Monday, January 31, 2005
Mark Your Calendars Now
I was going to hold off until the big day to post this, but some news just can't wait.
Wednesday, February 23rd is not only National Banana Bread Day, but also International Dog Biscuit Appreciation Day. Dog-owning banana-loving bakers of the world, rejoice! I've yet to meet a dog of any nationality who does not appreciate dog biscuits, no matter what day of the year it is. So that you and your appreciative pooch can celebrate properly, I offer the following recipes from my own collection. If my divergence into domesticity dismays you, fear not, I expect that tomorrow I'll be back to yakking about baseball. But variety is the spice of life.
These recipes are in US/Imperial units; non-Yanks will have to convert to metric. You've got three weeks to shop for ingredients, then fire up the oven on the 23rd and start breaking eggs. The dog will help.
LEEENY'S BANANA BREAD
Adapted from my mom's 1953 Betty Crocker Picture Cookbook.
LEEENY'S BALD EAGLE BEAGLE DOG BISCUITS
"Two Paws Up!" ... Barney, Pearl, Blanche, Boomer, and Buster.
Wednesday, February 23rd is not only National Banana Bread Day, but also International Dog Biscuit Appreciation Day. Dog-owning banana-loving bakers of the world, rejoice! I've yet to meet a dog of any nationality who does not appreciate dog biscuits, no matter what day of the year it is. So that you and your appreciative pooch can celebrate properly, I offer the following recipes from my own collection. If my divergence into domesticity dismays you, fear not, I expect that tomorrow I'll be back to yakking about baseball. But variety is the spice of life.
These recipes are in US/Imperial units; non-Yanks will have to convert to metric. You've got three weeks to shop for ingredients, then fire up the oven on the 23rd and start breaking eggs. The dog will help.
LEEENY'S BANANA BREAD
Adapted from my mom's 1953 Betty Crocker Picture Cookbook.
• ⅔ cup sugar
• ⅓ cup shortening
• 2 eggs
• 3 Tbsp sour milk or buttermilk (add some lemon juice to milk to get it to curdle, this works fine)
• 1 cup (usually 3) mashed-up overripe bananas (you can save old peeled bananas in a Ziploc bag in the freezer, then just thaw them as you need them)
• 2 cups all-purpose flour (I prefer King Arthur, but whatever you have is fine)
• 1 tsp baking powder (make sure it's not more than six months old, this stuff goes dead over time)
• ½ tsp baking soda (ditto)
• ½ tsp salt
• ½ to ¾ cup chopped nuts - pecans or walnuts
Preheat oven to 350ºF. Mix sugar, shortening, and eggs together thoroughly in a medium-sized bowl. Stir in milk and mashed bananas. Sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt, then stir into the wet ingredients. Stir in the nuts. Pour batter into well-greased 9"x5"x3" loaf pan. Let pan sit on the counter for 20 minutes before baking (makes a big difference, don't skip this). Bake for 50 to 60 minutes, until it tests done with a toothpick or skinny skewer poked down through the middle and pulled out with no wet batter clinging to it. The top will crack as it rises in the oven, this is good. If you're not sure if it's done or not, leave it in for 5 more minutes - underbaked is far worse than overbaked, as long as it's not carbonized. Most people do not leave baked goods in the oven nearly long enough - flavor develops with browning! Remove from the oven, let cool in pan for 5 minutes, then turn out onto wire rack to finish cooling. Serve slices at room temp or cold. Excellent with a little butter or cream cheese, or just plain.
LEEENY'S BALD EAGLE BEAGLE DOG BISCUITS
"Two Paws Up!" ... Barney, Pearl, Blanche, Boomer, and Buster.
• EITHER: ½ tsp salt dissolved in ¾ cup hot meat stock, OR 2 chicken or beef bouillon cubes dissolved in ¾ cup hot water
• ½ cup fat (Dogs LOVE bacon grease, but butter or margarine or even lard is okay. Shortening works, but it has no flavor. Buy a pound of bacon, fry it up, save the grease, and make yourself a BLT while Fido enjoys his bacony biscuits. Cooked bacon freezes fine, and you can zap it in the toaster-oven or microwave, for breakfast or more BLTs.)
• ½ to 1 cup wheat germ, raw or toasted
• ½ cup powdered nonfat dry milk
• 2 tsp sugar
• 1 egg, beaten
• 2 to 2½ cups whole wheat flour (King Arthur if you can get it)
• 1 cup yellow or white corn meal
Optional additions, any or all:
• 2 Tbsp chopped parsley, fresh or dried
• 1 tsp garlic powder (helps repel fleas)
• ½ cup finely grated cheese (old is fine, especially the hard rinds from parmesan)
Note: This makes an extremely stiff dough, so a stand mixer like a KitchenAid is recommended. You'll kill your elbow trying to do this by hand, and a little handheld mixer might burn up.
