The Sunday Memory Drawer - Roller Coasters and Life in General

 

Living in Los Angeles, I can tell you that it's a very common and almost routine happenstance for a family to simply and spontaneously pop down to Disneyland for the day.    Nothing to do with the kiddies?  Hey, let's take a hundred dollars or five out of the bank and go down to see Mickey Mouse.  Sure, it's expensive, but it's comforting to know that there is a major and historic amusement park right in your backyard.

Such fortune didn't exist for my family when I was a kid.  Growing up in Mount Vernon, New York, we had nothing on par with the Magic Kingdom.  Our theme park options were few and far between.  You waited for every June when the Our Lady of Mt. Carmel Church on 10th Avenue had their annual feast.  A couple of clunky rides and lots of arcade games.  You'd take a chance on that new Ford Mustang, knowing fully well that the Monsignor would be driving it the very next week. 

We heard stories about this great amusement park down in New Jersey, just past the George Washington Bridge.  Palisades Park with the world's largest salt water pool, which my parents were convinced was nothing more than one big petri dish of bacteria.  Somehow, I coerced Dad to take me there once, fighting through the litany of his usual excuses.

"It's too hot/too cold."

"It's too far."

"It's too crowded."

Given those restrictions, I guess my summer amusement should have been confined to a temperature-controlled closet in the hallway.

But, okay, we did have one option nearby.  Rye Playland.   A throwback to the old county fairs of days gone by.  In its non-updated and borderline antiquated state, Playland could be embraced as delightfully retro.   Or simply old as the hills.

Nevertheless, it's what we had to work with in Westchester County.   You looked forward to that summer night where the family would troop up to Playland. 

Less fun for those of us in smaller families.  Being sibling-less, our outings to Rye were a little less intense on the fun side.  Me, Mom, Dad.  Woo hoo.  Looking back, I can now affirm that the only way to enjoy an amusement park is with a group.   A large, large group.  That does not translate to an only child with his two non-ride-participating parents.

My mother was always more worried about her hair and it getting blown askew on some ride that would whip the rest of us into a frenzy.  Forget the fact that her coiff was already hardened into a helmet-like mold thanks to liberal doses of Caryl Richards Hard-to-Hold Just Wonderful Hair Spray.   She was worried that she'd get off a ride looking one iota less pristine than when she got on.  Besides, you couldn't smoke on any of them.

My father?  His Army experience in Japan was more than enough thrills for his lifetime.  He preferred life on terra firma. 

"You go on.  I'll wave."

And that he did.

I'd whisk by.

Wave.

Whisk by.

Wave.

Again.

Wave.

And again.

Wave.

Riding these conveyances solo, I longed for another kid.  Any kid.  Please.  It got so that, after hearing one year that we were headed to Playland that Friday night, I asked my parents if they could have a foster child in the house by the end of the week. 

That did not get a laugh.

As a result of this solitude, I never got adventurous in my Playland ride choices.   I pretty much kept to the kiddie section.   If it went fast, okay.  If it went up and down, no.  If it went fast and up and down, absolutely no.  The only exception was the Caterpillar ride.  Because it covers you with that imitation Persian rug for part of the trip, you couldn't really tell when you were going fast or moving up and down.  The lack of a visual made the ride palatable for me. 

Except I could never see my father waving when I rode it.

When the prospect of another Playland visitation came up and the annual foster child plea went unanswered, I floated the notion of allowing me to take a friend with us.  One of my buddies "up the block."  A schoolmate.

"What are you kidding?  We're not made of money.  We can't be taking all of Mount Vernon."

Huh?

One kid.  That's not "all of Mount Vernon."  I never could understand the dismissal of this concept.  Except my parents countered that none of their parents had invited me to Playland either.

Oh.

Suddenly, I thought that similar discussions were being held in the homes of countless friends and chums all over town.

"What are you kidding? We're not made of money. We can't be taking all of Mount Vernon."

So, there I would be in Rye one more time.

Whisk by.

Wave.

Whisk by.

Wave.

Again.

Wave.

Eventually, the family outings to Rye Playland stopped.  Or were mercy-killed.  Luckily, I got older and branched out to other social realms.  And, my Rye Playland excursion took on completely different and unchartered dimensions.

I was 13 and there was this girl.

Wasn't there always?

I've written about my very first girlfriend here before, but this portion of the tale has never been elaborated upon.  For all intents and purposes, this was our first "date."  Or was it?  A debate for the ages.

She had been in my Sunday School for about five years.  As I got older, so did she and, as is always the case with hormones, she got a lot less "yucky" with the passage of time.  By the time she was 12, I was ready to go out for the requisite blood test and the new living room sofa.  As fate would have it, we would get to spend a lot of time together that year.  We were both in confirmation class and spent two hours every Saturday morning reciting the Apostle's Creed together.  In the process of becoming official Christians, I was inwardly becoming quite horny.  If this is what growing up was all about, I'd like to take the class twice, thank you very much.

After we got our first taste of wine and cardboard wafer, our German-speaking pastor decided to treat the whole class of 12 confirmants (?) to a day at Rye Playland.  This would be sweet.  An outing we could share together.  And sanctioned by the clergy, for Pete's sake.  How good would this be?

Not as good as I thought.  All of a sudden, there was somebody else.  Another girl in the class who latched onto the love of my life.  Hello?  Where were you all year?  You didn't show any interest in being pals with my friend while we were drilling down on the Gospels.  Now you're looking to get chummy?  Just when I'm looking to have a nifty ride buddy on "Laugh in the Dark."

I needed a strategy fast. 

All day, I made myself imminently available to my little friend.  If she was standing in a spot, I would immediately stand alongside her.  Even if it meant knocking over this thirteen-year-old Rhoda Morgenstern who was in my way.  If my friend moved to another spot, I followed her.  Oh, Rhoda, I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to bump you like that.

