Hey, it's April and the baseball season is starting. Let's find our idiot designee from the world of MLB. And, frankly, this guy comes off lucky being acknowledged simply as just a moron. Because he's one of the biggest shitheads around today. And he's the main reason why the New York Mets baseball organization will never amount to anything while this Jeff Wilpon jerk is in charge. Oh, sure, you can hear all the good stories from spring training. Matt Harvey, this. Matt Harvey, that. Frankly, it's Matt Harvey everything. The Mets who are really the Mutts are now the Matts. To the point where the ball club has jiggered their pitching staff to coincide with attendance expectations. Why throw Harvey on an Opening Day at home when there's an automatic sellout? Let's save him for the game of the opening series when we expect less bodies in the stands? This is the kind of inane bullshit that Jeff Wilpon does. From all accounts, the internal stories about him are rampant. He meddles. He weedles his way into all baseball-related decisions. He would not hire a general manager that wouldn't allow him to interfere. He's also allegedly childish, tyrannical, and unethical. Ladies and gentlemen, meet your New York Mets ownership. Jeff is the son of senior owner Fred Wilpon, who, along with Nelson Doubleday, got the team to rebound in the mid-80s. Fred's still around, but he mainly dribbles in his cup and stares blankly at the wall photos of him and high school buddy Sandy Koufax. Oh, and when he's not doing that, he's allowing his wallet to be picked by the likes of Bernie Madoff. Yep, lots of Wilpon dough helped to contribute to court-ordered jail time. As a result, Fred Wilpon wound up without a cup to dribble in and nary a nickel for a decent shortstop.
Of course, the franchise's death watch really began as soon as the Wilpon family took full control of the team. And Daddy installed his know-nothing lummox of a son Jeff as its leader. When it comes to baseball, I wouldn't let Jeff coordinate a Strat-o-Matic team, let alone a real one worth millions of dollars in the number one market of America. But, Jeff got the job and the task of leading the Mets into the 21st Century and its transition from Shea Stadium to Citi Field next door. Yeah, none of that has worked out.
But, early on, I knew the weasel we were getting with Jeff Wilpon. He and I crossed paths.
Back in the late 90s, I still had my Saturday ticket plan at Shea. From Los Angeles, I would still make it back for five or six games a year. But, with the team descent at the time, it was not hard to sell off the rest.
One season, when my package arrived, I noticed that it included a Saturday pre-season contest against the Baltimore Orioles. In late March when usually you could still find small mounds of blackened snow residing in the Shea parking lot. How the hell was I going to sell off these?
Even worse, I realized that I was charged full price for this game. Huh? Not even a discounted fee for this absolutely nothing game. It was one of those moments in my life where I thought a letter was in order. And I decided to address to the head guy.
I suggested that this was a poor practice to expect longtime plan holders to choke down at full price a game that was meaningless. I presented an alternative. Make any Shea pre-season games optional to plan holders and at a reduced price.
I got a response from Jeff. Oh, sure, you can tell me that perhaps some underling drafted the letter back, but the swarmy and condescending tone pretty much confirmed it was done by Jeff himself.
The jackass told me that there was plenty of interest in this game. After all, it was the first meeting of the Mets and the Orioles at Shea since they played the 1969 World Series! How could I not be intrigued by such a hot ticket?
This shithead's letter was so offensive to me that I couldn't let it go.
I thanked Mr. Wilpon for his response. I still wasn't that interested in this game and neither were any of my 50 or Met fan friends. As a result, my seats would be empty that Saturday. So, I invited Jeff to use them for himself. And, oh, if he did, he should remember to bring his warmest coat and gloves to combat the 30 MPH March winds.
I don't know if he did. But that's just the kind of prick Jeff Wilpon is.
Indeed, over the years since, if there was a wrong decision to be made about this franchise, Jeff Wilpon managed to make it. He allegedly told manager Terry Collins that, under no circumstance, would Matt Harvey not be available to start the All-Star Game at Citi Field. Collins admitted as much in a candid interview on Dodger Talk in Los Angeles. Who cares about the pitcher's health? Let's just maximize the focus on the team.