Preheat oven to 325ºF. In mixer bowl, pour ½ cup of the hot liquid over fat, to melt it. Take the remaining ¼ cup of hot liquid, and slowly add it to the beaten egg, stirring briskly, to "temper" the egg so that it doesn't scramble. Then add the egg to the liquid/fat in the bowl. Stir in powdered milk and sugar, mix well. Add dry ingredients gradually, on slow speed using the dough hook. Knead with the dough hook for 4-5 minutes, until dough is uniform, adding more flour if needed. Roll out ½" thick. Cut with a dog-bone cookie cutter, or into rectangles with a knife (big or small depending on the size of your dog), or into 1" squares for training treats. Scraps can be gathered and re-rolled, although they don't stick together real well once the dough cools down, so you can just hand-form them into little balls or squares. Place biscuits on ungreased baking sheets, with or without parchment paper underneath. Bake about 60 minutes, until thoroughly dry and hard. You can use convection to speed the baking up, if your oven has it. Watch them to make sure they don't get dark. Cool completely on racks before storing in a closed container. These keep indefinitely, although ours never last long.
Sunday, January 30, 2005
Sitting Down For Your Beliefs
I bookmarked this article the other day off of the New York Times website (free registration required), saving it in reserve because McClatchy's (or as it turned out, my) rant needed to be dealt with first.
The Times article concerns the recent signing of Carlos Delgado by the Florida Marlins for $52 million over four years, "nearly as much money as they want from the Florida Legislature to complete financing for a stadium with a retractable roof near downtown". This is one of the free-agent contracts that Kvetchin' Kevin was complaining about; Marlins owner Jeffrey Loria is apparently one of the funny-water topers.
But that's not why I bookmarked the article. This is:
Carlos may be getting way more money than he deserves, but serious kudos to him for having well-considered opinions about the war and the place of jingoism at baseball games, and more importantly for being willing to express his beliefs in a public but 'unpopular' way. He's taken a lot of heat for this in other cities, and perhaps will in Miami also. I am not under the spotlight that he is, but my own solution has been to visit the restroom while any Public Singing is going on. (Do not get me started on national-anthem singers at minor-league baseball games. Oh, the humanity.) I may just not attend any more Sunday ballgames until this whole Kate Smith fetish has run its course.
And kudos to the Marlins too, who despite their dubious fiscal acumen, are willing to affirm for the record that Delgado has just as much right to express his views as any other citizen. One wishes that their enlightenment would extend a little farther, to the realization that baseball games should be politics-free and country-free and religion-free in their presentation, but at least they're not forcing Delgado to be a hypocrite. Good for them.
The Times article concerns the recent signing of Carlos Delgado by the Florida Marlins for $52 million over four years, "nearly as much money as they want from the Florida Legislature to complete financing for a stadium with a retractable roof near downtown". This is one of the free-agent contracts that Kvetchin' Kevin was complaining about; Marlins owner Jeffrey Loria is apparently one of the funny-water topers.
But that's not why I bookmarked the article. This is:
Then [Delgado] was asked about the war in Iraq. Delgado reaffirmed he's a Puerto Rican and U.S. citizen willing to stand up for his beliefs -- or, in his case, not stand up.
An opponent of the war, Delgado refused to stand when "God Bless America" was played last season at games involving his Toronto Blue Jays. Instead, he would stay on the bench or go into the dugout tunnel.
He said he'll continue his protest this season with the Marlins.
"I wouldn't call it politics, because I hate politics," he said. "The reason I didn't stand for 'God Bless America' was because I didn't like the way they tied 'God Bless America' and 9/11 to the war in Iraq in baseball.
"I say God bless America, God bless Miami, God bless Puerto Rico and all countries until there is peace in the world."
Marlins officials made no objection to his war protest.
"The Marlins don't support it, and we don't not support it," [team president David] Samson said. "He's an adult. The club's position is that what he does is up to him."
Carlos may be getting way more money than he deserves, but serious kudos to him for having well-considered opinions about the war and the place of jingoism at baseball games, and more importantly for being willing to express his beliefs in a public but 'unpopular' way. He's taken a lot of heat for this in other cities, and perhaps will in Miami also. I am not under the spotlight that he is, but my own solution has been to visit the restroom while any Public Singing is going on. (Do not get me started on national-anthem singers at minor-league baseball games. Oh, the humanity.) I may just not attend any more Sunday ballgames until this whole Kate Smith fetish has run its course.
And kudos to the Marlins too, who despite their dubious fiscal acumen, are willing to affirm for the record that Delgado has just as much right to express his views as any other citizen. One wishes that their enlightenment would extend a little farther, to the realization that baseball games should be politics-free and country-free and religion-free in their presentation, but at least they're not forcing Delgado to be a hypocrite. Good for them.
Saturday, January 29, 2005
Kevin's Hissy Fit, Plus One Of My Own
This is the sort of thing that bloggers like Rowdy are so much better at than I am - taking news articles describing a current event concerning the Pirates or Steelers or whatever, and distilling the topic to its essence by astute commentary and questions. There's just not much I feel I can add to this sort of discussion, at least not in blog form. For pure IMHO venting, I prefer the smaller audience of a mailing list, even though (ironically) I expect that a greater number of people actually see my comments on the Pirates listserv than do here on Leeeny's Mien. But at least it feels more private on the list, and those guys know me a little better.