Rides were trickier.  Most of them sat two comfortably.  I wanted to make sure I was always the companion.  This took some careful manipulation as we stood in line to board our appointed conveyance.  While everybody was anticipating the sheer exhileration of a thrill ride, I was busy working like a scientific engineer to make sure she and I would be traveling together.  Once I screwed up and wound up on the Caterpillar with not my "date," but the interloping Rhoda.

"Isn't this fun?"

Yeah, who asked you?

Since this was a church group, I was morally limited to just what I could think and do about this whole situation.  I could have pushed the other chick into the Long Island Sound.  Wait.  What is that, Pastor?  The Fifth Commandment?

"Thou shalt not kill."

Oh, right.

I would, however, get some divine intervention a little later in the day.  Thanks to my innate ability not to listen closely to instructions. 

The Pastor announced we would stop for lunch.  Bring out the sandwiches you all brought.

Er, sandwich??  Did I miss the memo??

I was lunchless.

Suddenly, the intrusion of this other girl took second place to my hunger pains.  I guess I could have bummed a few coins off the Pastor and buy a hot dog.  But, I didn't want to call atention to myself.  As if being a complete pest wasn't enough of a red flag.

As everybody ate at the picnic table, I quietly sat and waited for them to finish.  Except my "girlfriend" noticed that I wasn't eating.

"Didn't you bring a sandwich?"

How sheepish a look could I conjure up in the next ten seconds?

Um, no, shucks, I forgot.

"Hey, have half of mine."

Whoa!!!!!

That was the best half-of-a-bologna-sandwich I ever had.  This relatively innocuous gesture melted me to the ground right there in the middle of Rye Playland.

For the rest of the day, though, we were inseparable.  And hence my "date" began.  When two people share a book of ride tickets, well, that can get pretty darn serious.

Move the calendar up six years.  Another Playland trek.  This time, I'm with a group of college friends, including my roommate and best friend at the time.  And, yep, there's a girl in the mix that I'm really interested in.  Times had changed.  Hormones had not.  Suddenly, I'm back working the same strategic maneuvers I had attempted when I was 13.  Calculating how lines would work so I would wind up on a ride with my very special buddy.  With this co-ed crowd, the ploys were a little harder to work.  Others had the same design, damnit.

With me hopelessly yearning for some quality time on a ride with the girl of my dreams, our contingent moved off to the famed Dragon Coaster.   This would be our next ride.

Um, the Dragon Coaster?

This was the big ride at Rye Playland.  While tame today, this was a fairly intense roller coaster and, for a while during the ride, you are actually zooming up and down inside a dragon's stomach.  My friends zipped over to join the line.

Er, I don't do roller coasters.  I really, really don't do roller coasters.

The voice of my would-be wife was heard.

"Don't you want to go on this?  With me?"

I was being played.  I didn't give a shit.  I would go on the Dragon Coaster.

Of course, as we waited amidst all the distant screams of patrons already on the ride, my stomach fluids were making equally sharp turns.  What I wouldn't do for love.  I dreaded it all, but I needed to put on my game face.  This would be fun.

I think.

As well as God had intervened in my love life six years earlier, on this day, He apparently had taken the day off.  Because, somehow, I messed up my seat calculations.  When it was time for board the Dragon Coaster, my ride buddy was...my college roommate.

He wanted to be on this ride even less than I did.  And now we were heading to certain doom together. 

The next two minutes scared the pellets out of us.  As we entered into the belly of the Dragon, we said our goodbyes.

Moments later, we exited the Dragon, a lot more worse for wear.  I looked over at my roommate. 

"What happened to your sunglasses?"

They had obviously flown off his head somewhere between the Dragon's spleen and gall bladder.

It would not be on that day, but I did eventually connect with the girl in question.  But, that would be my last time on the Dragon Coaster.   And there would be very few excursions for up to that main amusement park of Westchester County. 

Dinner last night:  Bacon cheeseburger.

Classic Musical Comedy Production Number of the Month - July 2022

Woo hoo.   A five Saturday month always takes us to Broadway.

I was lucky to see the latest iteration of Stephen Sondheim's "Company" in June.  Unfortunately, it's closing this weekend.   Indeed, this production went into previews right before COVID and then re-opened post-pandemic.   During the shutdown, the cast did the opening number on Zoom.   So, so clever. 

Dinner last night: BLT at Art's Deli.

Summer Vacation!

 

That swinging seniors single trip.

"We'll come back to get you after lunch."

"Hey, Papa Bear, I think there's some food in the back window."

"Our daughter's seizure was the only bad moment during an otherwise wonderful vacation."

"No more pictures while Dad is wearing that!"

"From Here To Eternity - Canine Edition."

"Let's neck."

"I went on vacation and all I got was some radiation poisoning."

Dinner last night:  Spaghetti and meatballs at the home of good friends Leo and Connie as cooked by Leo's kid brother Anthony.

Hollywood Then and Now - July 2022

Talk about night and day.   This is a Then and Now that couldn't be more then and now.

So, here in the Los Angeles hinterlands, there was baseball before the Dodgers moved here from Brooklyn in 1958.   Oh, it was minor league for sure.   A team called the "Hollywood Stars" and no, I'm not talking about Errol Flynn in center field.   Probably a bunch of semi-pros tossing the ball around.   But, for people here starved for the sports, it was a game to go to.   And, if you wanted to watch them, the stadium was Gilmore Field on Fairfax and Beverly.

Actually looks like a decent place for baseball.  Oh, and unlike Wrigley Field in Chicago at the time, they had lights.

But, as most cities do, they figure out that the population shouldn't have nice things and the property was sold to a real estate developer.   That was in 1952 and they had to wait another six years for the next shot at a baseball game.

