I've been coaching my daughter's tee ball team this summer. Yesterday was the last game. I will miss it.
The rules? Score keeping is not allowed. Everyone gets to bat, every inning. You swing til you hit the ball. Even if you're out, you stay on base. So, some innings have no outs. Some have five or six.
Errors are so common there is no stigma. Making a play correctly is met with joy and disbelief (did I really just catch the ball?). And the look on a kid's face when they do the job well is quietly eloquent. That sense of accomplishment is something that will follow through to writing, to music, to math homework, to preparing and presenting a good meal.
I end every game by asking them, what are the two rules of tee ball? The answer: have fun, do your best.
I fed the girls their first barbecued ribs a couple weeks back. At first they couldn't figure out how to eat them. Once they did, they were hooked. Like crack for carnivores. Youngest said, and this is verbatim: I just had a minute of heaven.
Hilary has been kind enough to give my post on the tenacity of weeds a Post of the Week award. Hil, you are too kind. Go visit her here. She's really nice.
Showing posts with label baseball. Show all posts
Showing posts with label baseball. Show all posts
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Horizontal
So. Had a great time for the first 4 innings of the Father's Day baseball game Sunday. I was at the concession stand getting hot dogs and beer, turned around to get some ketchup packets and snap!, a sharp pain in my back, like a knife. It was hard to even breathe, let alone walk. Took me several minutes to get my composure, then I made my slow and painful journey back to the seats. Incredibly, I took the beer and dogs back with me. No spills.
We stayed for the rest of the game. I was relatively pain-free as long as I remained standing, supporting myself against the railing. There are worse places to throw out your back than in the middle of a baseball game on a gorgeous summer afternoon. And the Sky Sox beat the Las Vegas 51's, 13-4. It was a fun day. Got to play catch on the field with the girls before the game. They got free baseball gloves. And they're actually pretty good gloves!
Getting out of the stadium and into the car was pretty dicey (another reason we stayed: avoiding the crowd). Out of the car and onto the downstairs couch (where I've been ever since) was similarly difficult. And the first night was painful and spasm-riddled and not something I ever want to experience again.
Better now. I can't get up or down from the couch without help, and pain. Lying motionless I'm fine. And I can lie on a couch motionless with the best of them.
So. I'm reading undemanding fiction and watching whatever movie I can snag on the DVR. Last night was Dreamcatcher. Absolutely awful. I rather enjoyed it, but that's just the muscle relaxants talking. Tonight is Ride With the Devil, which is about a period of the Civil War I'm pretty familiar with. Ang Lee directed it, which bodes well. Jewel is in it, which does not.
p.s.: Got another story published. Baby Teeth, in fiction@work (an early draft is here). Had to tussle with the editors about the last sentence. I like tussling with editors. It means they give a damn about the story.
We stayed for the rest of the game. I was relatively pain-free as long as I remained standing, supporting myself against the railing. There are worse places to throw out your back than in the middle of a baseball game on a gorgeous summer afternoon. And the Sky Sox beat the Las Vegas 51's, 13-4. It was a fun day. Got to play catch on the field with the girls before the game. They got free baseball gloves. And they're actually pretty good gloves!
Getting out of the stadium and into the car was pretty dicey (another reason we stayed: avoiding the crowd). Out of the car and onto the downstairs couch (where I've been ever since) was similarly difficult. And the first night was painful and spasm-riddled and not something I ever want to experience again.
Better now. I can't get up or down from the couch without help, and pain. Lying motionless I'm fine. And I can lie on a couch motionless with the best of them.
So. I'm reading undemanding fiction and watching whatever movie I can snag on the DVR. Last night was Dreamcatcher. Absolutely awful. I rather enjoyed it, but that's just the muscle relaxants talking. Tonight is Ride With the Devil, which is about a period of the Civil War I'm pretty familiar with. Ang Lee directed it, which bodes well. Jewel is in it, which does not.
p.s.: Got another story published. Baby Teeth, in fiction@work (an early draft is here). Had to tussle with the editors about the last sentence. I like tussling with editors. It means they give a damn about the story.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
AAA
That new header image is of Ida and Dactyl, an asteroid with its very own tiny moon. I've always loved the photo. Reminds me of a parent and child, bonded by gravity, rotating around a common center. Plus, I didn't know asteroids could have moons.
A coupla cool comments about the photo in my last post (see below). Margaret said it looked like a stellar semi-colon. Laurita said her kid told her it looked like the moon was hanging by a thumbtack. Nice. I will never look at the Venus-moon pas de deux quite the same way again.