Not, however, that the big-market/small-market issue is the type of topic I'd be jumping at, even on the listserv. It's just too friggin' depressing for me to think about the whole State Of Baseball In General, which is where this new Funny Water Rant of McClatchy's takes me. Hell, my cynicism is still fully intact from the 1994 strike. As long as already-rich owners fight with wannabe-rich players over top-secret-but-gotta-be-large, how-stupid-do-you-think-I-am profits from a government-sheltered enterprise more accurately described as a religion than a business*, then the un-represented, un-rich fans are going to get the short end of the bat every damn time. This state of affairs is not going to change this side of thermonuclear war, and the rest is just details. Eventually the whole assembly of greedheads will finish the job of flushing themselves down the commode, and my baseball-loving heart will be taken right down with them, powerless to avoid its fate. I curse them all in advance for doing this to me. May they return in their next lives as penniless, scrofulous refugees in a country where the only game around is soccer. That'll teach 'em.
So you should have deduced by now that I am somewhere to the left of Lenin where baseball is concerned. These plutocrats - owners, union, agents, players - are trying to grab the gold from the the goose they're in the process of eviscerating. Yes, I am generalizing in my indictment. I know there are some owners who are fans too, and some players who would play for nothing. But not many. Not enough. Few deserve the honor of being associated with the game, which rightly belongs to the public trust, like the Statue of Liberty. Instead, we've got Standard Oil during the Gilded Age. Don't forget that George W. Bush was once a baseball owner, and not even a competent one. If that doesn't prove my point, I don't know what does.
Anyhow, to put an end to my own hissy fit: I am punting for now on evaluating the wider implications of our managing partner's Mouse That Roared act, as described here and here and here and here and here and even here (at the bottom). If Kevin McClatchy has actually fired the first shot on behalf of the "poor" owners, into the fort holding the "friggin' rich" owners, then it will be extremely interesting to see what comes of it, and I expect I'll have more to say later on. Maybe Kevin's name will end up in the history books alongside Edmund Ruffin's. Then again, look what happened to those guys.
Not, however, that the big-market/small-market issue is the type of topic I'd be jumping at, even on the listserv. It's just too friggin' depressing for me to think about the whole State Of Baseball In General, which is where this new Funny Water Rant of McClatchy's takes me. Hell, my cynicism is still fully intact from the 1994 strike. As long as already-rich owners fight with wannabe-rich players over top-secret-but-gotta-be-large, how-stupid-do-you-think-I-am profits from a government-sheltered enterprise more accurately described as a religion than a business*, then the un-represented, un-rich fans are going to get the short end of the bat every damn time. This state of affairs is not going to change this side of thermonuclear war, and the rest is just details. Eventually the whole assembly of greedheads will finish the job of flushing themselves down the commode, and my baseball-loving heart will be taken right down with them, powerless to avoid its fate. I curse them all in advance for doing this to me. May they return in their next lives as penniless, scrofulous refugees in a country where the only game around is soccer. That'll teach 'em.
*McClatchy called baseball 'the industry' in his rant - like coal mining, or the manufacture of stainless steel widgets. What this reveals about how he perceives his own possession is enough to send me right into the arms of Messrs. Daniel and Schweppe. Shame on him for feeling that way, and more shame for saying it out loud.
So you should have deduced by now that I am somewhere to the left of Lenin where baseball is concerned. These plutocrats - owners, union, agents, players - are trying to grab the gold from the the goose they're in the process of eviscerating. Yes, I am generalizing in my indictment. I know there are some owners who are fans too, and some players who would play for nothing. But not many. Not enough. Few deserve the honor of being associated with the game, which rightly belongs to the public trust, like the Statue of Liberty. Instead, we've got Standard Oil during the Gilded Age. Don't forget that George W. Bush was once a baseball owner, and not even a competent one. If that doesn't prove my point, I don't know what does.
Anyhow, to put an end to my own hissy fit: I am punting for now on evaluating the wider implications of our managing partner's Mouse That Roared act, as described here and here and here and here and here and even here (at the bottom). If Kevin McClatchy has actually fired the first shot on behalf of the "poor" owners, into the fort holding the "friggin' rich" owners, then it will be extremely interesting to see what comes of it, and I expect I'll have more to say later on. Maybe Kevin's name will end up in the history books alongside Edmund Ruffin's. Then again, look what happened to those guys.
Friday, January 28, 2005
Pirate Caravan In Altoona, or International Relations
Happy to report that the weather cooperated last night. Single digit temps, but no precipitation.
After arriving at BCB shortly before 5pm, DogBoy and I were escorted down into the bowels of the park. This was our first trip below decks, unless you count all the times we clambered around on the girders and footers as the place was being constructed back in 1998. [I need to post those photos one of these days - we went nearly every weekend that summer, documenting a good bit of the early construction, until they enclosed the site with a locked fence.]