Guess who ended up having Tommy John surgery the next season?
The Met team and the stadium operation is nickel and dime all the way in a market that demands top notch structure at all levels. The place is run like it's a team in the NY Penn League---minor league all the way. There is nothing even remotely classy about the Mets organization. It's as hollow as the papier mache head on Mr. Met.
And it's all thanks to Jeff Wilpon, the one-man-baseball-franchise-wrecking-crew.
He and I ultimately had another skirmish. Well, indirectly.
The partial plan holders from Shea Stadium, some of us with tenure as long as several decades, got kicked from pillar to post with the move to Citi Field. It became almost impossible for us to get any satisfaction with seat locations, etc.. We were treated like gum on David Wright's shoe. Of course, there was never any consistency in the ticket office. Our personal ticket representative changed every year because people were leaving their jobs regularly. Another sign of a poorly run organization and a fish that stinks from its head.
In the winter which ultimately became the one where I did not renew my Mets partial plan for the first time in ages, I took one last swipe at getting satisfaction with seat location. Things were going from bad to worse with the new ticket rep assigned to us. I decided to find out who was the new head of season tickets. I found out it was a gal, one Leigh Castergine. I got her address and sent an e-mail. I reminded her that the fans being treated like dirt had supported the team for years. I actually got an immediate response. She said that she was sorry about her poor experience and would do everything in her power to make something happen. She would pass off our accounts to her best ticket representative. Leigh noted that she would handle this all personally but this was the very last day for prior to her maternity leave. Well, that was something. Of course, we tried hard with the assigned ticket rep but it didn't work. We could actually get better (and cheaper) seat locations on Stub Hub than through a partial plan. I dealt with the sorrow of this divorce. And, then a while later, I heard about a pending lawsuit in the press. A Leigh Castergine was suing the Mets and specifically Jeff Wilpon. I'll let the New York Post fill in the blanks.
The first woman senior vice president in the team’s 52-year history
claims in a federal lawsuit filed in Brooklyn Wednesday that Wilpon, the
struggling team’s chief operating officer, canned her from her post
heading ticket sales last month because he was “morally opposed” to her
being pregnant and unmarried. University of Pennsylvania grad Leigh Castergine, says in the suit,
that Wilpon “frequently humiliated [her] in front of others by, among
other things, pretending to see if she had an engagement ring on her
finger.” The suit claims Wilpon even stated “in a meeting of the team’s
all-male senior executives that he is ‘morally opposed’ to Castergine
‘having this baby without being married.’” “Wilpon told her that when she gets a ring she will make more money and get a bigger bonus,” the filing claims.
Well, none of that sounded surprising to me. I wondered if I could actually sit in on the court proceedings.
There was an out-of-court settlement ultimately, buried in the back pages of the local newspaper. I am sure Castergine made out well. Because, deep down, I knew all those allegations were likely true. It was just following the normal character traits of one Jeff Wilpon.
There are Met fans with hope in their hearts for this season. They are excited more than in many past seasons. But, I know that, at the end of the day and the baseball calendar, the Mets will screw it up. Because, somehow and in someway, Jeff Wilpon will be involved. Met fans deserve a lot better than this scumbag in an Armani suit.
The New York Mets have no real future while the Wilpons control the franchise. With this weasel in charge. The man who single-handedly broke the intimate relationship I've had with this team since I was ten years old. I'm no longer a Met fan because of Jeff Wilpon.
I'll be back. When this asshole is gone.
Dinner last night: Pepperoni pizza at the Dodger game.
Hungry? You will be after seeing this delicious documentary. You might want to eat before. Otherwise, your mouth will be watering for almost ninety minutes. You can almost smell the dill pickles wherever this gem is playing.
"Deli Man" is exactly what the title is. A close-up look at one delicatessen owner named Ziggy Gruber, who has a sit-down establishment in, of all places, Houston, Texas. Apparently, this is a sizable Jewish population there. Who knew? Ziggy, a native New Yorker, saw the business opportunity there and seized upon it.
But this film is much more than a slice of life and bologna in the world of Ziggy. The filmmakers use him as a jumping-off point for a look at the history of delicatessens in America. A lifespan that began in the early 20th Century and is unfortunately dying.
