Monday Morning Video Laugh - July 7, 2008

Dopes.

Dinner last night: French Dip at Cafe 50s Diner.

My Top 25 Favorite TV Shows: #13!

Given our mutual love for the TV soap opera "Peyton Place," I would have loved to have enjoyed watching "Dallas" with my grandmother. But, sadly, she was out of it by the time that the show first showed up on CBS for its first seasons. I can just imagine sitting around with her speculating on all the possible shooters of J.R. Ewing.

But, as the passage of time and life would have it, I did all that talking with my friends. Indeed, I got turned onto "Dallas" by Djinn from the Bronx, who could very easily shift between some very deep and thoughtful poetry and this outlandish eye candy/junk. Because as a prototype for the latter, "Dallas" was the best. It was stupid. It was laughable. It frequently made no sense.

It was the perfect entertainment. Primarily because the expert cast knew how to play it. All the drama was done tongue-in-cheek. We got the joke because Larry Hagman, Linda Gray, and company got the joke.

For about six seasons, "Dallas" was the number one show in the nation. Rarely do we all get to experience a national phenomenon together and this certainly was one. Everybody talked about it for an hour before the Friday night airing. Then, everybody would talk about it immediately after. Then the weekly cycle started all over again. Of course, all the frenzy got even more manic when the producers decided to have the villain J.R. shot by an unknown assailant during one season's final episode. All summer long, the shooter's identity was debated worldwide. And in all the circles around me. On the night of the big reveal, I actually had one of my first dinner parties and we all gathered around the TV for the big letdown. Here's the historic moment one more time.

I was always amused by the press on how the producers kept this all a big secret from the cast. They allegedly didn't see the script for this scene until minutes before filming. Everyone was holding their breath thinking they would be out of jobs. Blah, blah, blah. All hogwash. Knowing a bit about the TV production world now, there is no way they could have hid this, given that lawyers needed to work on Mary Crosby's out clause, etc.. Besides, there are scenes in subsequent episodes that subsequently discuss Kristin as the shooter. All filmed in advance. Here's a word of inside advice: when you read that shows are shooting multiple scenes to hide big secrets, they really aren't. It would be too expensive.

Nevertheless, it was all great fun for the audience. Of course, like any national fad, "Dallas" did wind itself down. The aborted season of shows, as erased by Victoria Principal's crazy nocturnal imagination, was pretty much the final nail in the casket. For some reason, I hung in with the show longer than all of my friends. I even lasted through a year where they desperately employed Susan Lucci, who is arguably the worst actress ever to appear on a TV screen anywhere. I have no clue why I did. I certainly had better ways to waste time. I suppose I didn't want to desert an old friend. Oddly enough, there have been friends I have cut loose a lot quicker.

And that is a story for another entry. In the true spirit of the continuing drama, you'll just have to tune in next week.

Executive Producer: Philip Capice.

Dinner last night: Chicken teriyaki sandwich at Islands.

Win Free Olympic Tickets

The Bibster sent me this offer and I couldn't resist sharing it with you. There is a free all-expensed paid trip to the 2008 Summer Olympics in your future if you can correctly answer the following questions about the photo below.

1. Which student seems to appear tired or sleepy?

2. Which ones are male twins?

3. Which ones are the female twins?

4. How many women are in the group?

5. Which one is the teacher?

6. Which two just finished a joint?

Yeah, I don't think any of us are going to the Olympics.

Dinner last night: Picnic snacks at the Hollywood Bowl.