The shindig was held in the Curve's clubhouse. Jason Dambach, certified Nice Guy and team media guru had put out some chairs, and there was a refreshment table with snacks and beverages. Even canned adult beverages, I was surprised to note. A table and podium were set up for the Pirate attendees, who had not yet arrived when we got there. One TV camera from Channel 10, the ubiquitous Cory Giger from the Mirror, and lots of voice recorders at the ready. There were maybe 40 people all told.
Then the Pirate contingent appeared: several PR-department handlers, plus 'Hi Friends' Lanny Frattare, Spin Williams, and Jack and Mack and Ollie. And the big green bird.
It was obvious that they'd been living out of a bus and motel rooms all week. Judges would not have awarded many style points, except to Lanny, who looked like he'd just stepped off of Spaceship Armani. Jack had on the scruffiest pair of jeans I've seen on anyone over the age of 16. Rob wore a loose blue shirt, un-tucked, and jeans. Ollie had a tan suede bomber-type jacket, and leather shoes, jeans also. But no criticism on downscale attire from Leeeny; she's all for comfort when traveling. Their schedule this week has been brutal: Erie, Punxsutawney, Franklin, Johnstown, Indiana, Greensburg, and then Altoona, which is a very erratic route around the western half of PA, so no doubt by Thursday they were running as low on laundry as they were on energy.
And in fact I find the idea of them showing up in everyday slobwear to be an encouraging thing. Contrast with the blinged-out costumes you see on too many got-it-flaunt-it athletes these days. Nary a diamond ear-stud on our three fellows. It says something about them that makes it even easier for me to like them. A sense of normalcy, at least as I define it.
While the PR folks got out boxes with schedules and photos for autographing, Spin yakked it up with Parney and Steve Greenberg (principal Curve owner), and the Parrot did his Parrot thing, sitting on laps and goofing with the few children in attendance. Our athletes found seats by sitting inside the lockers, each of which had one Curve uniform shirt hanging in it as a decoration. Mack had a Wendy's soda cup in his hand, and commented that he was going to have to fast for a week after this trip. Jack went off with someone from the Curve's office doing I don't know what, but as both Jack and Mack played in Altoona for a time, one assumes they have people they know here. Ollie came across as a quiet type. Hunkered back in the locker, not anxious to be a spectacle, the Curve uniform almost hanging in his face.
But I had a mission to accomplish, so once I saw someone else approach him for his autograph on a ball, I went over and sat down in the adjacent locker to strike up a small conversation. Nothing much beyond the small talk that I'm sure he's tired of by now, but I did learn that he prefers 'Ollie' as a nickname. My autograph request was on behalf of my listserv pal Andrey from Moscow (surely the most avid Pirates fan in all of the former Soviet Union), so I made sure Ollie got the spelling right.
Then Dapper Lan bestowed a few platitudes upon the assembly, the guys sat down at the table to do their autograph thing for real, and I got Jack's and Mack's signatures, also for Andrey. I said to Rob, "Thanks for signing," which drew a nice smile. He knew I meant his contract, not his photograph.
The best part of the whole deal was being able to get the autographs for Andrey without having to endure the throngs at the mall, where the group was to head immediately after leaving BCB. I'm not normally Connected enough to have opportunities to bypass the general public on things like this, so when I do get the chance, I take advantage of it. We were in and out of there in half an hour, then did some shopping and had dinner. A fine evening.
And so, Andrey, here's a peek at what's in the envelope which has just begun its long journey to your mailbox:
....1/30 1100am addendum ....
The following email from Andrey (after he saw the JPGs immediately above) made me feel better than I've felt in a really long time:
After arriving at BCB shortly before 5pm, DogBoy and I were escorted down into the bowels of the park. This was our first trip below decks, unless you count all the times we clambered around on the girders and footers as the place was being constructed back in 1998. [I need to post those photos one of these days - we went nearly every weekend that summer, documenting a good bit of the early construction, until they enclosed the site with a locked fence.]
The shindig was held in the Curve's clubhouse. Jason Dambach, certified Nice Guy and team media guru had put out some chairs, and there was a refreshment table with snacks and beverages. Even canned adult beverages, I was surprised to note. A table and podium were set up for the Pirate attendees, who had not yet arrived when we got there. One TV camera from Channel 10, the ubiquitous Cory Giger from the Mirror, and lots of voice recorders at the ready. There were maybe 40 people all told.
Then the Pirate contingent appeared: several PR-department handlers, plus 'Hi Friends' Lanny Frattare, Spin Williams, and Jack and Mack and Ollie. And the big green bird.
It was obvious that they'd been living out of a bus and motel rooms all week. Judges would not have awarded many style points, except to Lanny, who looked like he'd just stepped off of Spaceship Armani. Jack had on the scruffiest pair of jeans I've seen on anyone over the age of 16. Rob wore a loose blue shirt, un-tucked, and jeans. Ollie had a tan suede bomber-type jacket, and leather shoes, jeans also. But no criticism on downscale attire from Leeeny; she's all for comfort when traveling. Their schedule this week has been brutal: Erie, Punxsutawney, Franklin, Johnstown, Indiana, Greensburg, and then Altoona, which is a very erratic route around the western half of PA, so no doubt by Thursday they were running as low on laundry as they were on energy.