So what did said developer put in place of Gilmore Field?

CBS Television City.   How's that for a gear shift?

Ladies and gentlemen, now playing second base...Bob Barker.

Dinner last night:  Mozzarella and sun dried tomatoes.

This Date in History - July 27

 

Where would we be without Norman Lear?   Yes, I did the math.   He's 100.

1214:  DURING THE BATTLE OF BOUVINES, PHILIP II OF FRANCES DEFEATS JOHN OF ENGLAND.

The winner went up against Bruno Sammartino of Italy.

1549:  THE JESUIT PRIEST FRANCIS XAVIER'S SHIP REACHES JAPAN.

It doesn't specifically say that Francis Xavier got there at the same time.  Or at all.

1663;  DURING THE GLORIOUS REVOLUTION, THE BATTLE OF KILLIECRANKIE ENDS.

Included only because the word "Killiecrankie" makes me smile.

1694:  A ROYAL CHARTER IS GRANTED TO THE BANK OF ENGLAND.

Killiecrankie.  Yep, still smiling.

1794:  DURING THE FRENCH REVOLUTION, MAXIMILIEN ROBESPIERRE IS ARRESTED AFTER ENCOURAGING THE EXECUTION OF MORE THAN 17,000 ENEMIES OF THE REVOLUTION.

17,000?  Talk about overkill.

1866:  THE ATLANTIC CABLE IS SUCCESSFULLY COMPLETED, ALLOWING TRANSATLANTIC TELEGRAPH COMMUNICATION FOR THE FIRST TIME.

Okay, one last smile.  Killiecrankie.  :)

1905:  BASEBALL MANAGER LEO DUROCHER IS BORN.

Sixty-four years later, he had a really shitty summer.

1919:  THE CHICAGO RACE RIOTS ERUPTS, LEADING TO 38 FATALITIES AND 537 INJURIES OVER A FIVE-DAY PERIOD.

How's that community organizing look now?

1922:  TV PRODUCER NORMAN LEAR IS BORN.

And I still miss "All in the Family" to this day.  Boy, wouldn't you like to hear what Archie Bunker has to say about politics in 2022?

1931:  ACTOR JERRY VAN DYKE IS BORN.

Solely around to keep his more talented brother company.

1940:  THE ANIMATED SHORT "A WILD HARE" IS RELEASED, INTRODUCING THE CHARACTER OF BUGS BUNNY.

This should be a national holiday.

1942:  DURING WORLD WAR II, ALLIED FORCES SUCCESSFULLY HALT THE FINAL AXIS ADVANCE INTO EGYPT.

Why was anybody going to that shithole in the first place?

1949:  ACTOR MAURY CHAYKIN IS BORN.

Don't know who he is?  No worries.  The joke pays off a little later.

1949:  INITIAL FLIGHT OF THE DE HAVILLAND COMET, THE FIRST JET-POWERED AIRLINER.

Olivia had her own airline?

1974:  THE HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES JUDICIARY COMMITTEE VOTES 27 TO 11 TO RECOMMEND THE FIRST ARTICLE OF IMPEACHMENT AGAINST PRESIDENT RICHARD NIXON.

Start counting the days, Dick.

1981:  SIX-YEAR-OLD ADAM WALSH, SON OF JOHN WALSH, IS KIDNAPPED IN HOLLYWOOD, FLORIDA AND IS FOUND MURDERED TWO WEEKS LATER.

And, as a result, the kid's father wound up with a long run as a TV show host.

1981:  DIRECTOR WILLIAM WYLER DIES.

Not the best day or the best year of his life.

1984:  ACTOR JAMES MASON DIES.

A star is born and then ultimately dies.

1988:  INVENTOR FRANK ZAMBONI DIES.

Now he's really on ice.

1996:  IN ATLANTA, A PIPE BOMB EXPLODES DURING THE 1996 SUMMER OLYMPICS.

And that was the only interesting thing to happen at those games.

2003:  COMEDIAN BOB HOPE DIES.

My writing partner contends that he really died several months earlier but they kept up this scam so the press could celebrate his 100th birthday in May.    I don't deal with a lot of normal people.

2010:  ACTOR MAURY CHAYKIN DIES.

Now that's what I call feng shui.

2012:  THE OPENING CEREMONY FOR THE SUMMER OLYMPICS IN LONDON TAKES PLACE.

Didn't this just happen?

2012:  SINGER TONY MARTIN DIES.

Mr. Cyd Charisse.

2017:  ACTOR SAM SHEPHERD DIES.

Famous for a bunch of movies and plays and oh, yeah, screwing Jessica Lange.

Dinner last night:  Bacon wrapped Dodger Dog.

Doctor, My Eyes

 

If you live in Los Angeles, you know this woman.   She is Dr. Barbara Ferrer, Director of Los Angeles County Department of Public Health.   And perhaps, from what I see in the picture, a descendant of a pre-electricity Benjamin Franklin.  Actually, she looks like she's had COVID a dozen times herself.  Meanwhile, that title is a mouthful, isn't it?   Just call her what she essentially is.

A school nurse.

Since COVID raised its ugly head in March 2020, she has been...regrettably, the face of the city government addressing how we should be proceeding during this pandemic.  Masks in schools.  Masks in theaters.  Masks while you are taking a shower in the morning.  She is Chicken Little and, trust me, her sky is always falling.   But, she had a bully pulpit because she is a doctor.

Like Dr. Pepper is more than a soda.   Oh, yeah, sure.

"Dr." Ferrer is not a medical doctor.  Her doctorate is in social welfare which sounds like a gut course in most colleges.   But she has parlayed all this bullshit into a show that pays almost a half million dollars.  With that kind of money, you would think she'd have a better hair cut and some Lancome products in her bag.