The Ideal Fourth of July

I've come a long way from running up and down 15th Avenue in Mount Vernon with a sparkler in my hand.
Over the course of my life, I've gone through several series of different celebrations for Independence Day, which is really one of the only holidays everybody in this country can celebrate together. There are no religious overtones like Christmas, Easter, or Yom Kippur. It is all about freedom and being an American. Except maybe for your crazy Communist Uncle Oscar, who can't get into that?
So, there were the years for me when I was a kid and I did the sparkler routine like I was some lunatic Rockette on fire. While the other kids in the neighborhood were shooting off cherry bombs, sky rockets, and a very inappropriately named explosive called a "nigger chaser," I was relegated to nothing more inflammable than my mother's ash tray. Of course, years later, I still had the ability to attempt to play the piano, while I'm not so sure some of my goofball friends could count their fingers up to ten.
When I got older, I outgrew firecrackers and found myself spending the Fourth of July in some baseball park. And, to enjoy this truly American sport on this truly American holiday, I wasn't choosy about the stadium I would enter. Whoever was playing home was where I would be. Shea Stadium. Yankee Stadium. I didn't care. It was baseball and sometimes fireworks and always perfect. I can remember one year there was a doubleheader for the Mets and Tom Seaver took a no-hitter into the ninth inning. One other year, there was a day game at Yankee Stadium, where it was hotter than hell and there was an explosion of gnats on the field level.
Nowadays, I am in my Hollywood Bowl/July 4 phase of life. Unless the Dodgers are home and shooting off some shit on the day, I am seated upon the hill that overlooks Highland. Listening. Absorbing. Enjoying. And, tonight, it will happen one more time. And, ironically, they are combining the best of both worlds. The theme of celebration will be the 50th Anniversary of the Dodgers in Los Angeles (actually, it's 51 years). There will be a performance by Randy Newman as he does the Dodger victory song "I Love LA" live. Dodger organist Nancy Bea Heffley is on board as will some Dodger greats, although that could be limited since the team is on the road in San Francisco. If there's a free buffet table someplace, I am guessing that Tommy Lasorda shows as well. I have no idea what to expect, but it can't help but be grand. This officially starts my Hollywood Bowl season and my summer.
Enjoy your day. I will be relishing my night.
Dinner last night: Turkey burger at the Cheesecake Factory.

Photo Essay - A Day in My Shea Stadium Seats

41 years. Loge, Section 7, Row E, Seats 1 and 2.

A good deal of good baseball.

A whole lot of bad baseball.

A lifetime of memories with friends, relatives, and parents.

My tenure as a Saturday Plan ticket holder may be coming to an end as Shea Stadium closes in 2008. There are no guarantees that we will be invited to the Ebbets Field wannabe that sits just ten feet to the north of Shea. But, for now, there are still games. And pictures to be immortalized on the internet from last Saturday, June 28. The last Saturday Met-Yankee game that will ever be held at Shea Stadium. I could put in the disclaimer that this does not include possible post season contests.

Yeah, right. For now, enjoy this photo essay.

Here's my view approaching the now 2 stadiums of Flushing Meadows. No preferred parking for me at Shea. There was, at one junction, pre-paid reserved parking for partial plan holders. The only problem is you could never find a parking space. The lot was oversold like a Southwest Airlines flight during rush hour. For years, we have opted for the marina parking lot that is about 15 minutes of a walk away. When the Mets went through years where they stunk, there was no charge to park there. Now, there's a booth and an exchange of 15 bucks for the honor. By the way, close friends and I have long called this parking lot the "Donald Manes Memorial Parking Lot." Apparently that's where the beleaguered former Queens Borough President shot himself. The new Citi Field is perilously close to the old Shea and could easily be hit by a baseball if David Wright got hold of a fastball. The area up ahead used to be a traffic circle with a beautiful floral garden in the middle. Now, there's just concrete, exhaust fumes, and stupid people weaving between cars.

Oddly enough, I noticed this map of the stadium and the loge level for the first time last Saturday. How long has it been there? 45 years? 45 minutes? I wanted to check to see if it can be removed with burglar tools because I certainly would like this souvenir hanging in my home after the last homestand in September.

Here is the hallowed entrance to my section. What you can't see just to the right is the very conveniently placed men's room---a mere footsteps down the ramp from my seats just above. At Shea, I can easily go and empty the tank without missing a pitch. At Dodger Stadium, I have a much longer walk and generally miss at least one batter (Scully is piped in so you don't miss the action). I secretly wonder if my father had his future enlarged prostate in mind when he picked out the Shea seats on January 12, 1968.

My seats show the wear and tear of the years. They are now blue plastic, but I can remember when they were made of an orange/brown stained wood. When they switched colors and materials, they never bothered to repaint the frame which is now just plain chipped and rusty. When my dad first signed on in 1968, the cost per game was $2.50. I looked at my stub from last week's game. $67! Doesn't the extra $64.50 merit a little Rustoleum?

An in-game view from my seats. Probably the best sightline I have ever enjoyed at a baseball game. And it's all mine. The only way I get a viewpoint like this in the new Citi Field is if my last name is Wilpon.

However, most recently, this is my view more and more and more. People milling around. Walking aimlessly. Headed nowhere. Or just standing whereever they are and watching the game, regardless of who they are blocking. The usher in the middle has all the effectiveness of Donald Rumsfeld playing a game of Stratego. But, when you arrive, he is sure to stand alongside you as he wipes down the seat. And stand and stand and stand unless a dollar bill magically appears in your hand. They want tips for doing nothing at Shea. They take no tips for doing everything at Dodger Stadium. Down in front!