Woke up at 4 a.m. yesterday to drive out just east of town and look for Comet McNaught. Didn't find it. It was oddly enjoyable still; I parked on a country road and cracked open a beer and scanned the sky right around Perseus with binoculars til the beer was gone. Went home, went back to bed. I'll look for it next month, after it's passed around the sun and is heading back out to its home in the Oort Cloud.
The Mets have won 6 games straight. A half a game outta first place. Of course, this weekend we play the Evil Empire (the Yankees, for you uninitiated), so anything could happen. We're also going to see a AAA ballgame on Sunday to celebrate Father's Day. Free gloves to the first 1500 kids! And we get to have a catch on the field before the game. Big Fun. Hot dogs will be involved.
A coupla cool comments about the photo in my last post (see below). Margaret said it looked like a stellar semi-colon. Laurita said her kid told her it looked like the moon was hanging by a thumbtack. Nice. I will never look at the Venus-moon pas de deux quite the same way again.
Woke up at 4 a.m. yesterday to drive out just east of town and look for Comet McNaught. Didn't find it. It was oddly enjoyable still; I parked on a country road and cracked open a beer and scanned the sky right around Perseus with binoculars til the beer was gone. Went home, went back to bed. I'll look for it next month, after it's passed around the sun and is heading back out to its home in the Oort Cloud.
The Mets have won 6 games straight. A half a game outta first place. Of course, this weekend we play the Evil Empire (the Yankees, for you uninitiated), so anything could happen. We're also going to see a AAA ballgame on Sunday to celebrate Father's Day. Free gloves to the first 1500 kids! And we get to have a catch on the field before the game. Big Fun. Hot dogs will be involved.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Rambling (+ Zombies)
I cleaned and organized my shed this weekend. I cannot overstate how much satisfaction this gave me.
Mets swept the hapless Orioles this weekend. First to last to first to last to second place. Like being on a pogo stick.
Do they make pogo sticks anymore? Are they considered too dangerous for children, and gone the way of the lawn dart?
Because I'd really like one.
I'd also like a didgeridoo, and have asked the Hux for one for my birthday. We shall see.
Enough rambling. Here's some very dramatic video of the problem-plagued Japanese Hayabusa Asteroid explorer returning to Earth over Australia this morning. The fireball is the probe burning up in the atmosphere; the little dot below and to the right is the hardened bit that contains asteroid samples. It was recovered in the Australian outback this morning.
So, if things go all Andromeda Strain on us, and the zombie apocalypse begins, you'll know where it came from.
Mets swept the hapless Orioles this weekend. First to last to first to last to second place. Like being on a pogo stick.
Do they make pogo sticks anymore? Are they considered too dangerous for children, and gone the way of the lawn dart?
Because I'd really like one.
I'd also like a didgeridoo, and have asked the Hux for one for my birthday. We shall see.
Enough rambling. Here's some very dramatic video of the problem-plagued Japanese Hayabusa Asteroid explorer returning to Earth over Australia this morning. The fireball is the probe burning up in the atmosphere; the little dot below and to the right is the hardened bit that contains asteroid samples. It was recovered in the Australian outback this morning.
So, if things go all Andromeda Strain on us, and the zombie apocalypse begins, you'll know where it came from.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Manhattan-henge
Went to the drive-in this weekend to see Shrek (not that good, but as I've said before, and recently, the movie is secondary to the experience). The interesting bit: at the time we showed up the lot for Shrek was just over half full. The lot for Sex and the City 2 had exactly two cars in it. Two. Clearly, not alotta demographic overlap between folks who want to see Sex and the City and folks who go to drive ins. Not too many Manolo Blahniks at the concession stand.
Couldn't get to sleep when we got home, so tuned into Coast-to-Coast, who had an actual astrophysicist on (Neil deGrasse Tyson!), as opposed to the usual parade of alien abductees and ghost whisperers. He discussed, among many, many other things, Manhattan-henge. On May 28 and June 12 the sun lines up directly with the grid of the city streets in NYC and sets right at the vanishing point between the canyons of buildings, in the center of the street. Every city with a flat grid of streets and an unobstructed horizon (e.g. no mountains) has two "-henges" a year. The exact dates depends on the orientation of the streets.
The most interesting he said about it was that centuries from now, when anthropologists dig up the ruins of New York City (a simultaneously pessimistic and optimistic prediction; NYC will be in ruins, yet the human race will still be around), they'll conclude we were a race of sun-worshipers, and built the entire city to celebrate two dates: May 28 and June 12. Or, Memorial Day and the All Star Break. They're belivve our two greatest religious holidays honored War and Baseball.
