just something about being there for the game, and I'm not talking about the beer. I mean, it's great be at any sporting event, but actually attending a baseball game makes up for how boring the game can be. A lot of that has to do with the ever-present danger that goes along with attending baseball games, and by that, I mean getting drilled with a ball.

It's been my childhood dream to get a ball... home run, foul ball, whatever... just to be the guy who thrusts it up to the sky and soaks in the smattering of applause from the crowd. I've been to more than 75 baseball games, including the major and minor leagues, and I've barely gotten a sniff before. Well, maybe there was one...

A couple years ago I was at a game with my sister and brother-in-law, in some very sweet seats in the first row, about 12 seats in from the foul pole. Jim Thome of the Phillies cracked a long fly ball right at us and as I tracked it's arc, I said, "nahhh, not gonna make it, not far enough," and remained sitting and I was exactly right, it didn't fly over the wall. However it did hit the rubberized warning track and boiiiiiing... bounced right up to us. The guy 2 seats down from me plucked it easily. Me? By the time it registered that this was the chance I'd been waiting for and stood up, the guy was already sitting back down with the ball. I was a solid 2 seconds behind in reacting, as the TV replays clearly showed. I looked like a guy going the wrong way on the Electric Slide.

See, that's exactly how I want my ball... on a nice soft bounce. I want a ball, don't get me wrong, but I think I'll pass on the broken hand. Let it bounce off the steps, or the upper deck facing, or someone else's head, I don't care. I have to be able to type in the morning.

I have a lot of respect for those dudes who actually pull off the barehanded catch. It should be a Man Rule that anyone who bare-hands a ball on the fly gets a warm round of applause from the other men. He earned it. Catching one with a glove does not impress me... I consider that cheating. The world is full of people who can catch a ball with a glove. But either way he should keep the ball. I'm not down with handing the ball to some kid, no-sirree. Let them earn it. They can go scramble for those balls that wind up under the seats. Believe you me; should I ever wind up with a game ball in my hand, it's going home with me. Maybe I'll bequeath it to a beloved niece or nephew, but not until it's been properly aged on one of my shelves. No good comes from handing the ball to the kid. At best, he'll be using it to play in the street until the seams burst. At worst, well, let me tell you what I saw at an Orioles game in 2006.

I was enjoying a game from some nice seats 10 rows behind home plate. The batter popped a foul ball that landed all the way at the back of the lower bowl. A guy came down with the ball... I don't remember if it was on the fly or bounce... anyway, he raises it over his head, then gallantly hands it to the boy standing beside him, who immediately hurls the ball back toward the field! Had that little ingrate been with me, the ball wouldn't have been the only thing hurled toward the field. I know sometimes people throw back home run balls hit by the visiting team, but it wasn't even a home run, just a simple foul ball. I don't know what's up with these kids anymore. I blame rap music and wearing pants with your underwear sticking out. Anyway, with the crowd chanting at him, the poor slob that grabbed the thrown ball had no choice but to toss it back. Once the guy had it back, I'm pretty sure he pocketed that baby for the rest of the game.

At least there was some honor shown by the second guy. There's something about getting these balls... maybe it's the allure of "something for nothing", that makes people go crazy. Once, out in the left field seats during batting practice, one little kid standing along the wall by himself asked an outfielder for a ball. The player tossed one up to the kid, but just then, some college-aged kid reaches over the first kid and snatches the throw. Everyone just kind of stood there aghast, including the player. He yelled up to give the ball back to the little kid. So the college kid promptly... turned and ran up the aisle and out. Unbelievable. I wish I'd have been sitting on the aisle, so I could have reached out and tripped him. Of course, by the time I would have reacted, two seconds would have gone by, the college kid would have passed, and I'd have tripped the little kid. File that under "I'll give you something to cry about..."

Eventually the player threw the kid another ball. But I'm surprised they throw them up at all. Have you ever heard the noise when a player ventures near a wall before the game... It's deafening... It's a high-pitched chorus of "Gimmeeeeeeeeeeeeeee", emanating from a permanent mob of 50 kids, and it never ends. I know they get paid a lot of money, but if I had to listen to that every day for 6 months, I'd spend a lot of time hiding in the clubhouse too.

Kids will screw with you just on principle. A couple years ago, I went to a Toledo Mud Hens minor league game with my friend Rik, his wife and three kids. The seats weren’t together; 4 were in the first row of the upper deck, and 2 were a couple of rows behind the dugout. Doing the only fair thing, Rik and I sat behind the dugout, and exiled the rest to the upper deck. (In all fairness, this was a small park, and their “upper deck” was only as high as most big league “club level” seats, and much closer to the field.)