My view of Diamond Vision with Citi Field looming in the background. The screen and Met outfielder George Foster showed up in the same season. The screen lasted much longer. Back in my college days, you had a vista that encompassed the finest that Queens had to afford. Auto chop shops, junk yards, and projects. Oh, yeah, and the wonderful tower that beckoned you to Serval Zippers, whatever that company was. Of course, we had our own spin on the name. Serval Zippers would be adjoined to the name of any slutty college girl we knew at the time.

My view of the scoreboard, which is now just a ghetto of advertising. You'd have to be Stevie Wonder not to know that BUDWEISER is the beer sold at Shea Stadium. I liked it a lot better when that whole Budweiser sign was an electronic message board. There were always some great typos on that thing. Once, Met owner Mrs. Joan Payson was being presented with a "plague." By the way, about 20 years ago, the Mets very brazenly added a spot to give you the numbers of the umpires for the left field and right field lines. Of course, you only use them for the postseason playoffs. Only true Met fans know that, since they added those spots, the Mets have not won a World Series.

This is the guy who sits across from me in Section 5. His name is Richie and he's the quintessential NY sports fan/asshole. He hates everybody on the home team. He hates the game. He despises all people equally from Gary Carter to Darryl Strawberry to Bobby Valentine to Mike Piazza to Carlos Beltran. He shows up every Saturday and is incredibly miserable. He has the most ridiculous notion of baseball strategy. He doen't understand the game. A thoroughly maddening individual to listen to. And he's been showing up every Saturday for at least 25 years! By himself! No surprise.

Longtime team mascot Mr. Met is now used exclusively to shoot t-shirts into the crowd with an air gun. He also runs around the stands delivering free pizzas and seat upgrades to those parked in the upper deck. Last Saturday, they brought four real slobs down to the choice field level seats for the daily upgrade. Good for them, but what about the folks that now have to sit next to these Philistines? If you can afford only the upper deck, that's precisely where you need to stay.

Is there a better way to close this Shea Stadium photo essay than showing you a snapshot of my lap? With the scorebook open mid-game. A bi-coastal scorebook that follows me from Shea to Dodger Stadium to Shea and back again. I couldn't think of going to a game on either coast without the book at my side. And here's another quirk: I use blue ink for Met games and black ink for Dodger games.

Isn't this a great country?

Dinner last night: Sausage parmagiana at Peppone's.

Baseball, Apple Pie, and Wednesday

And the Fourth of July...how much better can it get?

---I look at this promotional photo of Vivian Vance and William Frawley and I wonder if they really did try to blow each other up.

---Every time I miss NY a little bit, I need to remember two words.

---Summer humidity.

---On those days, Manhattan is nothing more than Indonesia with skycrapers.

---If I had some pork dumplings in my back pack, they would have been steamed by the end of last Friday.

---I. however, was fried.

---I went to a high school graduation in Rockland County. On a humid football field, where the mosquitoes were graduating top of the class.

---I swear I could hear those bugs laughing as they stabbed me.

---I had one t-shirt that needed to surgically removed. I was using sweat glands that hadn't worked in years.

---Can we reverse the school year so kids graduate in January?

---So I can sweat like a bandit indoors.

---When you're in NY for a Met-Yankee subway series, it's really a lot of fun to quickly flip between the radio stations that cover the game.

---That way, the Mets' play-by-play guy, Howie Rose, can tell you what really happened. Especially if you were just listening to the Yankees' bloated announcer John Sterling.

---On the Yankee station, a ball landed in the upper deck. On the Met broadcast, the ball landed two levels below.

---It's like they staged Rashomon in the Shea Stadium press box.

---Sterling missed so many plays that I was convinced he was trying to call the game with a laundry bag over his head in a Turkish prison.

---And what the hell is going on with Sterling's sidekick, Susyn Waldman?

---She's either drinking, just got new dentures, or recently had a stroke. Every word is slurred.

---For five minutes, I thought the Yankees had added Liza Minnelli to their broadcast crew.

---Memo to all Yankee fans: Liza is the original singer of "New York, New York" not that goofball Sinatra who sang it during those years when he never got one single lyric correct.

---"I've got you under my glass."

---"That's why the lady is a shoe."

---"My kind of town...Broccoli is."

---My favorite Sinatra buffoonery story, however, spins around daughter Nancy. When the old bastard finally died, they couldn't reach her.

---Because she had taken her phone off the hook to watch the final episode of Seinfeld.

---I will take Dean Martin over that Hoboken shithead every day and in every way.