But I digress...

"Dr." Ferrer has done more to damage life in our city than Mayor Garcetti and Governor Newsom and that's going some.  She has overreacted when she shouldn't have.   She underreacted when she shouldn't have.  Decisions were changed on the fly.   She was inconsistent with her positions and her "rulings" which she said were the law and weren't.   But we were told to listen to her because...well...she was a doctor.   Meanwhile, she'd be hardpressed to figure out how to take your temperature.

It's also now coming out that her daughter has ties to the CDC, which is another corporate mess that overplayed its hand badly during the pandemic.   Oh, and apparently she hired some felon to work in her office.

I love the way the shit is coming out of this goose.  So, essentially, our lives were at the whim of what Barbara and her dumbbell daughter were discussing over breakfast scones.

Now, with some new variant afoot and monkeypox now knocking at our door, she's telling us one more time to be vigilant and wear masks in public places.

Uh-huh.

Meanwhile, here's where "Dr." Ferrer was last week.

Two sections away from me at the All Star Game at Dodger Stadium with 52,000 other people she fucked over with her incompetence the last two years.   

But I wasn't surprised.   I already had caught her with her mask down several months ago.  During one of those surges where we had to be extra vigilant. 

One of the renters of my church is an orchestra manned by physicians.  They wanted to do an outdoor concert for the neighborhood in our parking lot and I was there to chaperone on behalf of the church.

Who did I see that day?  Yep.   Maskless and hugging and kissing her friends.

Can you say "double speak?"

I'll make a deal with you, "Dr." Ferrer.  I'll promise to wear a mask if you wear a bag over your head.

Dinner last night:   Leftover pasta salad.

   

Monday Morning Video Laugh - July 25, 2022

Ah, memories.   A vintage blooper as funny today as it was 28 years ago. 

Dinner last night:  Leftover pasta salad.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - My Baseball Birthday

 

Continuing along with the flow of baseball memories this month.

Today is July 24.   The date will probably come and go with you sans incident.  Not a special holiday according to the Hallmark calendar.

But the date always sticks with me.  You see it marks the first day I ever walked into a baseball stadium as a fan of the game.   For the longest time, I would celebrate on subsequent years at the big, now demolished ball park in Flushing.  This year, I will be at my new baseball home Dodger Stadium.   But that concrete carcass that used to rot next to Flushing Marina was my favorite baseball spot for so, so long.

  

It seems like only yesterday.  Actually, it was decades earlier.

I was a new Met fan, having just met the team while out of school for a week in April with a bad case of German measles.  I was starting to understand the sport.   And my father, usually the family figure who always introduces the sport to a youngster, was gravitating to the team with me.  Dad was a lifelong Yankee fan, having grown up in the Bronx.  But, I guess he thought it would be easier now to adopt the team his little son had just selected.

I was consumed by the games on the radio and the television, but, now, I wanted to actually attend a game at brand, spanking new Shea Stadium.

For one of the only times in our lives together, Dad didn't use his usual response to our going any place.

"It's too far."

"There's too much traffic."

"It's too hot/too cold."

I guess he really wanted to go, too. None of those old standards seemingly applied. And he had a direct connection to some nifty seats. The guy he carpooled to work with had a wife who worked for Rambler, then the "Official Car of the New York Mets." Her dealership had a season box right behind the visiting dugout. She got four seats for a July Friday night.

Her husband and her son.

My father and his son.

Me.

I counted the days, the hours, the minutes, and the seconds. I started to plan out the Met rotation to see who would be pitching on this hallowed night. It would be Jack Fisher, wearing my favorite baseball number to this day. #22.

This date would cement the love affair for all time. The Mets. Me. Together in the same place. I could reach out and touch them.

Well, sort of.

This would be the best day of my life.  I could barely sleep the night before. Full of awe and wonder?

Nope, it was the rain pelting my bedroom window.

How could this be happening? God, why have you foresaken me? I mean, I went to Sunday School every week. I said my prayers every night. Rain??? Doesn't everybody in the universe know that I'm supposed to go to Shea Stadium tonight?

And I dreaded the inevitable. This was totally playing into my father's back-up excuse for the usual trilogy of reasons why not to do something.

"It's too wet."

Uh oh.

My father had already taken the night off from work. His friend still wanted to go. The game was still on. Downpour or no downpour, we popped into the car around 6PM for the trip to Flushing.

I can still remember traversing the Bronx Whitestone Bridge with the sparkling lights of Shea piercing the raindrops on our windshield. This is where I was going. I had a ticket. Nothing could stop me now.

Thunderclap.

Lightning bolt.

Perhaps my first utterance of a curse word.

"Shit."

Not audible enough to be slapped across the kisser.

When we arrived at the blue and orange aluminum paneled palace, the grounds were a soggy mess. One puddle after another. We huddled under an umbrella. The game would be delayed but only a little. I stared with amazement at everything I saw as I entered Shea for the first time.

"Scorecard, scorecard here."

I wanted one. I would learn how to score that summer.

The souvenir stands. The amalgamated smell of hot dogs, pretzels, popcorn, and spilled beer. Like no other aroma. The escalators that raise up to the heavens. Well, in my case, the field level behind the third base dugout.

Billy Crystal has made a career talking about his first visual memory of Yankee Stadium. Walking up the ramp of darkness and suddenly emerging in the sun-kissed stands and the field with the brightness shade of green that God ever created.  Unfortunately, it was a little different for me that evening at Shea. Coming out of the tunnel onto the field level stands, I saw more darkness. And rain. And a soaked canvas covering the playing area.

Indeed, having seen the Mets in nothing but Zenith black and white hues, the colors at that moment were almost the same. Muted, dull, and unimpressive. It would grow on me in a matter of minutes.