And in fact I find the idea of them showing up in everyday slobwear to be an encouraging thing. Contrast with the blinged-out costumes you see on too many got-it-flaunt-it athletes these days. Nary a diamond ear-stud on our three fellows. It says something about them that makes it even easier for me to like them. A sense of normalcy, at least as I define it.
While the PR folks got out boxes with schedules and photos for autographing, Spin yakked it up with Parney and Steve Greenberg (principal Curve owner), and the Parrot did his Parrot thing, sitting on laps and goofing with the few children in attendance. Our athletes found seats by sitting inside the lockers, each of which had one Curve uniform shirt hanging in it as a decoration. Mack had a Wendy's soda cup in his hand, and commented that he was going to have to fast for a week after this trip. Jack went off with someone from the Curve's office doing I don't know what, but as both Jack and Mack played in Altoona for a time, one assumes they have people they know here. Ollie came across as a quiet type. Hunkered back in the locker, not anxious to be a spectacle, the Curve uniform almost hanging in his face.
But I had a mission to accomplish, so once I saw someone else approach him for his autograph on a ball, I went over and sat down in the adjacent locker to strike up a small conversation. Nothing much beyond the small talk that I'm sure he's tired of by now, but I did learn that he prefers 'Ollie' as a nickname. My autograph request was on behalf of my listserv pal Andrey from Moscow (surely the most avid Pirates fan in all of the former Soviet Union), so I made sure Ollie got the spelling right.
Then Dapper Lan bestowed a few platitudes upon the assembly, the guys sat down at the table to do their autograph thing for real, and I got Jack's and Mack's signatures, also for Andrey. I said to Rob, "Thanks for signing," which drew a nice smile. He knew I meant his contract, not his photograph.
The best part of the whole deal was being able to get the autographs for Andrey without having to endure the throngs at the mall, where the group was to head immediately after leaving BCB. I'm not normally Connected enough to have opportunities to bypass the general public on things like this, so when I do get the chance, I take advantage of it. We were in and out of there in half an hour, then did some shopping and had dinner. A fine evening.
And so, Andrey, here's a peek at what's in the envelope which has just begun its long journey to your mailbox:
....1/30 1100am addendum ....
The following email from Andrey (after he saw the JPGs immediately above) made me feel better than I've felt in a really long time:
Thats GREAT!!!! Could you even imagined what I felt when I saw that pics. I havent read the text yet, but saw pics first. I thought that I see something wrong, but then I looked at all and saw my name there!!! Then I've read the text and realized that its not joke or fluke!!!! WOW!!!!! Major leaguers signed their cards for ME!!!!!! AWESOME!!!! Thank you very much!!! Its a great, great gift for me!!! Thank you.Damn I love baseball, and the Internet too.
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
Tweak And Sneak
So who noticed that I dinked around with my CSS template? Nothing major, just a little tightening-up.
I try not to indulge in too much link-posting when I don't have anything to add to the topic. You don't need me to tell you about John VanBenschoten's torn labrum, or Mack-o-wack's settling without arbitration, or how many days left till pitchers & catchers report to Bradenton (21, plus a few hours). You may not always get daily posts here at Leeeny's Mien, but I do hope that I compensate for my infrequency with originality. Or as Mike said of Pat in 'Pat and Mike', Not much meat on her, but what's there is cherce.
So. Nothing new for today, but Thursday evening I hope to be schmoozing it up with Mack and Jack and Ollie for an hour or so, and if all goes well my next post will let you know how it went. Should you recall my Blizzard Adventure of a year ago (to the very day, recounted here), this is the same deal: a private reception at BCB ahead of a public autograph session at the Logan Valley Mall. Different attendees this year, and (knock on wood) different weather.
I try not to indulge in too much link-posting when I don't have anything to add to the topic. You don't need me to tell you about John VanBenschoten's torn labrum, or Mack-o-wack's settling without arbitration, or how many days left till pitchers & catchers report to Bradenton (21, plus a few hours). You may not always get daily posts here at Leeeny's Mien, but I do hope that I compensate for my infrequency with originality. Or as Mike said of Pat in 'Pat and Mike', Not much meat on her, but what's there is cherce.
So. Nothing new for today, but Thursday evening I hope to be schmoozing it up with Mack and Jack and Ollie for an hour or so, and if all goes well my next post will let you know how it went. Should you recall my Blizzard Adventure of a year ago (to the very day, recounted here), this is the same deal: a private reception at BCB ahead of a public autograph session at the Logan Valley Mall. Different attendees this year, and (knock on wood) different weather.
