mld, July 10, 2002 at 10:17:00 PM CEST

Baseball Interruptus

I got home from the water park, and had dinner with MK Tuesday night. We got back in time to see the last part of the All-Star game, from the sixth inning on.

Baseball is just about the last professional sport in which I've managed to maintain any interest whatsoever. I'm not a huge fan, but I do go to a game every now and then, and generally will turn on the radio here in the office while I'm sitting in front of the PC working on something. So, I was enjoying a hard-fought game, where it seemed that the players were truly going all out- there were some great defensive plays. My man Lance Berkman had a good showing.

And then the commissioner calls it quits in the eleventh inning, ostensibly because one of the pitchers, a starter, mind you, said his arm was too worn out to go on, after pitching a whopping two innings. There were no pitchers left on either roster.

I haven't been left this high and dry since I was, well, doing the Deed of Darkness for the very first time, with a girl I'd been desiring a very long time. The feeling was mutual - it was simply a matter of finding time and opportunity - she lived in another city. Just as things were reaching the climactic moment, the door bursts open, and a person who was a Most Unwelcome Sight rolled in. Another long story for another time.

Anyway, I'm aggravated. Mostly at the players, to tell you the truth, after listening to them all comment on the stoppage as a Good Thing, we can't get hurt, blah-blah-blah. But also at the managers, who have caved in to this "everybody has to play" pressure, and Selig, who had any number of options other than ending the game.

He could have told the managers that they had to find a position player to take the mound, and put the poor old tired pitcher out in right field. He could have allowed them to put position players back in the game - an already existing special All-Star Game rule allows a catcher to come back if needed due to injury. (This may have been tough, though, as by all accounts most of the starters, the Sosas and the Bonds, had already left the stadium, not caring even as much as the fans did to see the outcome of the game) One of the managers even suggested a Home Run Derby to decide it.

The way it was handled made perfectly clear the hierarchy of concerns the game has - tied and battling it out for supremacy are the owners and the players, while the fans that make it all possible are sucking the very Hindest of Hind Tits.

But that's OK. It's only baseball, just a game. It's not nearly as worth getting worked up about as the things that really matter in our personal and public lives - how we balance the demands of work and family, how we deal with the menace of terrorism, how we walk the fine line between civil liberties and law enforcement, how we gracefully integrate ever more powerful technological innovations into our culture, manage our planetary natural resources, and continue the march of human culture from ignorance and repression to knowledge and freedom.

Sure, baseball and other professionally played spectator sports fill a real need in the human psyche - we monkey people have to have some leisure in our lives. But those needs can be filled in many other ways.

So, when and if there is a stoppage of play this season, as seem ever more likely, we should recall this. Baseball, as much as we may like it, is just not important. Let the millionaires on the field and the millionaires that own the teams fight like the Kilkenny cats until every last dreg of life left in the sport has been drained away. Let them fight in a vacuum of public opinion and attention - one that mirrors the total lack of concern that they have shown for the fans of the sport.

 

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mld, June 26, 2002 at 7:39:00 AM CEST

I Coulda Been A Contendah...

I read today that "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire," once wildly popular, is now in it's last season. Serves 'em right, if you ask me, for not picking me when they had the chance.

Last August, I got a call from my brother.

"Yo, bro. Didja know that Millionaire is holding auditions here tomorrow?"

"Nope."

I'd tried to get on the show in the past, but with thousands of people passing the initial phone quiz every day, and only sixty getting a call back, the odds are slim, so after the first half-dozen times I'd qualified, to no avail, I had pretty much given up trying.

So. I check out the details in the local rag and get the scoop.

First 1200 folks get to take the tests, in three sessions, nine in the morning, then two and six this afternoon.

CG is waaaay excited. She could spend a cool mill in about fifteen minutes, just buying shoes.

"You gotta get there early. I'll set the alarm for five, and you can leave at six."

This morning, I wake up, and I'm laying there dozing, thinking of nothing in particular - I've completely forgotten about it, and am idly contemplating some pre-dawn adult activities, when CG spanghews off the mattress.

"Damn, why didn't the alarm go off??? It's 6:41!"

Closer examination reveals that the alarm is indeed set, but for five PM.

So, I'm ready to blow the thing off, but she's crying fer dog's sake, she feels so bad. So, I agree to go to the Galleria hotel and tryout anyway. We fight through the AM rush hour traffic, and get there around eight.

