All Star Game time....60 years ago.
Dinner last night: Grilled knockwurst.
Saturday, July 14, 2018
Friday, July 13, 2018
Thursday, July 12, 2018
Traveling While Not Walking
Nope, this is all about my recent trip to NY and, as the picture above shows, part of my transportation on this sojourn was via American Airlines wheelchair. I'm glad the dude in the picture is pretty young. I don't feel so bad now.
So, if you're a regular reader here, you know I am moving slowly but surely to a right knee replacement. I'm not there yet, thanks to a lot of proactive work with my personal trainer Peter and my electromagnetic therapist Marcie. Plus I just got some gel injections so I would be travel-friendly, right?
Um, wrong. About a week prior to my departure from LAX, I had a knee flare-up that was telethon-worthy. When out of the house, I found myself walking with my Harry Potter fold-up cane. The limp was limpier. If I would be caught in a high rise fire, I would not make it out.
As I contemplated my trip, I thought about the AA arrival gates and baggage claim at JFK Airport. They are so far apart that you might as well pick up your suitcase in Times Square. This was an impending disaster.
I thought about the fact that I had flown over 1.5 million miles on AA in the past 15 years. Surely, this could be some sort of accommodation. I bit down hard on the bullet and made a...gulp...wheelchair request.
Best thing I ever did, hands...and legs down. This process was efficient and painless. As a result, I could ditch the cane for most of my NY trip.
The road back to Los Angeles, however? Um, not so good. I had bizarrely booked my return flight to LAX for 9PM. That's already a long day for these knees. I had also mistakenly overwrapped my knee with a brace which actually compressed my knees beyond recognition. Never again.
While I got an aisle seat with extra legroom, the crowded flight allowed for a minimum of stretching. Er, even with wheelchair transport, that person crawling around Baggage Claim Area 1 at 1AM Pacific time was me.
My knee barely recovered. Plus I had three Dodger games and a Hollywood Bowl upon my return. Agony.
I realized somewhere along this recent journey that I need time to get my knee to rebound. Luckily, I work at home and, over the next two weeks, I have just one Dodger game. Along with training and electromagnetic waves, my knee is coming around.
Just in time for when I have to travel back to NY in mid-August.
Yes, it's a struggle. But, luckily, this is the only health issue I have and things could be a lot worse. More importantly, I refuse to let this define me as a person.
But, will my next airline reservation also specify "wheelchair assistance?" You betcha.
Dinner last night: Salad.
Wednesday, July 11, 2018
This Date in History - July 11
472: AFTER BEING BESIEGED IN ROME BY HIS OWN GENERALS, WESTERN ROMAN EMPEROR ANTHEMIUS IS CAPTURED IN THE OLD ST. PETER'S BASILICA AND PUT TO DEATH.
So much for the national Anthemius.
1346: CHARLES IV OF LUXEMBOURG IS ELECTED EMPEROR OF THE HOLY ROMAN EMPIRE.
Roman emperors have more churn than a butter factory.
1405: MING ADMIRAL ZHENG HE SETS SAIL TO EXPLORE THE WORLD FOR THE FIRST TIME.
Was his wife named Zheng She?
1576: MARTIN FROBISHER SIGHTS GREENLAND.
And said "big deal."
1735: MATHEMATICAL CALCULATIONS SUGGEST THAT IT IS ON THIS DAY THAT DWARF PLANET PLUTO MOVED INSIDE THE ORBIT OF NEPTUNE FOR THE LAST TIME BEFORE 1979.
Pluto? Dwarfs? You get the impression that the universe was invented by Walt Disney.
1740: JEWS ARE EXPELLED FROM LITTLE RUSSIA.
Gee, if you piss off Little Russia, what's the big country gonna do?? Tamper our elections??
1750: HALIFAX, NOVA SCOTIA IS ALMOST COMPLETELY DESTROYED BY FIRE.
Did anybody notice?
1789: JACQUES NECKER IS DISMISSED AS FRANCE'S FINANCE MINISTER SPARKING THE STORMING OF THE BASTILLE.
Screw the job. With that name, he must have gotten a lot of girls.
1796: THE UNITED STATES TAKES POSSESSION OF DETROIT FROM GREAT BRITAIN.
Otherwise Al Kaline would have lived in London.
1798: THE UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS IS RE-ESTABLISHED. THEY HAD BEEN DISBANDED AFTER THE REVOLUTIONARY WAR.
Oh, good, now Gomer has some place to go.
1804: A DUEL OCCURS IN WHICH VICE PRESIDENT AARON BURR MORTALLY WOUNDS FORMER SECRETARY OF THE TREASURY ALEXANDER HAMILTON.