Looming up in front of me was the gigantic scoreboard.  To me, at my tender age, it was nothing short of magical. Colors danced around the white backdrop. It had baseball scores from all around the country. I looked at the Met lineup and immediately recited to all who would listen those players we would be privileged to see that night.

"Number 10, second base, Rod Kanehl. Number 42, centerfield, Larry Elliot. Number 23, right field, Joe Christopher. Number 2, in left field, George Altman. Number 25, at first base, Frank Thomas. Number 12, catching, Jesse Gonder. Number 1, at third base, Charlie Smith. Number 11, playing shortstop, Roy McMillan. Number 22, and pitching, Jack Fisher."

With a less squeaky and even less juvenile voice, I could have replaced the public address announcer.Around the third inning, little obnoxious Me decided to use my proximity to the Milwaukee Braves dugout and give them a child's version of Hell. No epithets. Just some good natured booing.

At one point, their third base coach, Jo Jo White, was amused by me. As he headed back to the dugout, he stuck his hand in his pocket. And pulled out a handful of Bazooka Bubble Gum pieces. He tossed them into a rain puddle on the dugout roof. I grabbed them quickly. The comic strips were soaked and not legible. The gum, however, was delicious. And I suddenly didn't hate the Milwaukee Braves so much.

Truth be told, other than the sense of shock and awe, I remember little about the game itself. Retrosheet tells me the Mets lost, 8-5, in front of a crowd that numbered 20,646.

As far as I was concerned, it was me, my dad, and 20,644 other people.

This game was my first. It would not be my last.

So we flash forward two decades.  I had my own Saturday plan seats at Shea.  I didn't have to rely on my dad any more to go to Met games.  Sometimes, I didn't even wait until Saturday to visit Mecca.  I would pop out there on an odd weeknight.

This was one of those nights.  Smack in the middle of the summer.  And I probably didn't even realize the date when the impromptu plans were made to see this contest of the Mets versus the St. Louis Cardinals.  The Flushing guys, after languishing in mediocrity for several seasons, were getting competitive again.  

And here it is.  July 24. 

Now, over the course of my life, I've been to lots and lots of baseball games with lots and lots of good friends.  I've enjoyed every minute of it all.   But, there are three friends that stand out as my ideal baseball game mates.  The first would be my neighborhood pal and lifelong chum Leo.   Not only did he sit in my Shea seats but now he is the primary occupier of Seat 2 in my Dodger Stadium location.  We are still making memories together.

Another would be my best friend from high school Danny, who pretty much was the standard bearer for my Shea Saturday seats until I no longer had them.  But there's also my buddy, the Bibster.  We met in college.  Only children who gravitated toward each other with an almost identical sense of humor and whimsy.   Indeed, he probably deserves a blog posting all to himself.

But we also enjoyed the same things at baseball games.  Both life-long fans of the downtrodden bunch at Shea, we started to go to games on weeknights.  On this July 24, I had tickets that resulted from a rainout on a previous Saturday.  We would both pull out scorebooks.  And we would both proceed to manage the game from our seats.  Endless and persistent strategy.  Up in the loge behind home plate on this July 24, we endeavored to stay two strategic moves ahead of Mets manager Davey Johnson.

The weather this night was a little steamy but not terribly uncomfortable.  We had virtually the best seats in the house.  And we did what we did best.   Watched a baseball game.

For some reason, this ordinary July game had it all.  A see-saw contest that perfectly illustrated the highs and lows of being a baseball fan.

Mets up 3-0.

Cardinals take the lead 4-3.

Mets storm back 7-4.

Cardinals squeak ahead 8-7.

Mets tie it in the bottom of the eighth 8-8.

A Keith Hernandez single in the bottom of the tenth wins it for the Metsies.

One of those games that looked like Rocky Balboa and Apollo Creed at the end of the first "Rocky" movie.  Two objects staggering but trying not to fall. 

We loved every second of it all.  So did the almost 37,000 others in attendance.

It wasn't a game that won a pennant or a World Series.   It wasn't a no-hitter or a contest where somebody hit the cycle.   

It was simply baseball with a great friend.  And perhaps one of the most exciting games I had ever seen in my life.

It was another July 24 at Shea Stadium.   There might have been other times I was there on July 24.   And if the Dodgers are home, I always make sure to keep my season seats for that day.   Today.

But there was never anything like the two July 24s.  Twenty years apart. 

But only a second away in my memory bank of lifetime highlights.

Dinner last night:  Pasta salad.

Classic Movie Trailer of the Month - July 2022

 Egads!   This premiered forty years ago this month.

Dinner last night:  Sandwich and sweet potato fries.

An All Star Game Leftover

For me, one of the highlights of the ASG was a video I saw when I got home.   This will be a tissue user for sure and it confirmed something I've known since 2008.  Clayton Kershaw is a class act and I am proud to wear his Dodger jersey.

Dinner last night:  Grilled Taylor ham and sweet potato fries.

An All Star Experience?

 

It should have been glorious.   And, conceptually, it was.   I mean, I was going to the MLB All Star Game for the third and probably last time.   What made it special was being able to partake in my season seats at Dodger Stadium with its spectacular view.   

And I was going to the game with my best buddy from childhood Leo and neither of could imagine being there together when we met and swapped baseball cards in Mount Vernon, New York at the age of five.

Yep, it should have been wonderful.   But before we entered the park, I could tell there was something off.   The parking lot was full of Mercedes Benz transports with signs that said "MLB Staff."  The concourses were crowded with people.  Now I'm regularly at Dodger Stadium with sellouts.   I don't see one quarter of the confusion that I saw at the ASG.

Before the game, we decided to get an early dinner and chose one of our favorites.   The fried chicken sandwich available down on the field level.   No problem.  We have done this countless times.   From my seats on the loge, we take the escalator down to the field level.   Easy, peasy.