The line is wrapped around the hotel. As I find out later, I am number 481. An hour later, there are more people in line behind me than in front of me. So, I spend the time chatting with the other characters in line with me. It grows hotter. The people I'm talking to are a pretty mixed bag - some unemployed, some housewives, some wage slaves that called in sick, and finally, the odd free-lance carnie types, but they're all interesting to talk to. Most have traveled, and nearly all are brighter than the norm. A reporter from the Houston Comical comes by, in fact the same one that had written the story I read yesterday.

He interviews a young lady in our group for a while, tape recorder in hand. He is charming, gregarious, and milks her like a Jersey. She gives her name, and talks effusively as he prompts her for info about her motives for coming down, where she works, (in an office building adjoining the hotel), yadda-yadda. After about five minutes, he's done with her, and turns to me.

"And what is your name?"

"I'd rather not say, if you don't mind."

"Why not?"

I make up a story.

"I canceled a meeting with a client to be here."

(Actually, I told my non-boss that I hadda take CG to a doctor's appt., and I'd be in around eleven. Heh. Fat freakin' chance)

"Aaaah, and what do you do?"

I smile. "I'd rather not say that, either."

"So you're all about the money, then, huh?" (Miss Gregarious had been telling him it would be fun just to be on TV)

"You betcha."

"Well, what will you tell me?"

I look him straight in the eye.

"That if the producers put me on the show, I will be the first million-dollar winner from Texas. I guaran-goddam-tee it."

"Wow, I like that attitude. Here's my card. If you get on the show and win, will you give me a call?"

I take his card.

"Sure, buddy. Tell you what, when I win the simollions, you can have an exclusive."

Minutes later, as the sun climbs in the sky, and it starts to get a bit uncomfortable, a SUV flying Red Bull colors parks on the street, and stars handing out cans to the queue. I've never had one before, so I take one. Tastes like a Sweet Tart. The ingredients don't seem to be much other than sugar, caffeine, and Vitamin B. Oh well, whattya want fer nuttin'?

Miss Gregarious' cell phone rings. It's her boss. She has to come into work now. Reluctantly, she says her goodbyes, and drags off to her job.

Finally, many stories later, the line begins to move. The first 250 people get tested, as we begin to swelter in the heat.

About 10:30, they take the next 250, to include me. We all file into a large ballroom, and grab a seat in the sea of cheap hotel chairs arrayed in ranks and files for the occasion. My first thought is sympathy for those poor daddy-bangers still outside. It only hit 95 today, so dog is merciful.

Perky young producer's assistants hand us out some forms to fill out, recite all the standard disclaimers, answer a few questions, then pass out the test.

Ohmidog, it's multiple guess. How much easier can it get? 30 questions, 12 minutes, 24 secs per answer, I calculate.

Of course, I can't remember them all. Most I knew slam dunk, the others, about five, I guessed, and two I had no clue.

In no particular order, the brain dump:

1. The second black woman to win an Oscar?

Cicely Tyson, Whoopi, Diana Ross, or somebody else I can't remember?

2. "Dawn Summers" was added as the little sister to which TV sitcom character? Buffy, Moesha, Sabrina, or Malcolm in the middle?

3. Campanology is the study of what?

Military, Spain, fireworks, or bells?

4. What is used as a thickening agent in cooking?

Corn syrup, corn starch, sugar, or sumpin else.

5. Who wore gold shoes in the 1996 and 2000 Summer Olypmics?

Jackie Joyner, Michael Johnson, Ben Johnson, or ?

6. What was the name of rapper Marky-Mark's backup band?

The Funky Bunch, The Ghetto Boyz, Ice Cold, or Shadow?

7. Some question about which rapper in 1991 call himself the Original G, or something like that... (I had no clue)

Ice Cube, Ice T, Dr. Dre, or the Notorious B.I.G?

8. Which was not a mouseketeer (sp?)?

Christina Aguilera, LeeAnn Rimes, Britney Spears, or some other chick?

9. The proper name for a female zebra?

Mare, dam, cow, or jenny?

10. What animal is on a caduceus?

Dove, lion, dragon, or snake?

11. The Dali painting "Persistence of Memory" had what on it?

Water on fire, dripping candles, melting watches, or glaring eyes?

12. Cathedral something something Fiore is in which city?

Naples, Milan, Florence, or Venice?