Sunday, January 23, 2005
Aw, Shucks
Saturday, January 22, 2005
Cold Night, Hot Stove
As comrades in need of a January baseball fix, some 500 or so Altoona Curve fans consumed antipasto and vulcanized chicken in each other's company last evening. Leeeny and DogBoy were there. The annual event features an auction of sports memorabilia to raise money for the American Cancer Society, but they bring in some baseball folks for a little speechifyin', so it seemed like a nice way to spend a frigid Friday night (14ºF as we drove down). Beats trying to ignore DogBoy's Gunsmoke reruns on the Westerns Channel all evening. It's entertaining to peruse the tables of signed jerseys and photos and caps and balls that the team gets people to donate, but I am not a collector. I see expensive, display-shelf-requiring items like this and think to myself, all that money and it just has to be dusted?
The special-guest list for this year's banquet consisted of:
• Dave Littlefield, Pirates GM
• Jim Leyland, former Pirates manager
• Dale Sveum, former Curve manager and current 3B coach of the Series-winning BoSox
• Adam Hyzdu, mostest famousest ex-Curve player ever, he of the retired #16, The Mayor Of Altoona
• Tony Beasley, current Curve manager
• John "The Rock" Wehner, former Pirate player and current Curve hitting coach
• Neil Walker, 2004 first-round draft pick by the Pirates, and a Burgh native
• Nate McLouth, former Curve outfielder, on the Bucs' 40-man roster, will probably start at AAA in '05
• Jeff Andrews, current Curve pitching coach
They didn't do much speechifyin', so I have no pearls of Pirate wisdom from Dave Littlefield to report. Maybe next week, when he's up here again for the Pirate Caravan. They just yakked informally on stage a bit, with the Curve's radio announcer as the emcee. The inadequate sound system made it hard to hear anything anyway, so a few random observations will have to suffice.
• The only autograph line of any serious length was Hyzdu's. Not a surprise. He was front-and-center in a big article and photo in Friday'sRearview Altoona Mirror, too. Somebody should study The Hyzdu Effect in a sociology course or something. There's got to be a Ph.D. in there somewhere.
• Neil Walker is a CHILD. They are letting LITTLE CHILDREN play professional baseball.
• In addition to the tables of silent-auction stuff, they interspersed a few live auctions in between the dinner courses. The biggest item of the evening in terms of dollars was a signed Ben Roethlisberger football, which went for $1575. One thousand, five hundred, seventy-five. It's like a 16-day option on pigskin futures: depending on what happens tomorrow night and Feb. 6th, that ball's value is either going to skyrocket, or hit the turf like an incomplete pass. (The former, surely.) If the ball doubles in value, does the buyer have to claim capital gains on his charitable deduction?
• The most interesting silent-auction item to me was a Steeleresque football jersey that had four numbers sewn on it (smaller than normal numbers), each one signed. The numbers were 63, 68, 75, and 78. Ring any bells? I'll put the answer in the comments.
• As I'm sure I don't need to tell any Red Sox fans, Dale Sveum took a bit of heat in Bahstun this year. It seems that some of the Sons of Sam Horn disagreed with Dale's approach to sending runners. So Parney (Todd Parnell, Curve GM) presented him with a special award - a stop sign. Rust on the back and everything, it looked like it had just been yanked off the pole at the end of the parking lot. Yuks all around, then they auctioned it right off. $450 was the winning bid, and the winner got his picture taken with Dale signing it and then handing it to him. I expect to see it on eBay soon, with a high reserve and a lot of bids from Massachusetts.
• Each table was decorated with a centerpiece consisting of a glass chimney holding five pristine Eastern League baseballs, topped off with a plastic lid that held a lit candle. As soon as the dessert dishes were cleared, people at more than a few of the tables decided that the balls were party favors, and started blowing out the candles to take the lids off and get the balls out. You should have seen the usher-guys go ballistic, running hither and thither to reprimand the offenders. "Those baseballs are not to be taken out of the jars! You'll have to put those back immediately!" These are the same green-vested geezers who police the aisles at Blair County Ballpark like proctors at a final exam, and who tonight earned the sobriquet Baseball Nazis from everyone at my table.
I will not divulge whether or not I came home with a baseball. You guess.
The special-guest list for this year's banquet consisted of:
• Dave Littlefield, Pirates GM
• Jim Leyland, former Pirates manager
• Dale Sveum, former Curve manager and current 3B coach of the Series-winning BoSox
• Adam Hyzdu, mostest famousest ex-Curve player ever, he of the retired #16, The Mayor Of Altoona
• Tony Beasley, current Curve manager
• John "The Rock" Wehner, former Pirate player and current Curve hitting coach
• Neil Walker, 2004 first-round draft pick by the Pirates, and a Burgh native
• Nate McLouth, former Curve outfielder, on the Bucs' 40-man roster, will probably start at AAA in '05
• Jeff Andrews, current Curve pitching coach
They didn't do much speechifyin', so I have no pearls of Pirate wisdom from Dave Littlefield to report. Maybe next week, when he's up here again for the Pirate Caravan. They just yakked informally on stage a bit, with the Curve's radio announcer as the emcee. The inadequate sound system made it hard to hear anything anyway, so a few random observations will have to suffice.