Down at the chicken stand, there were obviously problem-os in the kitchen.   The people in front of me waited about ten minutes for their sandwich.   Hmmm.

But we got ours pretty quickly and then proceeded to the escalator for our trip back upstairs.

Except....

There was a huge throng of people.   Were they waiting on line for the escalator?  We used to see that when they practiced social distancing during the COVID season.   But nobody was going up.   Was the escalator broken?   Er, no, the stairs were moving.   

The access to the escalator was blocked by a cop and a Dodger security guy.   Both were apologizing profusely to the now hot-and-bothered crowd.

"Sorry.  We're not in charge."

As it turned out, MLB was.   And they wanted their own and exclusive access to the escalator for the next half-hour.

WTF!

Now, around the corner, there was an elevator bank.   The line hadn't seen an elevator door open in 15 minutes.   

It was getting uber-frustrating and, after all these years, I wondered if Leo and I would get to enjoy the player introductions.

I carry a cane in my Dodger bag because...well...there are no handrails or bannisters on the Loge level at Chavez Ravine.   I pulled it out and decided to turn myself into that cranky handicapped guy demanding answers.  I finally got some from a Dodger usherette who told me the escalator would finally be available to the fans.   We did make it upstairs for the pre-game intros.   But, again...

WTF.

But, as I watched the event unfold, I could see that, on this day, Dodger Stadium was not being run by the Dodgers.   This was a MLB production.   Some Dodger signage was covered up.   Every moment on the field between the innings was courtesy of some sponsor or another.   I could swear there were at least five first ball ceremonies.

Ugh.

And then this is ubiquitous "Stand Up to Cancer" moment which always shows up during the ASG or the WS.   Everybody gets to hold up a sign and commemorate someone they know who was touched by cancer.

This would be my second time to participate in this poignant moment.   And I found my placard in my cup holder.

Already filled out with some generic salute.

Hello, MLB, I would like to memorialize my dad for a moment.   He died of prostate and bone cancer.   Why can't I do that?  The players get to do that.  Dave Roberts got to do that.  John Fucking Smoltz got to do that.

If they were smart, it would be so easy to pull out.   When you enter the games, there are tables with blank placards and Sharpies.   It would take ten seconds for somebody to fill in their loved one's name.  

But, no.   Because MLB was in control of your game, your escalator ride, and your emotions.

Ugh again.

Oh, we enjoyed the game which, as usual for the ASG, was pretty lackluster.   And my bestie and I had another rite of passage cleared from Bucket List Land.   

But it could have been just a little bit better.

Dinner last night:  Salad.

This Date in History - July 20

 

Dedicated to those people who still believe that this moon landing was filmed on a soundstage.

70:  DURING THE SIEGE OF JERUSALEM, TITUS, SON OF EMPEROR VESPASIAN, STORMS THE FORTRESS OF ANTONIA NORTH OF THE TEMPLE MOUNT.

My Lord.  It's only seventy years after Jesus and already the Mideast is a freakin' powder keg.

911:  ROLLO LAYS SIEGE TO CHARTRES.

I mention this only because I have no clue who Rollo is.

1304:  IN THE WARS FOR SCOTTISH INDEPENDENCE, KING EDWARD I OF ENGLAND TAKES THE STRONGHOLD USING THE WAR WOLF.

Gee, even those pansies in kilts got their licks in.

1738:  CANADIAN EXPLORER PIERRE GAULTIER DE VARENNES ET DE LA VERENDRYE REACHES THE WESTERN SHORE OF LAKE MICHIGAN.

And realizes he should have packed a sweater.

1807:  NICEPHORE NIEPCE IS AWARDED A PATENT BY NAPOLEON BONAPARTE FOR THE PYREOLOPHORE, THE WORLD'S FIRST INTERNAL COMBUSTION ENGINE.

Damn, this sure is a boring date in history.  And a tough one to make jokes about.

1810:  CITIZENS OF BOGOTA, NEW GRANADA DECLARE INDEPENDENCE FROM SPAIN.

See!  Not funny.

1871:  BRITISH COLUMBIA  JOINS THE CONFEDERATION OF CANADA.

Also not funny.

1877:  RIOTING IN BALTIMORE, MARYLAND BY BALTIMORE AND OHIO RAILROAD WORKERS IS PUT DOWN BY THE STATE MILITIA, RESULTING IN NINE DEATHS.

I tried to make an Oriole joke work.  I couldn't.  Also not funny.

1881:  SIOUX CHIEF SITTING BULL LEADS THE LAST OF HIS FUGITIVE PEOPLE IN SURRENDER TO UNITED STATES TROOPS.

Okay, good, the joke is...  Er, never mind.  Not funny.

1901:  BASEBALL PLAYER HEINIE MANUSH IS BORN.

What an unfortunate first name.

1903:  THE FORD MOTOR COMPANY SHIPS ITS FIRST CAR.

And it's immediately recalled.  Leave it to the American car industry to bring the funny back to this date.

1916:  IN ARMENIA, RUSSIAN TROOPS CAPTURE GUMISKHANEK.

Which may explain why the Armenians all moved to Glendale, California.

1921:  AIR MAIL SERVICE BEGINS BETWEEN NEW YORK CITY AND SAN FRANCISCO.

Is this with or without pigeons?

1921:  CONGRESSWOMAN ALICE MARY ROBERTSON BECAME THE FIRST WOMAN TO PRESIDE OVER THE US HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES.

I wish she had been the last.  That's, of course, making the assumption that Nancy Pelosi is really a woman.

1926:  A CONVENTION OF THE SOUTHERN METHODIST CHURCH VOTES TO ALLOW WOMEN TO BECOME MINISTERS.