---I had a Business Class upgrade on the way back to LA, but it came with a price. I was sitting next to some old man who obviously couldn't process the warm nuts he was snacking on.

---Even my Bose headphones couldn't block out the sucking noises that were coming from Seat 11J.

---Separated at birth? Mets Manager Jerry Manuel and Morgan Freeman.

---The Yankees' Alex Rodriguez and Madonna are supposedly an item. Who's fooling who?

---A-Rod was probably still in Little League when she was "Desperately Seeking Susan."

---Mrs. A-Rod needs to start lunching regularly with Mrs. Clinton and Mrs. Spitzer.

---If you're not yet on the list of people being considered for the Vice Presidential slot on either ticket, you should wonder why. Everybody else is.

---The roster of also-rans and never-weres that populate this group of losers is astounding. All grappling for the most useless job in the country.

---You essentially need to do nothing but be on call to attend the state funeral when the King of Bumfukborg croaks.

---You have to be crazy to want to be Vice President. And then, when you really are, they bounce you. Remember Thomas Eagleton?

---I wonder if Obama will be getting college credit if he gets in, since he's got about as much experience as the summer college intern down the hall.

---Starbucks is closing 600 stores. And that means there are only 29 million left.

---I guess consumers are choosing gas over that Cafe Americano.

---Although with a double shot, I'm thinking my car might actually run on that swill.

Dinner last night: Homemade Chili Con Carne.

A Head Expanding NY Moment

Is there such a word as "surreality?"

That was my experience last Thursday and then again yesterday in hazy, hot, humid, and horrible New York City. One of those bizarre life moments. Both times I was in virtually the same place. Right outside of JFK in my rented gas-guzzling SUV on some clogged road that connects the airport to the Van Wyck Expressway. Or maybe it was the Van Wyck Expressway? I no longer can tell one rutted road from another in Gotham City. And, on the radio, I was tuned to NY sports talk radio, because that's the truest form of human anger. Vinny from Ozone Park calling in to announce to over 10 million people that, in his opinion, Met Manager Jerry Manuel is a moron. As I listen, I flash back to my days of youth when I would call into the Mets' flagship station from the 60s, WJRZ, and pepper post-game host Bob Brown with some inane trade proposals in the hope that I would rewarded a DQ Dilly Bar for my stupidity. Tuning to NY sports talk radio allows me to touch base with both the present, the past, and, apparently, the insane.

And, then, last Thursday, I'm hearing ESPN host Michael Kay do a live read of a commercial. He's hawking some commemorative books about Shea Stadium and Yankee Stadium, as both ball parks wind down their life spans. And he's talking about the famous sportswriters included in these tomes with their various essays on the cherished histories of these ball yards. They sound interesting to me. Until I remember...

I'm one of the writers in the Shea book!

Holy shit! They are selling these suckers for 20 or 25 bucks and I'm in there with my article, "The Saturday Plan," which chronicles my life as a Saturday ticket plan holder of the Loge Level of Shea.

I'm not an egotistical sort, but I actually felt my head getting bigger. And my hair started to hurt as a result.

After many, many, many years, I was finally a sportswriter. And that, along with being a veterinarian, was one of my first ever desired career choices. Of course, I moved on, primarily because I couldn't give a rat's ass about any sport other than baseball. But, there I am now, alongside Maury Allen and Steve Jacobson.

And just when I thought I couldn't be a bigger pompous ass, I experienced another ego stroke on the way to JFK yesterday. This time around, this midday guy on ESPN Radio was doing the same live read. And he was talking about one of the articles being written by some guy who sat in the same Shea seats for 40 years.

Holy shit again! And, by the way, it's 41 years.

Nevertheless, I didn't need a plane to fly to LA later that day. While I've certainly had my writing recognized before in a variety of forums, this is the first time I've ever focused on baseball. A game I've loved. In seats that I adored. In a stadium with a team that was my life blood.

These books just hit the stands, so please indulge me. And yourself, because they are quite entertaining. I've seen and heard a variety of prices attached. $19.95 at Universal Newsstands in Manhattan and Exxon On The Go Gas Stations in the NY metro area. Spend $300 to fill up and then another 20 bucks for some cool memories. They will go well with a Diet Coke and a Slim Jim, which you can also conveniently pick up at the same Exxon outlet.

Or you can go on-line at pressboxlegends.com. If you want your books signed by either Don Mattingly or Tom Seaver, it will cost you 95 bucks.

If you want me to sign one, it will cost you nothing.

Dinner last night: Pasta with sundried tomatoes and Kalamata olives.