So Rik and I are kickin’ it and enjoying the game when a batter hits a pop foul over to our side. As the ball nears the upper deck, we look up and see one gloved hand reach out and snag it. Then we notice that the glove is on a hand that belongs to Rik’s daughter Kia, who holds the ball up for us to see. There’s karma for you. I wonder if she lets her dad play with it…

Which brings me to last night…

I was at the game by myself, sitting about 8 rows from the field, half way between first base and the outfield wall. The Orioles were playing the Washington Nationals, which is a regional rivalry, so there was a pretty good crowd of 39,633, although the 3 rows in front of me were about empty. I’d been thinking about moving up 3 rows until a couple 4 rows up moved back one to give themselves more room.

Someone hit a screaming line drive that looked like it was coming right at us. Luckily it landed about 4 rows up and 6 seats to my right. I wanted to say to the row behind me, “If anything like that comes in here, don’t be looking for me to be in the way; I’m getting the hell out of Dodge.”

So about the 6th inning, I went for a pee and another beer. When I came back, I moved up one row, just for the hell of it. Up to bat comes Ronnie Belliard of the Nationals, their diminutive 2nd baseman. (Seriously, the dude’s 5’8”.) He promptly sent a pop foul our way.

I was sitting there watching it, thinking, “nope, not gonna make the seats,” and remained seated. Then it hit the rubberized perimeter track. “Boiiiiiiiing!” Déjà vu.

This time, I stood up immediately as the ball bounced right up to me. I snatched it as easily as picking an apple off a tree.

Whoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

I held it up briefly then sat back down in a hurry. There’s no hamming it up when you catch one on the bounce. But nevertheless, I had my first game ball.
The people in the row behind me were like, “Man, you just moved there and it came right to you!”

I said it must have been good Karma and that I’d never been close to one before. (I decided this wasn’t the time or place for the Jim Thome story.) I then apologized to the 15-year old boy sitting two seats down. Ball would have been his if I wasn’t there. I hadn’t really even noticed him… I just reached up high when the ball came.

So I said, “Sorry about that, but hey, you’re young. You’ll get another chance.” He was gracious about it, which is rare. 15-year old boys are not often gracious about anything.

So that’s that. I get to check off one thing from my lifelong “To Do Before I Die” list. Game ball… caught.

Next up: My Academy Award! All pictures courtesy of ME!

Missing an Angel

I know I haven’t posted in a while… I’ve been working on my reaction to the Pittsburgh Penguins winning the Stanley Cup, (Whooooo!) but I felt compelled to comment on this development today.
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I can't say I was unprepared for this moment, but it still hit me like a punch in the gut.

Farrah Fawcett died today after a 3 year battle with cancer. The online world has been filling cyberspace with lavish tributes and remembrances. This is my small one.

I was 15 when Charlie's Angels came out and I already had The Poster. (My dad eagerly bought one each for my brother and me.) I watched the show, I clipped her pictures out of magazines, read books about her; I devoured everything Farrah. I remember watching her play tennis against Bill Cosby on Battle of the Network Stars and rooting desperately for her to win. (I’m sure Cos tanked that shot at match point to let her win.)

She was my Marilyn Monroe.

I didn't want to watch her last Special, but I just couldn't help it. I know it may have been considered an opportunistic grab for attention, but it was also heartbreaking.

I feel a bit like I did when Princess Diana died. It was the loss of someone I didn’t know and was a million miles away in every sense. But it was like losing someone I’ve known all my life. It doesn’t really make sense, does it? Except deep inside, it does.

Our world got a little bit dimmer today. That was one Angel I always believed in.

Bill Killed

The recent stories about the death of David Carradine (Kung Fu TV series, Kill Bill 1 & 2, etc.) have gone from upsetting, to puzzling, to the inevitable disgust. Doesn’t look so much like a suicide anymore… Can you say Michael Hutchence? Evidence points to the conclusion that David Carradine died the same way as the former INXS lead singer did back in 1997… of “auto-erotic asphyxiation”. Carradine’s family is asking for FBI investigation, saying that he must have been set up.

But regardless, what an embarrassing way to go; hanging buck naked in a Bangkok hotel from a curtain cord that’s also tied to your junk. At least they can name the room after you: The Carradine Swinger’s Suite.

Nice legacy there, Grasshopper! Now see if you can snatch some dignity from the hand of… um… never mind. I guess your hands were already occupied.