How long before one of them tries to tell us that Jesus was a girl?

1928:  THE GOVERNMENT OF HUNGARY ISSUES A DECREE ORDERING GYPSIES TO END THEIR NOMADIC WAYS, SETTLE PERMANENTLY IN ONE PLACE, AND SUBJECT THEMSELVES TO THE SAME LAWS AND TAXES AS OTHER HUNGARIANS.

Well, that's a stupid rule.  Isn't that what gypsies do?  Move around?  Meanwhile, we had some in my neighborhood when I was growing up and my grandmother said that, if I looked them straight in the eye, they would put nails in my throat.

1932:  IN WASHINGTON DC, POLICE FIRE TEAR GAS ON WORLD WAR I VETERANS WHO ATTEMPT TO MARCH ON THE WHITE HOUSE.

Almost as dumb as forbidding gypsies from moving.  Who tosses tear gas on a war veteran???

1938:  ACTRESS NATALIE WOOD IS BORN.

The kind of wood that doesn't float.

1940:  DENMARK LEAVES THE LEAGUE OF NATIONS.

They shifted to a division that had the designated hitter.

1940:  CALIFORNIA OPENS ITS FIRST FREEWAY, THE ARROYO SECO PARKWAY. 

How many minutes before it was completely clogged?

1944:  ADOLF HITLER SURVIVES AN ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT LED BY GERMAN ARMY COLONEL CLAUS VON STAUFFENBERG.

How many Jews would have been saved if this guy could shoot straight?

1949:  ISRAEL AND SYRIA SIGN A TRUCE TO END THEIR NINETEEN-MONTH WAR.

A fat lot of good that did.

1953:  THE UNITED NATIONS ECONOMIC AND SOCIAL COUNCIL VOTES TO MAKE UNICEF A PERMANENT AGENCY.

And gave cheapskates an excuse not to give out candy on Halloween.

1969:  APOLLO 11 SUCCESSFULLY LANDS ON THE MOON.

And the astronauts were introduced almost immediately to Alice Kramden.

1976:  HANK AARON HITS HIS 755TH HOME RUN, THE FINAL HOME RUN OF HIS CAREER.

The true leader in this category, not that Barry Bonds asshole.

1977:  JOHNSTOWN IS HIT BY A FLASH FLOOD THAT KILLS 80.

So there really was a Johnstown flood???

1984:  OFFICIALS OF THE MISS AMERICA PAGEANT ASK VANESSA WILLIAMS TO QUIT AFTER PENTHOUSE PUBLISHES NUDE PHOTOS OF HER.

As if Bert Parks never saw a pubic hair in his life.

1987:  ACTOR RICHARD EGAN DIES.

Well, that, at least, got his teeth unclenched.

1999:  ACTRESS SANDRA GOULD DIES.

Gladys Kravitz!!!  Well, the second one.

2005:  ACTOR JAMES DOOHAN DIES.

Beamed up.  Really.

2007:  TELEVANGELIST TAMMY FAYE BAKKER MESSNER DIES.

Mascara kills.

2013:  JOURNALIST HELEN THOMAS DIES.

Years after she first started to look like death.

2014:  AFTER FIVE DECADES, THE US AND CUBA RESUME FULL DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS.

Babalu.

2015:  ACTOR THEODORE BIKEL DIES.

I met him on line for popcorn at a screening of "My Fair Lady."

2017:  OJ SIMPSON IS GRANTED PAROLE AFTER SERVING PRISON TIME FOR ARMED ROBBERY.

So when does the homicide sentence kick in?

Dinner last night:  Fried chicken sandwich at the All Star Game.

Len's Recipe of the Month - July 2022

Why wait for the Good Humor man?   I'm here.   With some homemade ice cream.  Just in time for summer.

Truth be told, back when I lived in NY, I had an ice cream maker and used it all the time.   The kind that spun around in a bucket of ice cubes.   I think I still have it in a back cabinet some place in Yonkers.

But a few weeks back on her cooking show, Valerie Bertinelli showed us how to make no churn ice cream at home.   It's so horribly easy and sinfully delicious.  And I adapted the flavor above all by my lonesome.

First off, take a glass bowl and the blades from a hand mixer and put them in the freezer for an hour or two.   The colder the instruments, the better the process.

With that super cold bowl, pour in two cups of heavy whipping cream and use the hand mixer on high for about three minutes or until you get soft peaks.

Take a 14 ounce can of sweetened condensed milk and pour into a smaller bowl.  Whisk in a teaspoon of vanilla extract.

Slowly fold the small bowl into the bigger bowl using a spatula.   Do this gently.  Now add whatever you want to add to your ice cream.   I folded in a half cup of Nutella spread and some tiny semi-sweet chocolate morsel chips.   Yes, I made Nutella Chip ice cream.

Pour it all into some Tupperware with a lid.   Put it in the freezer.  Ideally, let it set overnight.

And, suddenly, you are Tom Carvel.

Dinner last night:  Leftover baby back ribs.

 

Monday Morning Video Laugh - July 18, 2022

Let's revisit one of the very best scenes from the last season of "Everybody Loves Raymond."  Priceless acting and writing.

Dinner last night:  BBQ baby back ribs.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - I'm An All Star Again!

 

My baseball month continues in a big way.   I'm finally going to see an All Star Game in Dodger Stadium from my season seats which will be right in the middle of a lot of the beautiful people.   Even better, as another rite of passage, I am headed out there with my lifelong best buddy Leo and we never dreamed this would happen when we were five year-olds back in Mount Vernon, New York.

As you are aware, this was supposed to happen back in 2020 but...COVID, you know.   Now no variant will keep me from enjoying this.   For the first time in years, I am interested again in the All Star Game.  Truth be told, I've lost interest in the whole shebang as I've gotten older.   It has, of course, expanded in its scope over the course of several days.