As NYC grew to become the capitol of the world in the heyday of the 40s and 50s, during the post-WWII boom and the great baseball troika of the Giants, Yankees, and Dodgers, that doesn't strike too far off the mark.
Couldn't get to sleep when we got home, so tuned into Coast-to-Coast, who had an actual astrophysicist on (Neil deGrasse Tyson!), as opposed to the usual parade of alien abductees and ghost whisperers. He discussed, among many, many other things, Manhattan-henge. On May 28 and June 12 the sun lines up directly with the grid of the city streets in NYC and sets right at the vanishing point between the canyons of buildings, in the center of the street. Every city with a flat grid of streets and an unobstructed horizon (e.g. no mountains) has two "-henges" a year. The exact dates depends on the orientation of the streets.
The most interesting he said about it was that centuries from now, when anthropologists dig up the ruins of New York City (a simultaneously pessimistic and optimistic prediction; NYC will be in ruins, yet the human race will still be around), they'll conclude we were a race of sun-worshipers, and built the entire city to celebrate two dates: May 28 and June 12. Or, Memorial Day and the All Star Break. They're belivve our two greatest religious holidays honored War and Baseball.
As NYC grew to become the capitol of the world in the heyday of the 40s and 50s, during the post-WWII boom and the great baseball troika of the Giants, Yankees, and Dodgers, that doesn't strike too far off the mark.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Community, part two
My Dad and I made our annual trek up to Denver to watch the Mets play the Rockies yesterday. Good game. Extra innings. The wrong team won, but baseball is not always about winning. It's about the slow and steady cadence of the game, balls and strikes and outs and innings. The cycling through of the batting orders, one through nine and back again. It's about discussing the game with the people around you, regardless of what jersey they are wearing. It's about the almost mystical recurrence of the number three, and multiples of three, throughout the game. And the gravity and mystique given to other numbers, made famous by uniforms and record books and decades of fans: 7, 42, 61, 511. 60 feet, 6 inches.
And I'm pretty sure baseball is the only sport where everyone stands up and sings together in the middle of the game. Sure, most sporting events begin with everyone taking off their hats and being led through the national anthem. But few sing. Almost everyone sings Take Me Out to the Ballgame. And there's no leader. We do it ourselves.
And I'm pretty sure baseball is the only sport where everyone stands up and sings together in the middle of the game. Sure, most sporting events begin with everyone taking off their hats and being led through the national anthem. But few sing. Almost everyone sings Take Me Out to the Ballgame. And there's no leader. We do it ourselves.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
First Pitch
This image sings and soars all on its own. Not that it needs a realistic Earthbound analog, but if I had to choose one, I'd say that sprite in the upper left is flinging a baseball to that mitt in the lower left. This being Spring Training and all.
This is in reality a group four very old and gravitationally bound galaxies, Hickson Compact Group 31, interacting with each other. One day, perhaps a billion years from now, they'll be one big galaxy.
The shot is from the Hubble. Astronomy Picture of the Day posted it yesterday. It's worth clicking to see in a larger format. Particularly that sprite on the left.
This is in reality a group four very old and gravitationally bound galaxies, Hickson Compact Group 31, interacting with each other. One day, perhaps a billion years from now, they'll be one big galaxy.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Last Dollar
Pedro takes the mound against the Evil Empire tonight. Might be the last time he takes the mound, ever. Worth a watch. He's made a career of taunting Yankee fans, so they'll be giving him the serious business tonight. Should be fun. Maybe he'll even push things to a game seven.
Got a flash fiction - Last Dollar - up at Fiction at Work. An early version of it appeared in this very blog, inspired by Mona's sadly departed word of the week.
What else? Broke 78K on the novel last night. Small lost a tooth yesterday, and I even remembered to play tooth fairy (I'm batting about .600 in that regard). The house sale slouches toward completion. They did their inspection, we approved their revisions. Closing is the day before Thanksgiving. Fitting.
Got a flash fiction - Last Dollar - up at Fiction at Work. An early version of it appeared in this very blog, inspired by Mona's sadly departed word of the week.
What else? Broke 78K on the novel last night. Small lost a tooth yesterday, and I even remembered to play tooth fairy (I'm batting about .600 in that regard). The house sale slouches toward completion. They did their inspection, we approved their revisions. Closing is the day before Thanksgiving. Fitting.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Seven Christmases
Signed off on an offer on the old house. Lotsa daylight between an offer and the money being in your bank account, but it looks pretty solid. It'll be nice to be paying only one mortgage again. No more Ramen!