• The only autograph line of any serious length was Hyzdu's. Not a surprise. He was front-and-center in a big article and photo in Friday's
• Neil Walker is a CHILD. They are letting LITTLE CHILDREN play professional baseball.
• In addition to the tables of silent-auction stuff, they interspersed a few live auctions in between the dinner courses. The biggest item of the evening in terms of dollars was a signed Ben Roethlisberger football, which went for $1575. One thousand, five hundred, seventy-five. It's like a 16-day option on pigskin futures: depending on what happens tomorrow night and Feb. 6th, that ball's value is either going to skyrocket, or hit the turf like an incomplete pass. (The former, surely.) If the ball doubles in value, does the buyer have to claim capital gains on his charitable deduction?
• The most interesting silent-auction item to me was a Steeleresque football jersey that had four numbers sewn on it (smaller than normal numbers), each one signed. The numbers were 63, 68, 75, and 78. Ring any bells? I'll put the answer in the comments.
• As I'm sure I don't need to tell any Red Sox fans, Dale Sveum took a bit of heat in Bahstun this year. It seems that some of the Sons of Sam Horn disagreed with Dale's approach to sending runners. So Parney (Todd Parnell, Curve GM) presented him with a special award - a stop sign. Rust on the back and everything, it looked like it had just been yanked off the pole at the end of the parking lot. Yuks all around, then they auctioned it right off. $450 was the winning bid, and the winner got his picture taken with Dale signing it and then handing it to him. I expect to see it on eBay soon, with a high reserve and a lot of bids from Massachusetts.
• Each table was decorated with a centerpiece consisting of a glass chimney holding five pristine Eastern League baseballs, topped off with a plastic lid that held a lit candle. As soon as the dessert dishes were cleared, people at more than a few of the tables decided that the balls were party favors, and started blowing out the candles to take the lids off and get the balls out. You should have seen the usher-guys go ballistic, running hither and thither to reprimand the offenders. "Those baseballs are not to be taken out of the jars! You'll have to put those back immediately!" These are the same green-vested geezers who police the aisles at Blair County Ballpark like proctors at a final exam, and who tonight earned the sobriquet Baseball Nazis from everyone at my table.
I will not divulge whether or not I came home with a baseball. You guess.
Stiller Fans Are Great, But This Guy Is Scary
Bigger picture here, article here, in the Post-Gazette. Would you want to run into this nutjob after he's had a few too many Ahrns?
Thursday, January 20, 2005
Okel Dokel
The other day I was trying to describe, in email, ahr own Mahrn Cope's voice, to someone who had heard of him but never heard him. I failed utterly in trying to commit Myronness to text. And so I felt it beholden upon me to don my
Happy Fingers Beanie and do a little Googling, to see how others more talented than I am have approached this job. Here's what I found:
Jordi Mata-Fink, Stanford Daily Online, 11/9/04:
Happy Fingers Beanie and do a little Googling, to see how others more talented than I am have approached this job. Here's what I found:
Jordi Mata-Fink, Stanford Daily Online, 11/9/04:
Listening to Myron is not like being gently rocked to sleep by the soothing lilt of Jon Miller. Imagine, instead, that Alvin and the Chipmunks have emphysema from smoking too much, and that they’re singing with guest star Bob Dylan, and that all of them have been shrunken down and placed into a tin can, and that you put the can next to your ear and it starts saying things like “Hmm-hah! Roethler-Brangen is tearing apart the Iggles! What a dee-bacle! Double Yoi!”
and
Richard Sandomir, New York Times, 1/15/05 (free registration required):
Any discussion of Cope starts with the voice, a yawping, squawking instrument that can clear arenas but has bonded him to fans who have mostly adored him since he began in radio in 1968. His thick Pittsburgh accent long ago merged with a raspy tone that sounds as if his larynx had been dragged through chopped-up blocks of cement. One former Dallas Cowboy, Billy Davis, described it years ago as anal. "He meant nasal," Cope said. "But it sounds better as anal." [The entire article is both excellent and touching.]
There was an AP wire story dated 12/23/04 by Alan Robinson plastered all over the Net (here's just one of many equivalent links), but it didn't contain any useful descriptions of the aural experience that is Mister Cope.
And then boys and girls, the well ran dry. Multiple search engines returned the same few legitimate links over and over, then degenerated into sad catalogs of forum posts engaged in pathetic debates over the best/worst announcers in sports. Most of the time the same names were given on both sides of the argument, though not by the same arguers.
Also, there are a lot of physicians named Myron.
The conclusion I draw from this exercise is that Myron's voice really IS indescribable. Professional journalists cower (no h) from the task, except for a made guy from the Paper Of Record and a homesick undergrad stuck on the wrong side of the continent. My failure doesn't feel so bad now.
But I'm resolving to be more diligent about taping radio games to cassette or MP3s from now on, because (a) it's clear you really do have to hear the man to grok him, (b) he's had a tough time of things lately, medically, and (c) he's gonna be 75 years old on the same day we play the Patsies fer cryin' aht lahd, and although he's been arahnd ferever, he ain't gonna be arahnd ferever ferever. Double Yoi and Hmm-Hah.