Because I’m, well… me, this story made me wonder about a couple things:

1.) Can someone sue the hotel for having a dangerous curtain cord there? I’m sure someone will try that, although in Bangkok, you’re probably more likely to be screwed directly, rather that through the courts, like here.

I don’t know what else they’d use to hold back their curtains… maybe twisty ties? And if they have to get rid of curtain cords, what’s next? Maybe they confiscate your belt when you check in. Maybe provide only battery-powered irons so you can’t misuse the cord. And what next, do they remove the sheets too? Maybe they can substitute those foil NASA blankets that reflect body heat or something.

2.) Wouldn’t this make a great Very Special Episode of Ghost Whisperer?

I could just see Melinda being visited by a ghost that says, “Say, I have a bit of an emergency here… I’m hanging in a closet over at the Marriott with no clothes on and a used Kleenex at my feet? Could you get down there and cover my ass up before housecleaning gets there? That is, if there’s room enough in the closet for my rigor mortised boner and your enormous eyelashes.

3.) And wouldn’t this be a great place for one of those celebrity Public Service Announcements?

“Hi, I’m Jennifer Love Hewitt. If you’re considering alternate forms of self-gratification, please keep your feet on the ground. Only a dope… uses the rope. Thank you.

Requiem for the Queen

I lost another one of my idols yesterday, with the death of Koko Taylor, Queen of the Blues. She was 80 years old. From picking cotton as a girl, to cleaning houses, to ruling the blues clubs, Koko was an American original. As she said, she came to Chicago with nothing in her pocket but “35 cents and a box of Ritz Crackers.”

I was working in a record store in 1984, when I discovered Koko on a live Montreux Blues compilation, singing her signature song, “Wang Dang Doodle”, for which she won her only Grammy. My thought was “this woman sings so hard it sounds like she’s going to hurt herself.”

Later I heard her sing “Come To Mama” on 1985’s “Queen of the Blues” for Alligator Records, a song more frequently heard being done as “Come To Papa” by Bob Seger. The more I heard, the more I liked her.

I bought my first Koko Taylor record when she released “Jump For Joy” in 1990. All it took was one listen to the opening track, “Can’t Let Go”, and I was sold. With it’s thumping beat, wicked guitar solos, horn flourishes and keyboard sting surrounding Koko’s powerful vocals, it instantly became a regular on my CD player.
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Normally, I’m partial to upbeat blues numbers… think Stevie Ray, Johnny Winter, Albert Collins… But later on that same disk, she has a song called “Only Time Will Tell”, which became my favorite slow blues tune ever. While straightening up after he's gone, she wonders if her man really loves her any more.

I’ll empty those ashtrays
His glass, put away
Straighten that sofa…
All those marks I’ll erase.

In the last verse she kicks it into high gear:

But will I ever,
Will I ever erase from my mind
Oh, the way he looked at me
Oh, the way he kissed me good night?
Ooooooonly time…
Ooooooonly time…
Only time will tell.

By the time she hits the first “Only time…” she’s singing with the wailing anguish of a woman whose heart is being torn apart. I still get goose bumps every time I play it. If that song does not move you, you don’t have a soul.

This isn’t to say that Koko’s blues are always blue. In “Ernestine” from 1993, she manages to be both blue and funny. In it she warns a romantic rival about what’s in store for her if she continues to mess with Koko’s man:

I warned you once,
Girl without a doubt.
Two strikes, you lose,
The third strike, you out.
Like a baseball game,
You messin’ with a slugga.
I’ll hit a grand slam,
Cuz I’m a bad mutha fugga!



I saw Koko play live twice. One time she played a free outdoor show out on the street in downtown Albany NY. Another time she headlined a 5-act blues show put on by Alligator Records. This was when I worked for my record store’s home office and had connections such that I could have my folks fly out for the show and not only get free tickets and backstage passes, we sat in a little roped off section in the 2nd row with some others from the company. So we went backstage after the show and meet all the acts. Luckily my parents had been to a concert before. Good thing, or else they might have thought that this was always what happens when you go to a show.

We really enjoyed meeting Koko. Her act was last up so you could see that she was still tired from her set. It showed in her demeanor as well as the little ball of sweat still on the end of her nose. But she was gracious and friendly to all of us, even though you could tell she just wanted to get out of those heels and that Supremes dress.

Now Koko is gone from this earth, but never from my heart, mind or stereo. They broke the mold when they made her. In this time of instant American Idols and disposable celebrity, we’ll never see another one like the Queen of the Blues.

Safe on, dear Koko. You will be sorely missed.