We went over to the old house on Sunday to clean up, rake, decide on some repairs before the inspection. It was different looking at the house without the anxiety of preparing it for sale hovering over things. This was the first house the lil hux and I owned, the second we lived in together. Had a wedding reception there. Celebrated seven Christmases in that tiny living room. Taught the girls to ride their bikes in the parking lot across the street. Played with Play-do on the kitchen table. Pitched whiffle-ball in the front yard. Birthday parties. Skinned knees. Thunderstorms. Memory collects like dust on your skin. Time is a wind at your face.
Writing odds and ends: got a story accepted at Fiction at Work. Goes up Nov. 4th. I'll post a link.
Eric has an excellent story up at Splinter Generation. Go read it. Now.
73K into the New Novel. A handful of chapters left and I'll be done. Of course, all that means is that I turn around and start the second draft. So, no cause for great celebration. But still. It is cause for some celebration.
I noticed during the Yankee-Angel game that the website they advertise on the dugouts is "bankofamerica/yankees." So rooting for the Yankees is no longer like rooting for Bank of America. Rooting for the Yankees quite literally is rooting for Bank of America.
We went over to the old house on Sunday to clean up, rake, decide on some repairs before the inspection. It was different looking at the house without the anxiety of preparing it for sale hovering over things. This was the first house the lil hux and I owned, the second we lived in together. Had a wedding reception there. Celebrated seven Christmases in that tiny living room. Taught the girls to ride their bikes in the parking lot across the street. Played with Play-do on the kitchen table. Pitched whiffle-ball in the front yard. Birthday parties. Skinned knees. Thunderstorms. Memory collects like dust on your skin. Time is a wind at your face.
Writing odds and ends: got a story accepted at Fiction at Work. Goes up Nov. 4th. I'll post a link.
Eric has an excellent story up at Splinter Generation. Go read it. Now.
73K into the New Novel. A handful of chapters left and I'll be done. Of course, all that means is that I turn around and start the second draft. So, no cause for great celebration. But still. It is cause for some celebration.
I noticed during the Yankee-Angel game that the website they advertise on the dugouts is "bankofamerica/yankees." So rooting for the Yankees is no longer like rooting for Bank of America. Rooting for the Yankees quite literally is rooting for Bank of America.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Unlikely
We visited the 45 foot climbing wall at the new YMCA this weekend. Seriously Big Fun. Small made it to the top twice, and Large went all the way up so many times we lost count. Me? I got about a third of the way up until my still-recovering stomach muscles began complaining. They hurt all weekened, and are still barking a little today. Worth it? To quote Sarah Palin: you betcha!
This Sunday the Mets had two runners on, the winning run at the plate, when they hit into an unassisted triple play (where one guy makes all three outs, with no help) and lost yet again. Eric Bruntlett, the second baseman, caught the ball (out 1), stepped on 2nd base before the runner could return (out 2) and tagged the runner coming from 1st base (out 3).
To put this in context: this is only the second time in the 109 year history of baseball that a game ended with a triple play. The other time was in 1927*.
Halley's Comet is more common than a game-ending unassisted triple play.
I guess there is some satisfaction in that the Mets don't merely lose, but lose in epic, historical fashion.
Alright. I'm done venting. You may continue with your day.
*The baseball statistician in me requires me to add a footnote: there have been 15 unassisted triple plays in the 109 year old history of modern baseball, but only 2 of them were game-ending unassisted triple plays. It is the rarest play in all of baseball.
This Sunday the Mets had two runners on, the winning run at the plate, when they hit into an unassisted triple play (where one guy makes all three outs, with no help) and lost yet again. Eric Bruntlett, the second baseman, caught the ball (out 1), stepped on 2nd base before the runner could return (out 2) and tagged the runner coming from 1st base (out 3).
To put this in context: this is only the second time in the 109 year history of baseball that a game ended with a triple play. The other time was in 1927*.
Halley's Comet is more common than a game-ending unassisted triple play.
I guess there is some satisfaction in that the Mets don't merely lose, but lose in epic, historical fashion.
Alright. I'm done venting. You may continue with your day.
*The baseball statistician in me requires me to add a footnote: there have been 15 unassisted triple plays in the 109 year old history of modern baseball, but only 2 of them were game-ending unassisted triple plays. It is the rarest play in all of baseball.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Hike Faster. I Hear Banjos.