If only we could solve our Washington DC problems like this now....
1864: DURING THE CIVIL WAR, CONFEDERATE FORCES ATTEMPT TO INVADE WASHINGTON.
Or there's another way to clean the town out.
1889: TIJUANA, MEXICO IS FOUNDED.
Just a hop over the border.
1893: THE FIRST CULTURED PEARL IS OBTAINED BY KOKICHI MIKIMOTO.
Mikimoto. I have his ears with my name on them.
1895: THE LUMIERE BROTHERS DEMONSTRATE FILM TECHNOLOGY TO SCIENTISTS.
So this is who we can blame Alec Baldwin on?
1914: BABE RUTH MAKES HIS MAJOR LEAGUE BASEBALL DEBUT.
Boston, enjoy him while you can.
1920: ACTOR YUL BRYNNER IS BORN.
Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
1921: FORMER US PRESIDENT WILLIAM HOWARD TAFT IS SWORN IS AS 10TH CHIEF JUSTICE, BECOMING THE ONLY PERSON TO EVER BE BOTH PRESIDENT AND CHIEF JUSTICE.
Obviously, Mrs. Taft was looking to get this guy out of the house.
1922: THE HOLLYWOOD BOWL OPENS.
My summer home.
1924: ACTRESS BRETT SOMERS IS BORN.
Wouldn't you have wanted to be a fly on the wall during one of her marital squabbles with Jack Klugman?
1931: ACTOR TAB HUNTER IS BORN.
If he had been a girl, his mother was going to call him "Fresca." Interesting timing on this since he just died last Sunday.
1936: THE TRIBOROUGH BRIDGE IN NEW YORK CITY IS OPENED TO TRAFFIC.
And immediately loaded up on it for the next 82 years.
1937: MUSICIAN GEORGE GERSHWIN DIES.
Rhapsody in Black.
1947: THE EXODUS 1947 HEADS TO PALESTINE FROM FRANCE.
Still looking for a home since Little Russia kicked them out.
1960: "TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD" BY HARPER LEE IS FIRST PUBLISHED.
Hey, Boo.....
1962: THE FIRST GAME OF THE WORLD CHESS CHAMPIONSHIP 1972 BETWEEN BOBBY FISCHER AND DEFENDING CHAMPION BORIS SPASSKY STARTS.
If Boris Spassky was gay and married Art Shamsky, he'd be Boris Spassky Shamsky.
1977: MARTIN LUTHER KING JR. IS POSTHUMOUSLY AWARDED THE PRESIDENTIAL MEDAL OF HONOR.
I wonder if this is part of the estate that his kids are fighting over.
1979: AMERICA'S FIRST SPACE STATION, SKYLAB, IS DESTROYED AS IT RE-ENTERS THE EARTH'S ATMOSPHERE OVER THE INDIAN OCEAN.
What's that up in the sky? Oh. OUCH!!!!
1989: ACTOR LAURENCE OLIVIER DIES.
Wuthering indeed.
2007: LADY BIRD JOHNSON DIES.
Give her a medal, too, for sleeping with Lyndon.
2006: 209 PEOPLE ARE KILLED IN A SERIES OF BOMB ATTACKS IN MUMBAI, INDIA.
And the city actually looked better after the blasts.
2008: SURGEON MICHAEL DEBAKEY DIES.
He had some heart.
2010: YANKEE PUBLIC ADDRESS ANNOUNCER BOB SHEPPARD DIES.
"Ladies and gentlemen, now not living for the Yankees....."
2012: AUTHOR MARION CUNNINGHAM DIES.
Oh, no, not Mrs. C?!
Dinner last night: Cold salad plate.
Tuesday, July 10, 2018
There Went the Neighborhood
In a world of children's television where cartoons and silliness ruled with anvils dropping on heads and pies being hurled at faces, Fred Rogers looked to stand out with some decent values for kids. His approach was simple and turtle-like slow. His conversations with youngsters were measured and quiet and understanding. When some nasty current events like the Robert Kennedy assassination in 1968 dominated the headlines, Rogers used those sinister moments to communicate them with children confused by it all. In a medium full of pretenders, Mister Fred Rogers was apparently the real thing.
The filmmaker behind this wonderful tribute is Morgan Neville and we've already enjoyed his work with the Oscar-winning "20 Feet from Stardom" about back-up singers like Darlene Love. He really cared about this subject matter then and apparently still does now with Mister Rogers. The accolades provided by his family and long time co-workers showed that they shared in Fred's labor of love. When Rogers appeared in Congress to argue against government cuts for PBS, his plea is so well-crafted and virtually stunning that the senator in charge literally threw up his hands in defeat immediately.