The Futures game which is essentially a minor league All-Star game.  Yawn.

The celebrity softball game which features a lot of people I have never heard of.   Yawn.  Compare this to the old Dodgers Hollywood Stars games when the team were managed by the likes of Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and Don Rickles.  

The All Star fanfest.  Okay, I've been to one when Baltimore hosted the game about twenty years ago.  It's a lot of fun.  I'm already wondering where they will stage this next year.

The Homerun Derby.  I know people love this night.  I don't.  Pass again.

These days, I really don't even have an interest in the All Star Game itself.  I realized that, in years past, I only watched the telecast on the pre-show.  I dig the pomp and circumstance of it all.  The introduction of the line-ups and rosters.  The first ball ceremony.  The National Anthem.  After that?

Yawn.

It wasn't always so.

I flashback to my first year as a true baseball nut.   Ironically, Shea Stadium was in its infancy.  And hosting that year's All Star Game.  As a new devotee of the sport and the New York Mets, this game became my focus of life.  Oh, I wasn't going to be there.  But, I was living and dying with the hoopla in the weeks before the game.

I was excited that my very own Ron Hunt, second base man for the Mets, was going to be in the starting lineup for the National League side and I was fiercely behind that team, as I would be for many years.

I had yet to go to Shea Stadium myself, but I had already started to learn how to score a baseball game.  I carefully used a ruler to make lines on a piece of paper as I crafted my own scoresheet.

Weeks before, I planned my timing and lunch for that day.  The game would be in the afternoon.  I would be ready in plenty of time.  No one was to bother me.

Except...

About a week before, I got grim news from my mother.

"Do you remember that your class party is next Tuesday afternoon?"

WHAT?????!!!!

The past year's teacher, Mrs. Lillian C. Ian (that's how she signed all the report cards), had decided to hold a year-end party for us all at her home in Pelham Manor, New York.    My mom and several other of the class mothers were also invited.  I was assured that it was a really nice thing for the teacher to do.

YEAH, WELL!!!

I couldn't understand this.  All year, Mrs. Lillian C. Ian had been a complete ball buster.  A good but demanding teacher.  And, frankly, by the end of June, I was totally done with her emotionally.  Why wasn't she emotionally done with us?

I attempted the usual "I'm not going" histrionics, but find me one child that was ever successful with that play.  I was sunk.  And, so too was my very first attendance (albeit via television) at the All Star Game.

The day of the party was typically New York hazy, hot, and humid.  Mrs. Lillian C. Ian had outdone herself with the back yard set-up.  Tons of games and plenty of food plus all my classmates were there, including my now Facebook pals Cheryl and Diane.

How could this be a horrible day?

Well, I had smuggled in a lifeline.  If I couldn't watch the All Star Game, I could listen.

In my shorts pocket was my dad's transistor radio.

The only problem was that there were only isolated spots in that backyard where I could get reception.  If I moved either five inches to the right or to the left, I would lose touch with civilization and Shea Stadium.

Eventually, I got tired of all the strategic maneuvering and was totally wrapped up in stuffing my face and playing with my friends.  When I remembered to turn the game on again, I was treated to the post-game wrap-up.

"And Johnny Callison's dramatic ninth inning homer propels the National League to a 7-4 victory...."

Grrrrrrrr.

It would be years later when I would actually get to see an All Star Game in person.  This year it was being held on a steamy New York night at Yankee Stadium.  The type of summer evening where you had to remove your sweaty clothes with a spatula.  

I didn't care.  My college roommate and I had tickets for the game.  We'd travel down to the ball park via the renowned D train which is how Fordham University students always connected to the rest of the world.  

Our plan for the big day was easy.  We'd meet at school, walk up to the Fordham Road subway station, and then take the fifteen minute ride to baseball heaven.

Oh, yeah, and we decided to have dinner before hand at the Beefsteak Charlie's on Fordham Road.  Always a great deal for college kids.  Great steaks.  And all the beer, wine, and sangria you can drink.

Uh-huh.

Neither of us were big boozers in that day, but sangria, masquerading as a potent version of Kool Aid, was always tasty.  We opted for a couple of pitchers of that.  

And, predictably, it went down smoothly.  Too smoothly.

The combination of an empty stomach, a very uncomfortable weather day, and the wonderful tasting fruit "punch" made a lethal weapon.

Within 45 minutes, we were both completely blotto.

Shitfaced.

Drunk.

To this very day, I have no recollection of about three hours of my life.  I have no memory of what I ate for dinner.  Or the subway ride to Yankee Stadium.  Or the first five innings of the game.

When I suddenly "came to,"  I was there in the House That Ruth Had Built and Then Renovated.  My scorebook was in my lap.  I had filled in the first five innings.  I had obviously been there.  But I had no idea how.

I recently dug up that infamous scorebook.  I could not make any sense of anything I had written for the first five innings.  By this time, I was an expert scorekeeper.   Not on this night.

There would be yet another All Star Game that I would attend in person.  In Baltimore right after they opened Camden Yards.  Ironically, part of that trip's entourage was the same college roommate I had gotten plastered with.  We avoided the sangria this time around.  But, once again, it was another East Coast boiler and a challenge for us all.

That year, the Home Run Derby was held in the afternoon.  We had seats in the upper deck behind home plate.

In the sun.

The hot, hot sun.

There are now tan lines on my arms that have never faded.  All because of that day.  Sans sun block.

But, the good news is that we could remember everything we saw.  On that afternoon, there wasn't enough Diet Coke in the entire state of Maryland to quench my thirst.

The good news is that, in my season seats in 2022, I am only in the sun for the first hour of the game.   But I will have a Coke Zero at my side.

Dinner last night:  Double dip Ham French Dip at Phillippe's.