Delicatessens, both German and Jewish, sprang up way back when as a result of the influx of immigrants (legal, by the way) into America. Delis were a means of giving these folks a taste of their homeland. At one point in the 40s and 50s, there were thousands of such places in just New York City alone. In 2015, there's just a little more than 150 Jewish delis in the whole country. As the older folks die off, there is less focus on Old European foods. Plus, well, the dieticians of the world have done their own nasty work condemning the fatty fare.
Bastards.
My family frequented a few German delicatessens when I was a kid. There was Knoop's in Mount Vernon, New York. And a small one right underneath the elevated tracks around 238th Street and White Plains Road in the Bronx. I forget the name of the place, but they had the best damn German potato salad anywhere. I can still taste it.
I still crave German cold cuts and amazingly there are two such places in Los Angeles where I can buy them. I'm less of a fan of the Jewish sit-down delis but, when I am in the rare mood, I do enjoy them. I will never forget the night of 9/11/2001. My writing partner and I, numb from hours of depressing news coverage, were starved and Nate N' Al's in Beverly Hills was the only place open for business. Rodney Dangerfield, clad in his pajamas, was seated in the next booth.
For some reason, that Reuben sandwich hit the spot that night.
Still, "Deli Man," in its own way, reminds us that the Old European values this country was largely built on have virtually disappeared. The hard-working proprietors like Ziggy Gruber are doing their darndest to keep us fed with culinary memories. You see how hard their work is and how complicated their lives become. But they do it for the love of their culture and the homelands they hold so dear.
If you had no appreciation for them, you will after you see "Deli Man." Another wonderful world brought to us in this, the golden age of documentaries. Where real and simple stories are often the best.
These Sunday pieces are always a reflection of my life past. Sometimes, we go back decades. This time around, it's a much shorter trip.
How about two weekends ago?
I've been watching the Dr. Kildare TV series via DVD over the past year and I marvel at just how good this show was. And realistic. They didn't save the patient all the time. It made me more envious of the medical profession. If you find yourself with a good doctor, make sure you hold onto them. If you live your doctor, please try and keep your doctor, regardless of what your health plan says.
I'm blessed with a great internist who would fit very well alongside the likes of Dr. James Kildare and Dr. Leonard Gillespie. So much of what they do is detective work. Taking the clues at hand and solving somebody's health mystery.
And, thinking again of the blog title today, that mystery was...well...me.
Let's flip the calendar pages to early February. I even wrote about it here. Super Bowl Sunday. Two bouts of fifteen-minute-long chest and upper back pains followed by about five hours the next day of wild fever with temperatures all over the FM dial. Teeth chattering like when Stymie saw a ghost.
Given the season, my doctor wrote it off as the flu, even though I hadn't gotten the flu since New Year's Eve of freshman year in college. Okay, a five-day course of Tamiflu knocks its all out and I go about my crazy business.
A couple of weeks back, I head to New York for some work and even more play. Three Broadway shows, to boot. On the plane home (in coach, thank you very much), I know that I am feeling more dehydrated than usual. I chalk that up to the sandwich I brought on board---proscuitto and provolone from my favorite Yonkers Italian deli. I get home and ingest every container of liquid in the house, stopping before I swig the Tide detergent.
The next day, I proceed to my regular office for Thursdays. No issue.
On Friday, I work from home. My stereo guy comes and finally figures why my back speaker keeps cutting out. An errant nail. A good day so far. I head to the gym to see my trainer for the first time in a week. All stretching and massages. No weights.
As she and I are walking out of the facility, I could feel it come like the 6:02 express from Croton-Harmon. I get into my car and I am immediately consumed by upper back pain. Hello, Super Bowl Sunday all over again.
What the fudge?
Just like last month, it goes away in a quarter-hour. I'm pain-free the rest of the night.
On Saturday, I head to the super market for grocery shopping. By the time I get home, I am abdomen-deep in round two. The same exact pain as yesterday. The same exact pain as early February. In fifteen minutes, it's gone.
What the fudge again?