Like an episode of "Mister Rogers' Neighborhood," this documentary saunters through his life and the subject matter as if you are taking a leisurely stroll through the town square. At its end, you are consumed by the decency of this man and what he quietly achieved. Not only is this subject matter worthy, so, too, is the film depicting it. Bravo again to Morgan Neville, whose next work I await eagerly.
As for Fred Rogers, I am sorry I missed him and didn't see his magic first hand.
LEN'S RATING: Three-and-a-half stars.
Dinner last night: Grilled brats.
Sunday, July 8, 2018
The Sunday Memory Drawer - The Significance of July 8
My life as a baseball fan had been a short one. I have written this before. My father, a lifelong Yankee fan, had tried to bring me into his fold. The very first baseball game I attended was a weekday afternoon Yankee game. I was home from school with an ear infection, but my dad's cousin had gotten us some tickets from their oil burner company. My ears were stuffed with cotton and off we went. I finished the day wearing a...gasp...Yankee fan and screaming through one of those megaphone cups that had once contained popcorn.
I had no clue about anything that happened that day. And I had little interest in anything New York Yankee.
It would be another school illness that propelled me to the New York Mets. German measles landed me at home for a week in April. The only thing on television were some early season Met games. Shea Stadium was brand spanking new and so, too, was my baseball fandom.
Hmmmmm.
I got into the lovable loser tag that was fastened to the Mets. Maybe that's why I was drawn to them. They didn't win every game like the Yankees. As a matter of fact, they barely won any game. So, it became a huge event if they did. At the time, there was a gag that made the rounds when the Mets in one game scored an inexplicable 19 runs.
"19 runs?? Wow. Did they win?"
And that's what it was like to be a Met fan. But, I didn't care. In my neighborhood, they were uniquely mine. And I have the emotional scars to prove it.
All the kids "up the block" were Yankee fans. Or rooted for some team other than the New York Mets. As for me, I walked around and met disdain at every corner. It was as if I was wearing a big scarlet letter "M" on my chest.
"The Mets suck."
Yes, I know. But they are my Mets.
"Your team stinks."
Yes, I know. But they are my team.
And, then, the mimicking of the team's fervent stadium chant.
"Let's Go, Mess. Let's Go, Mess. Let's Go, Mess."
The team couldn't win and neither could I.
Except for my lifelong buddy Leo, who was a Yankee fan but a fairly normal and tolerant one, I was the local baseball pariah to everybody in my neighborhood. And I didn't care. By this point, I had already sucked my father into my own personal vortex of misery. Given my love for the Mets, he decided to join in, figuring that he better enjoy the team he would have to take me to see. And I soon would start my partial plan holder status at Shea Stadium with tickets for every Saturday game---a tradition I would maintain till the place closed for demolition.
Yet, it was not easy being the underdog.
Until 1969.
Out of the blue and orange, the Mets were...um....good. Led by manager Gil Hodges and a pitching staff anchored by Tom Seaver and Jerry Koosman, the Mets found themselves 5 1/2 games behind the division-leading Chicago Cubs on Monday, July 7. I didn't know how to handle the good fortune. And, coming to town for a three-game series would be the Cubs themselves. With a couple of wins, the Mets could find themselves in a pennant race.
A pennant race? The words ping ponged around my head. I barely knew what one was. Except fans of the Yankees and the Red Sox and the Dodgers and the Giants and the Orioles knew what it felt like. I certainly did not.
I walked proudly around my neighborhood the morning of July 8. The Mets would be playing the Cubs in a bizarre Tuesday afternoon game. It was a typically hazy, hot, and humid New York summer's day. You could break a sweat by combing your hair. Outside was no place to be. But I needed people to see me as I prepared to watch the Mets in a.....er......pennant race game.
Both of my parents were working that afternoon, so I could be alone with my excitement. Back in those days, the only air conditioner we had was in the living room. I cranked it up, closed the accordion doors that kept the chill isolated from the rest of the house, and tuned to WOR Channel 9 at 2PM.
It seemed that I was not alone in my euphoria. About 55,000 people had sweated their way into Shea Stadium for that day game. Lots of folks calling in sick all around the New York metropolitan area.
And, by the eighth inning, we all had been jolted back to reality.
Cubs 3, Mets 1.
I knew my euphoria wouldn't last. The voices from "up the block" echoed in my mind. I would hear them tonight for sure as we waited for the Good Humor truck.
"Let's Go, Mess!!! Let's Go, Mess!!!! LET'S GO, MESS!!!!"
Ouch.