Saw that on the back of a t-shirt at the High Mountain Hay Fever Bluegrass Festival in Westcliffe this weekend. We went with Dancehall and family. And my Dad was there too, for part of it. It's a great spot for a festival. High in the mountains (8000-ish feet), with the Never Summer Range looming in the background. The bands were good too. Very purist approach, as opposed to say, the Telluride Bluegrass Festival, which allows folks like Elvis Costello and Barenaked Ladies to perform. I love Elvis. But he's not exactly bluegrass.
The only downside was that the crowd was pretty old (meaning, older than me, of course). Much older than the Rockygrass demographic, for instance. And some were not too tolerant of little kids. Or talking. Or any signs of human life. The woman next to us told us she loved children, but we soon found out this love was mostly theoretical, and didn't extend to actual children, displaying actual behavior. She actually stood up and loudly shushed Dancehall's husband for speaking in conversational tones. At an outdoor festival. At the back of the seating area.
I'm glad she was there, though. Without her, we might have experienced a moment of authentic joy, unfettered by guilt or angst or fear. And nobody wants that.
Pedro's back! The Phillies signed Pedro Martinez last week, so, pending the physical exam, he's pitching again. Now, the Phillies are divisional rivals of the Mets, but I guess I'm gonna have to start rooting for them every fifth day. Because Pedro transcends mere team loyalty.
The only downside was that the crowd was pretty old (meaning, older than me, of course). Much older than the Rockygrass demographic, for instance. And some were not too tolerant of little kids. Or talking. Or any signs of human life. The woman next to us told us she loved children, but we soon found out this love was mostly theoretical, and didn't extend to actual children, displaying actual behavior. She actually stood up and loudly shushed Dancehall's husband for speaking in conversational tones. At an outdoor festival. At the back of the seating area.
I'm glad she was there, though. Without her, we might have experienced a moment of authentic joy, unfettered by guilt or angst or fear. And nobody wants that.
Pedro's back! The Phillies signed Pedro Martinez last week, so, pending the physical exam, he's pitching again. Now, the Phillies are divisional rivals of the Mets, but I guess I'm gonna have to start rooting for them every fifth day. Because Pedro transcends mere team loyalty.
Monday, May 11, 2009
World Gone Mad
The Mets have won seven in a row, and now sit atop the National League East, albeit with a narrow lead. Their big man, Johann Santana, arguably the best pitcher in the National League, takes the mound tonight. Against the hated Atlanta Braves. On ESPN.
Can you tell I'm psyched?
I taught the little clowncars how to read the standings this weekend. Win column, loss column, streak column. They're a couple years away from learning the elegant brevity of a box score. So much information contained in such a small box of numbers.
Ah, Spring. Ah, baseball.
Our mortgage company, which I will not name, but which rhymes with Skank of America, has asked for: my last 2 pay stubs, my 401K, the last 2 months of bank activity for me and the huquita, our W2's for the last 2 years, and, oddest of all, our marriage certificate (since we have different last names).
Meanwhile, last week's banking stress tests says they may need to borrow another $34 billion. From me. The taxpayer.
What is wrong with this picture?
Can you tell I'm psyched?
I taught the little clowncars how to read the standings this weekend. Win column, loss column, streak column. They're a couple years away from learning the elegant brevity of a box score. So much information contained in such a small box of numbers.
Ah, Spring. Ah, baseball.
Our mortgage company, which I will not name, but which rhymes with Skank of America, has asked for: my last 2 pay stubs, my 401K, the last 2 months of bank activity for me and the huquita, our W2's for the last 2 years, and, oddest of all, our marriage certificate (since we have different last names).
Meanwhile, last week's banking stress tests says they may need to borrow another $34 billion. From me. The taxpayer.
What is wrong with this picture?
Monday, April 13, 2009
The Ramen Express
We're making an offer on a 2-story brick Victorian today. Built in 1892 and lovingly restored. So, the weekly menu for the (hopefully) short time we carry two mortgages: ramen with diced chicken and broccoli; ramen with shredded roast beef and green beans; ramen with scrambled eggs and peas (this last one is so popular with the girls they've actually named it: Daddy Soup).
Yes, I'm quite the ramen noodle savant.
See that window at the very top of the house? It faces out of a classic unfinished attic, with sloping walls, exposed insulation, the whole bit. My writer's room. I'll put in a floor, then walls, as I finish the New Novel. Fitting, eh? Building a room as I'm building a book.