So, now like a trusted "I Love Lucy" rerun, I start waiting for the funny line that's going to come next. After this all transpired last month, the fever should come like clockwork. I decided not to wait. Knowing that my doctor's office is part of a cooperative in the same building, I am aware that there is always one physician on duty every weekend. I hit the digits.
The nurse on the other end dutifully heard everything I said and then asked the obvious question.
"Did the fever start yet?"
No. But it's expected here sooner than Easter. She tells me to play it by ear and assured that it would be wise for me to make an in-person the next day.
Of course, the fever was delayed a little bit. Its arrival came at 5PM. This time it's worse than the month before. I take my temperature so much that I feel like the Thanksgiving turkey. I hit degree heights that aren't even on the FM dial yet.
And my mind begins to wander to places all over the medical map. So is this the flu again? Or is it something else and I really didn't have the flu in February?
I crawled my way to the doctor on Sunday morning. My guy wasn't on duty and the one who was....well, he was a nice guy but certainly not the one I have trusted with my health for over a decade. He asked all the usual, annoying questions.
"Have you been out of the country lately?"
No.
"Have you been working in Africa recently?"
I don't have Ebola. No.
"Have there been any weird sexual partners?"
Seriously? No.
After he asked every question except the ones James Lipton asks at the end of every Actor's Studio interviews, he drew the requisite blood and promised to have the results that night. Oh, would I also provide a urine sample?
Sure.
And, as I did so, something happened that only occurred one other time in my life. That was after a kidney stone. And, just as I did then, I peed...well...what you see a lot of in a Vincent Price movie.
I walked out of the bathroom and told Dr. Sherlock Holmes I had just given him his first clue.
So, if you have to expend liquid that looks like the opening of Walt Disney's Wonderful World of Color, you might as well do it in a doctor's office. Had this happened at home, I would have freaked out. As it was, I already was spending way too much time typing my symptoms into Google. Rule of thumb? When you have something wrong with you, don't spend too much time typing your symptoms into Google. You'll discover that even a clogged sinus will take you straight to cancer.
But I will admit that my mind was already in race mode. And thinking about what the hell was going with my body that had a perfect blood test during my annual physical in December.
As promised, the substitute doctor called me that night with the blood test results. My bilirubins were spiked. That's part of the blood attached to your gall bladder and liver. Or so I learned that night. I was told to follow up with my regular internist on Monday. Meanwhile, I was happy to announce that the color of urine had moved to a dull orange. Yep, those are the bilirubins. Or so I learned that night.
Waiting for the next day and trying to sleep that Sunday night, I tried to put it all aside. Let the doctor do what he's got to do. But there was one action I could take.
I stopped taking my Celebrex. That's medication for arthritis and I had been on the stuff since my knee surgery three years ago. And I just had a feeling that, when all was said and pronounced, those side effects they rattle through during TV commercials would be part of my problem.
Luckily, I had a consult with my own physician on Monday morning. He wanted to systematically rule things out. And the only way to do that would be a series of tests personally designed to address my health and simultaneously help me hit my 2015 deductible of $ 5,000 in the course of one March week.
Ultrasound of gall bladder to see if I had stones? Negative.
CAT scan of abdomen complete with lots of nasty stuff to drink that hardly qualifies as a smoothie at Jamba Juice? Negative.
MRI of liver just to be sure? Coming soon, but nothing expected wrong with the liver. Or the bacon or the onions.
So, at the end of the week, I had essentially bought a new diagnostic machine for St. John's Tower Imaging. And I was no closer to finding out just what had made me so sick. Twice.
As my doctor told me, it's all about body chemistry. Mine had gotten out of whack. Of course, I decided once and for all that I wouldn't let that balance be upset again.
I decided to reboot myself. As far as my life was concerned, I was hitting control-alt-delete.
Lots and lots and lots more hydration.
Frequently ditching diet soda for fruit juices and lemonade.
Changing ever so slightly my healthy diet and making it even healthier. Although I would still eat sausage and peppers if pressed to do so.
Heck, that last dish is still a lot healthier than ingesting Celebrex. Those, by the way, have gone the way of my memory toilet.
Flush.
Dinner last night: French dip panini at the Arclight.