Take care of yourself, Mahrn. Everyone who matters loves you.
....1/21 1007am addendum ....
Matt C. posted a link in the comments that would have solved my problem immediately, had it only come up in my searches. Go hear for yourself, but be warned you'll eat half your workday listening to these gems, and make sure you have tolerant cube-farm mates because you'll be guffawing like a tickled idiot.
and
Richard Sandomir, New York Times, 1/15/05 (free registration required):
Any discussion of Cope starts with the voice, a yawping, squawking instrument that can clear arenas but has bonded him to fans who have mostly adored him since he began in radio in 1968. His thick Pittsburgh accent long ago merged with a raspy tone that sounds as if his larynx had been dragged through chopped-up blocks of cement. One former Dallas Cowboy, Billy Davis, described it years ago as anal. "He meant nasal," Cope said. "But it sounds better as anal." [The entire article is both excellent and touching.]
There was an AP wire story dated 12/23/04 by Alan Robinson plastered all over the Net (here's just one of many equivalent links), but it didn't contain any useful descriptions of the aural experience that is Mister Cope.
And then boys and girls, the well ran dry. Multiple search engines returned the same few legitimate links over and over, then degenerated into sad catalogs of forum posts engaged in pathetic debates over the best/worst announcers in sports. Most of the time the same names were given on both sides of the argument, though not by the same arguers.
Also, there are a lot of physicians named Myron.
The conclusion I draw from this exercise is that Myron's voice really IS indescribable. Professional journalists cower (no h) from the task, except for a made guy from the Paper Of Record and a homesick undergrad stuck on the wrong side of the continent. My failure doesn't feel so bad now.
But I'm resolving to be more diligent about taping radio games to cassette or MP3s from now on, because (a) it's clear you really do have to hear the man to grok him, (b) he's had a tough time of things lately, medically, and (c) he's gonna be 75 years old on the same day we play the Patsies fer cryin' aht lahd, and although he's been arahnd ferever, he ain't gonna be arahnd ferever ferever. Double Yoi and Hmm-Hah.
Take care of yourself, Mahrn. Everyone who matters loves you.
....1/21 1007am addendum ....
Matt C. posted a link in the comments that would have solved my problem immediately, had it only come up in my searches. Go hear for yourself, but be warned you'll eat half your workday listening to these gems, and make sure you have tolerant cube-farm mates because you'll be guffawing like a tickled idiot.
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
Big Ben Sez:
Saturday, January 15, 2005
We Eat Ham And Jam And ...
I am SOOOOO psyched, I do not have words.
The location of the seats is:
RUN AWAY! to the official Spamalot website, then bone up on your estimation of the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow.
Friday, January 14, 2005
Still Stillers Tune-less
The search goes on (see previous entry for background), but no joy so far. Last evening I ran across an article in the online Post-Gazette by John Hayes, entitled Demand for Steelers fight songs peaks in postseason. Zut Alors! He'll surely have it mentioned in there, thinks I. Mais non, merde. But I wrote to Mr. Hayes to ask if he had any useful sources, or maybe knew of the song even though not referring to it in his article.
He replied promptly with what he thinks might be the title, "Steeler Lock". He didn't have any other information on artist or availability, and his only suggestion was to (again) call the receptionist at WDVE. Hmmm. The title sounds kinda odd to me, but who's to say.
Googling on "Steeler Lock" in several permutations still came up empty. I did telephone WDVE again but I ended up right back in the voicemail of Val Porter (the music director), and since she never answered my message in December, I declined to leave another one. Does this woman ever work at her desk? More likely she is one of those I-screen-all-my-calls types. Feh. I may try a snailmail letter addressed to her, CC'd to someone like the station manager so that she can't trash it and think it'll never get mentioned by anyone higher up the food chain. Triangulation of fire. Or biangulation, at least.
Anyway, the upshot is that if you've got any lightbulbs going off in your brain due to the possible title of "Steeler Lock", then I'm still awaiting the good word.
He replied promptly with what he thinks might be the title, "Steeler Lock". He didn't have any other information on artist or availability, and his only suggestion was to (again) call the receptionist at WDVE. Hmmm. The title sounds kinda odd to me, but who's to say.
Googling on "Steeler Lock" in several permutations still came up empty. I did telephone WDVE again but I ended up right back in the voicemail of Val Porter (the music director), and since she never answered my message in December, I declined to leave another one. Does this woman ever work at her desk? More likely she is one of those I-screen-all-my-calls types. Feh. I may try a snailmail letter addressed to her, CC'd to someone like the station manager so that she can't trash it and think it'll never get mentioned by anyone higher up the food chain. Triangulation of fire. Or biangulation, at least.
Anyway, the upshot is that if you've got any lightbulbs going off in your brain due to the possible title of "Steeler Lock", then I'm still awaiting the good word.