Mets play their first game in their brand new ballpark tonight. It's named after a bank that took taxpayer money to stay afloat and promptly paid 400 million to buy naming rights to the stadium. Greedy Bastards that Took All Our Money and Flushed It Down A Fucking Hole Stadium, I like to call it.
I have vowed never to refer to it by it's corporate name. And I never will.
But good luck to those Metros tonight.
Yes, I'm quite the ramen noodle savant.
See that window at the very top of the house? It faces out of a classic unfinished attic, with sloping walls, exposed insulation, the whole bit. My writer's room. I'll put in a floor, then walls, as I finish the New Novel. Fitting, eh? Building a room as I'm building a book.
Mets play their first game in their brand new ballpark tonight. It's named after a bank that took taxpayer money to stay afloat and promptly paid 400 million to buy naming rights to the stadium. Greedy Bastards that Took All Our Money and Flushed It Down A Fucking Hole Stadium, I like to call it.
I have vowed never to refer to it by it's corporate name. And I never will.
But good luck to those Metros tonight.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Flocking Birds
This is just gorgeous. I found it on Slate, who found it on Jason Kottke's blog. I've watched it like five times. Be sure and have the sound up and hear some wonderful music form the Amelie soundtrack. The visuals and the music are eerily in synch.
Like Dark Side of the Moon and The Wizard of Oz.
powerlinerflyers from wes johnson on Vimeo.
Also found on Kottke's blog: 10 steps to perform in case you accidently swallow a Higgs boson. Pretty funny.
Mets had their first loss yesterday. It is telling that the first hit Perez gave up was a three run homer. Yikes. What a frikkin head case.
Life is moving at a cheetah's pace. A decision on a home is imminent.
Like Dark Side of the Moon and The Wizard of Oz.
powerlinerflyers from wes johnson on Vimeo.
Also found on Kottke's blog: 10 steps to perform in case you accidently swallow a Higgs boson. Pretty funny.
Mets had their first loss yesterday. It is telling that the first hit Perez gave up was a three run homer. Yikes. What a frikkin head case.
Life is moving at a cheetah's pace. A decision on a home is imminent.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Trust Your Stuff
Mets won. Yankees lost. All is right with the world.
I just broke the 28K mark on the New Novel. Felt as if I was turning the corner on the first quarter of the thing in terms of plot. So, that's good.
There's a great piece of pitching advice which is also pretty good writing advice: pitch, don't aim. If you try too carefully to throw the ball to the exact spot you want - lower inside corner, say - you'll lose all your natural motion and throw the ball in a straight line, incredibly easy to predict and thus to hit. A better approach is to trust your stuff. You know what you're doing, you've been practicing forever. Let it fly. That's how to throw that curve ball high over the strike zone that suddenly surprises everyone by breaking at the last second and dropping into the zone for strike three.
Time-suck of the day. Star formation game. Create massive stars that supernova and create shock waves, to corral stellar material together and form smaller, more stable stars. I made 19!
If you do nothing at work today because of this, blame Bad Astronomy.
I just broke the 28K mark on the New Novel. Felt as if I was turning the corner on the first quarter of the thing in terms of plot. So, that's good.
There's a great piece of pitching advice which is also pretty good writing advice: pitch, don't aim. If you try too carefully to throw the ball to the exact spot you want - lower inside corner, say - you'll lose all your natural motion and throw the ball in a straight line, incredibly easy to predict and thus to hit. A better approach is to trust your stuff. You know what you're doing, you've been practicing forever. Let it fly. That's how to throw that curve ball high over the strike zone that suddenly surprises everyone by breaking at the last second and dropping into the zone for strike three.
Time-suck of the day. Star formation game. Create massive stars that supernova and create shock waves, to corral stellar material together and form smaller, more stable stars. I made 19!
If you do nothing at work today because of this, blame Bad Astronomy.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Barbies, Bratz and Baseball
Our little clowncars woke up Sunday morning with the idea apparently fully formed in their minds that they were going to a party at Barbie's house. La Petite Huque was reading the Sunday paper at the time, and showed them the feature article, replete with pictures, about Barbie's 50th birthday, thereby fanning the small flame of the girls' fantasies into a prarie grassfire. Now I fully buy the Barbie=unrealistic body image argument, but popular culture these days (and those hellish Bratz dolls specifically) make Barbie look positively enlightened.
So.
Huque made a birthday cake, the girls wrapped "presents" all morning, and we invited Grandpa over to eat cake and share in the hoopla. After the presents and the cake, there was some wildly convoluted fantasy about them driving to Barbie's house in California, which in real life consisted of them wheeling to the corner on their scooters with their dolls tucked under their arms, while I read a book and kept an eye on them from half a bock away.