13. Which S. American country is landlocked?

Paraguay, Uruguay, Argentina, or Ecuador?

14. What appears on the flag of Turkey, Pakistan, and Tunisia?

A crescent moon, a hammer, a star, or a cross?

Those are all I can remember for now, and include almost all the ones I was unsure about. I tend not to recall the slam dunks.

I finished in seven minutes, and spent the final five rechecking my answers like a good little test boy. :-)

While the tests were being graded, they kept us entertained by conducting contests, with T-shirts for a prize. The first one was Stoopid Human Tricks, then best celebrity imitation, etc.

I volunteered for the first. My trick was to take any two words furnished by the audience, and put them in a proper limerick in thirty seconds.

Stupid audience. The first lady I called on said "orange." I guess she thought since you can't rhyme it, that was going to be a big problemo. The second word, furnished by a young kid who was a bit more clueful, was "fundament."

The pressure was on... One of the perky kids had the audience sing the Final Jeopardy melody as I thunk.

On the deadline: An Orange County laddie named Bill Tripped while running the hills. Sprawling he went On his fundament, I think Bill's rolling down still. :-) Weak, I know, but I never claimed they'd be good limericks.

Anyway, I didn't win the T-Shirt, as the audience clapped louder for this chick that hummed an old cowboy song, (Happy Trails To You) to the rhythm accompaniment of hoofbeats clop-clopping, a sound she also made by clicking her tongue. How she could hum and click at the same time, I dunno.

Finally, they came out to announce the numbers of the winners. The stack kept getting lower and lower, and I still hadn't heard "481." This was gonna be embarrassing, as I had told my queue buds that there was no way I wasn't gonna pass the test.

Well, toward the end, they did call my number. Whew! 42 of the 250 had passed, and would go on to the next stage.

Which didn't amount to much. They took a Polaroid of us, gave us a form with some questions to answer - "What would you do with a million dollars? What would Regis find most interesting about you? You wouldn't believe this to look at me, but once I...? What is your proudest achievement?" etc., etc.

Then we each were interviewed for about one minute by the producer's assistants. One or two quick questions. Mine was "What would you do with a million bucks? I told them I'd use it to found an international chain of non-profit computer training centers, so the the vast majority of the people on the planet that didn't have access to, or understand how to use a PC could get trained for little or nothing. The assistant looked at me funny, and said, "Why would you wanna do that?" I said I'd always been a PC evangelist, had made the world a more productive place, (I hope she's never heard of FreeCell, or chatting) and it seemed like something I could do that would leave the world a better place than I found it. She said, "Well, that's nice. Thank you very much, and you can go now."

So I left, and reported in to the non-job, where the boss was a bit pissed that I didn't come in until one. Since the office manager quit in a huff, Monday, that meant the office didn't open at nine like usual.

Oh well, what's he gonna do, fire me? I wuz looking for a job when I found this one. :-)

'Cept, to tell the truth, I wasn't actually looking when it found me. :-)

I was hoping they had a shortage of chunky, grey-haired, gat-tothed, middle-aged men on the show, and needed me to redress the balance.

Of course, they never called....

 

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mld, June 21, 2002 at 6:30:00 PM CEST

Leaving The Nest Too Soon

So I'm out at my parent's place yesterday, tending to my wolfhounds. I'm walking with the hose to refill the little swimming pool where they like to splash around and cool off, when I hear this alarmed squawk at my feet.

I look down to see that I've nearly stepped on this little baby bird. He's staring at me defiantly, all 2.5 ounces of him.

I bend over to look more closely.

"Squawk!"

"Lil dude, what the hell are you doin' outta the nest?" "Squawk!"

I stand up and look around, and realize that I've been subconsciously hearing louder and more adult versions of the little guy's call as I was walking around the yard. As I look for his nest, I see Mom and Dad sitting on branches at opposite ends of the yard, talking to each other and him. I'm no birdwatcher, so I don't know what they were. I can see the beginnings of the adult coloration on the little guy. They are handsome grey birds with black and white bands on their wings, long straight tail feathers, graceful fliers, larks maybe?

Try as I might though, I do not see the nest, though I know it can't be far. I realize that I've probably got no way of getting him back up there anyway, but it doesn't hurt to look.

I bend back down to look at him. He doesn't move, but he doesn't seem to be hurt, either.