I didn't want to watch, but I couldn't leave the television set. I decided to multi-task through my anxiety. I pulled my dog, Tuffy, into the living room. I started to brush her, which was one of my regular summer chores. If the Mets had to lose, well, at least, my dog could lose some excess fur and pant a little less in the summer heat.
And then it happened. The bottom of the ninth inning.
Ken Boswell hits a double.
Even at this early age in life, I was already a cynic. Watch him score, I thought. The Mets will lose, 3-2.
Tommie Agee popped out, but Donn Clendenon, hitting for Bobby Pfeil, also hits a double. Except Boswell only gets to third base. Huh? Part of the reason was that Cub centerfielder (and soon-to-be-sacrificial-lamb) Don Young was having trouble with the sun and everybody thought the ball would be caught.
I was paying attention now, but still brushing the dog.
Cleon Jones joined the double parade and now both Boswell and Clendenon scored to tie the game.
Shea Stadium looked like a lunatic asylum on television. I was in my own personal rubber room on 15th Avenue in Mount Vernon.
Before I knew it, Ed Kranepool had laced a single to left field. The Mets won, 4-3. Within a second of that ball landing safely on the Shea grass, I jumped out of my skin. Tuffy, scared for her life, ran clean away through the bottom of the accordion doors. Her hair brush wound up behind the couch. My mother found it two months later. Meanwhile, the commotion I was causing upstairs could be felt downstairs.
Grandma.
"What's going on up there? It sounds like the beer truck coming down the block."
I thought about explaining what happened. Nah, she would never understand. I had simply interrupted her concentration in the middle of her "stories." No one knew at the time that, elsewhere in the New York area, the Met game had become the focal point of another domestic situation. A woman had come into her living room while her husband was watching the ninth inning. She turned the channel so as not to miss an episode of the "Dark Shadows" soap opera.
The husband proceeded to kill his wife.
Heck, all I had done was scare the dog and annoy my grandmother.
I remember going "up the block" after dinner that night. I felt a little taller than I had the previous day. Unfortunately, most of the kids were ready to act as professional buzz killers.
"The Mets still suck. They will lose tomorrow."
Except....
See the picture that adorns this blog entry? There are a lot of zeroes next to the Cubs' name. Wednesday night's game vs. the hapless bunch from Chicago was even more glorious than the one on Tuesday afternoon.
This time around, I was still playing outside when the 8PM game started. As big a baseball fan as I was, nothing could deter me from a summer's evening. And the 845PM arrival of the Good Humor truck. The Mets were great, but they could wait. There was a Strawberry Shortcake on a stick with my name on it.
Nevertheless, I hadn't completely shunned my team. I was armed---or eared, really---with a transistor radio. And something special was already happening out on the shores of Flushing Meadow.
By the end of the second inning, the Mets were already winning 3-0. And 50,000 fans, perspiring in the humidity, were delirious. But, there was another story brewing as I listened to, inning after inning.
No Cub had reached base yet. And Tom Seaver was absolutely masterful on the mound. Hmmm. The Mets didn't no-hit another team. They were the ones who usually got no-hit themselves.
By the eighth inning of this perfect game, I needed to add some visuals to the audio. It was time to check this out on television. And, not on the junky portable black-and-white job in my room. Nope, I needed to savor this moment in good ole living color.
Except...
My mother was home. And usually commandeered the television set to watch the David Frost talk show.
Grrrrrr.......
I made the request for a temporary take-over of the living room television set. As usual, my mom was her accommodating self.
"Go watch in your room."
Er, do you have an idea what is happening at the Met game tonight?
At that time, my mother knew a baseball was round and that was it.
I proceeded to explain the importance of a perfect game, and, even more so, my need to share in the importance of this particular perfect game. I was allowed to change the channel from Channel 5 Metromedia to Channel 9 just in time for the top of the ninth inning. Tom Seaver was just three outs away from baseball heaven. And a feat that none of the kids "up the block" could even hope to ignore.
The first Cub was Randy Hundley and he tries to bunt for a hit. Unsuccessfully.
Two outs to go.
The next batter was a pinch hitter. Jimmy Qualls.
A single to left field.
It was over.
I cursed the screen. Not a wise move in front of a parent.
Shit.
My mother was lost.
"Is that bad?"
Despite the fact that the Mets had just hoisted themselves into the pennant race with two wins against the Cubs, I was demolished. All I heard the next day from the chums up the street was how Tom Seaver sucked.
Yeah, despite my recent validation as a baseball fan, I would still face an uphill battle.
Until that moment several months later. When the New York Mets became the World Champions of baseball.
Happy July 8th to everybody. And a happy birthday to my good friend, the Bibster. If I had known you then, we would have been watching these games together.
Dinner last night: Orange chicken with glazed carrots and Brussels sprouts.
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