Ahhh, fantasy. Ahhh, Spring. Ahhh, youth.
To offset all the Barbie-ness, we played whiffle ball with Grandpa in the backyard afterward. Huque and the littlest clowncar both drove several balls right up the middle for base hits. The bigger clowncar hit a homerun, over the fence, into the neighbor's yard. She was so proud she was still talking about it this mornng.
I hit two mammoth home runs. I only mention it to point out how inordinately, embarrassingly happy it made me feel to hit them in front of the girls. It's a feat the average fourth grader could accomplish.
But the girls don't know that.
Made me feel like Babe Ruth.
So.
Huque made a birthday cake, the girls wrapped "presents" all morning, and we invited Grandpa over to eat cake and share in the hoopla. After the presents and the cake, there was some wildly convoluted fantasy about them driving to Barbie's house in California, which in real life consisted of them wheeling to the corner on their scooters with their dolls tucked under their arms, while I read a book and kept an eye on them from half a bock away.
Ahhh, fantasy. Ahhh, Spring. Ahhh, youth.
To offset all the Barbie-ness, we played whiffle ball with Grandpa in the backyard afterward. Huque and the littlest clowncar both drove several balls right up the middle for base hits. The bigger clowncar hit a homerun, over the fence, into the neighbor's yard. She was so proud she was still talking about it this mornng.
I hit two mammoth home runs. I only mention it to point out how inordinately, embarrassingly happy it made me feel to hit them in front of the girls. It's a feat the average fourth grader could accomplish.
But the girls don't know that.
Made me feel like Babe Ruth.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Scents and Sensibility
Sorry. Couldn't resist.
Mona's word of last week, smell, has lingered in my brain like the scent of burnt microwave popcorn.
So, an olfactory anecdote: while I was working at the worst job I ever had (a "crepe assembler" at the Magic Pan in Minneapolis), my mean-spirited boss fell down half a flight of stairs at a party. He went to the ER, and when he came back to work a couple days later informed us he was fine, but - and I am not making this up - he had lost his sense of smell in the fall.
My theory at the time was that since smell is located in the limbic system, an ancient part of the brain (in evolutionary terms) commonly called the lizard brain because lizards have this structure in their brains as well, he would lose the more reptilian aspects of his personality, and emerge from the fall as a nicer, more pleasant individual.
I was wrong. He was still a dick.
Just a dick with no sense of smell.
Meet the new boss. Same as the old boss.
Also: Willie Ziebell sez that there is a word for the smell of rain in the air: petrichor. Pronounced pe-trê-kor. Cool word. Thanks, Willie.
A non-smell related item: you may recall I predicted the Cubs were gonna go all the way this year. I was wrong. Very wrong. They didn't win a single game, and were effortlessly swept out of the playoffs by the Dodgers. More strangeness: on TV I witnessed Cubs fans booing their own team! At Wrigley Field! I don't think I've ever heard that before. Mets fans, sure. Yankees fans, absolutely. But not Cubs fans. They're supposed to be above that sort of behavior.
No Mets. No Cubs. No Rockies. No Twins. Gonna be a boring post-season, I predict.
Mona's word of last week, smell, has lingered in my brain like the scent of burnt microwave popcorn.
So, an olfactory anecdote: while I was working at the worst job I ever had (a "crepe assembler" at the Magic Pan in Minneapolis), my mean-spirited boss fell down half a flight of stairs at a party. He went to the ER, and when he came back to work a couple days later informed us he was fine, but - and I am not making this up - he had lost his sense of smell in the fall.
My theory at the time was that since smell is located in the limbic system, an ancient part of the brain (in evolutionary terms) commonly called the lizard brain because lizards have this structure in their brains as well, he would lose the more reptilian aspects of his personality, and emerge from the fall as a nicer, more pleasant individual.
I was wrong. He was still a dick.
Just a dick with no sense of smell.
Meet the new boss. Same as the old boss.
Also: Willie Ziebell sez that there is a word for the smell of rain in the air: petrichor. Pronounced pe-trê-kor. Cool word. Thanks, Willie.
A non-smell related item: you may recall I predicted the Cubs were gonna go all the way this year. I was wrong. Very wrong. They didn't win a single game, and were effortlessly swept out of the playoffs by the Dodgers. More strangeness: on TV I witnessed Cubs fans booing their own team! At Wrigley Field! I don't think I've ever heard that before. Mets fans, sure. Yankees fans, absolutely. But not Cubs fans. They're supposed to be above that sort of behavior.