"Look you, do you realize what your life expectancy down here is? About 30 secs after Opa's barn cat hears your squawkin'. Plus, I'm fixin' to let my hounds out, they're gonna tear around this yard about Warp 9, and you'll be lucky if they don't step on you in the process."

He just stares at me.

I happened to have the AGFA in the car, as I had earlier that day been out shooting some real estate. (Commercial photography is one of the various ways I support myself - nothing fancy or artistic, just mundane stuff) So, I walk to go get it as I ponder what to do.

I've had enough experience with lost birds as a kid to know that the odds of me hand-raising this fella are pretty slim. Still, I'm thinking about it - some meal worms from the pet shop, crickets and nightcrawlers from the bait store, maybe it'll work. But I've got about two hours of work, at least, here before I can leave, putting the finishing touches on C&C's new domus.

I snap a few pics of him, then notice an empty hanging basket on the back porch. It's about four feet off the ground. A perfect place to stow him.

I bend over to grab him. He squawks louder that ever before and opens his mouth. It's huge, like his head splits in back at the base of his skull.

"Oh, be quiet, I'm not gonna eat you." I'm surprised that Mom and Dad, chattering up a storm, are not dive-bombing me. I set him in the bottom of the hanging basket, then go finish with the dogs.

To my surprise, the little guy has hopped up from the bottom of the basket, and is sitting on the rim, about a, umm eight inch leap. He's friskier than I thought. I wonder if Mom and Dad will tend to him from there.

But a few moments later, he's back on the ground, in the monkee grass underneath the basket.

"Dude, what in the hell are you doin'? You're an idiot. You can't fly yet."

I put him back in the basket, and wander off again to let the hounds out. They tear around the yard, as advertised, running out to the front to jump in the drainage ditch, where the water is chest deep on them, play fight, and chase each other, flinging contrails of water droplets and roostertails of turf and topsoil behind them at every turn.

Caesar, trying to get away from Cleo, hangs a sharp right around the corner of the house. The bird had jumped onto the ground again, and Caesar sees him, skidding to a stop. He lowers his long snoot...

"Caesar, NO!"

At the same time the little guy jumps up, opens his mouth, spread his wings to their mighty four inch full extension and squawks louder than ever before. I don't know if it was me or the bird, but Caesar jumps about two feet backwards. I hurry over and put the guy back in the basket one more time.

This is one of those times when I'm tempted to not let the facts get in the way of a good story, and put a Happy Hollywood ending on this, but I've decided not to.

I call the dogs to come with me for a walk in the pasture. It turns into a long one, as they decide that they can't resist running out the back side of the ten acres chasing something, and then have to cool off in this small lake on the neighbor's property.

When we got back, a good thirty to forty-five minutes later, the little guy was gone. I don't think the cat got him, as it's half, make that 98%, wild, and doesn't come out in the day, especially when the dogs are out.

So, we not only don't get the Happy Ending, we don't even get the cathartic tale of sorrow. Not even the satisfaction of knowing the ending. Story interrruptus.

Maybe we get a moral from the story, though. Sometimes, we leave home a little bit too soon, and turn away, or spoil, all attempts to help us out of the situation we're in. Sometimes, even our parents are unable to help us, even though they'd like to.

In the early 80's, I worked as an instructor at one of the very first "boot camp" style programs in the nation. This one was for violent juvenile offenders, kids so mean and bad that they had been sentenced as adults, and were headed for the state prison in Florida, even though they were only fourteen to sixteen years old. The camp was located in Central Florida, just south of Sebring, in the swampy land around Fisheating Creek.

All of them had spent most of their lives in the custody of the state. Some of those kids were destined to spend the rest of their life incarcerated no matter what we did, but a few, maybe one in five, actually had a chance.

Sometimes I remember Slim, (sentenced for stealing a Miami PD squad car and driving it around the 'hood for four days during the '81 riots there) and Ernie (who I spent 24 straight hours running down through those swamps one time when he tried to run - I told those little fuckers that if they ran I'd be on their ass, so it was a matter of pride) and Romeo (charged with killing his dad with a shovel, as he didn't like seeing him beat his mother) and wonder what happened to them all.

Life isn't like the movies - sometimes the endings are unkown, and we don't get the clarity we seek.

Hell, we don't even know for sure what happens when our own movie is over.

No wonder why we like the movies so much.

 

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