No Mets. No Cubs. No Rockies. No Twins. Gonna be a boring post-season, I predict.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Screwball
Fall beckons, baseball season is winding down, and the Mets are yet again slouching toward their annual late season collapse. With that in mind, here's the perfect trivia question to throw out there next time you're at a bar watching a baseball game:
Q: Who is the only man to ever throw a no-hitter while on acid?
A: Dock Ellis.
Baseball is full of apocryphal stories, but this really happened. On June 12, 1970, Mr. Ellis thought he had the day off, and so indulged in a little recreational drug use with his girlfriend by dropping a tab of LSD. Starting pitchers only pitch every fifth day, so he figured it was no big deal. Until he got to the park and found out he was scheduled to pitch. Not only did he pitch, he pitched a no-hitter, which is very, very hard to do. Here's his description of what it was like, which I stole from Wikipedia:
"I can only remember bits and pieces of the game. I was psyched. I had a feeling of euphoria. I was zeroed in on the (catcher's) glove, but I didn't hit the glove too much. I remember hitting a couple of batters and the bases were loaded two or three times. The ball was small sometimes, the ball was large sometimes, sometimes I saw the catcher, sometimes I didn't. Sometimes I tried to stare the hitter down and throw while I was looking at him. I chewed my gum until it turned to powder."
Trippy.
Dock was a pretty nutty guy. He once tried to hit every batter in the Cincinnati Reds line-up. I don't know why. He hit the first three, to load the bases. The fourth batter was able to avoid getting hit and walked, walking in a run. After he threw at the next batter's head on two straight pitches, he was pulled from the game.
Surprisingly, his lifetime numbers are pretty good. A win-loss record of 138-119. An earned run average of 3.46. And 1,136 career strikeouts.
Not surprisingly, he was at one point a Met. They'll pretty much take whoever they can get.
Q: Who is the only man to ever throw a no-hitter while on acid?
A: Dock Ellis.
Baseball is full of apocryphal stories, but this really happened. On June 12, 1970, Mr. Ellis thought he had the day off, and so indulged in a little recreational drug use with his girlfriend by dropping a tab of LSD. Starting pitchers only pitch every fifth day, so he figured it was no big deal. Until he got to the park and found out he was scheduled to pitch. Not only did he pitch, he pitched a no-hitter, which is very, very hard to do. Here's his description of what it was like, which I stole from Wikipedia:
"I can only remember bits and pieces of the game. I was psyched. I had a feeling of euphoria. I was zeroed in on the (catcher's) glove, but I didn't hit the glove too much. I remember hitting a couple of batters and the bases were loaded two or three times. The ball was small sometimes, the ball was large sometimes, sometimes I saw the catcher, sometimes I didn't. Sometimes I tried to stare the hitter down and throw while I was looking at him. I chewed my gum until it turned to powder."
Trippy.
Dock was a pretty nutty guy. He once tried to hit every batter in the Cincinnati Reds line-up. I don't know why. He hit the first three, to load the bases. The fourth batter was able to avoid getting hit and walked, walking in a run. After he threw at the next batter's head on two straight pitches, he was pulled from the game.
Surprisingly, his lifetime numbers are pretty good. A win-loss record of 138-119. An earned run average of 3.46. And 1,136 career strikeouts.
Not surprisingly, he was at one point a Met. They'll pretty much take whoever they can get.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Every Time You're Mean To Your Sister, A Unicorn Cries
The title has nothing to do with the rest of the post, it just popped into my head this weekend and has been stuck there ever since. I didn't say it. Wanted to. But didn't.
No camping trip last weekend, due to heavy rains. And although rain is always welcome here in the high desert, and Saturday was a dream, cabin fever settled in with a vengeance by Sunday afternoon. Thus the crying unicorns.
I know I've written about it a lot in the past, but I can't help but gush: the Cassini spacecraft is the single coolest thing we've ever flung into space (at least until the New Horizons probe gets to Pluto and the Kuiper Belt and eventually even our good friend The Oort Cloud). The Cassini mission just gets cooler and cooler, weirder and weirder, dipping and diving among the moons and rings and other strange critters orbiting Saturn, changing course every few weeks to check out something new and improbable. It's not a pre-programmed path, but done somewhat on-the-fly; whenever they find something cool they scoot Cassini past it for a closer look. A few months ago Cassini did a spectacular fly-by of Saturn's bizarre ice-spewing moon Enceladus, where it flew through a giant ice geyser to see what it was made of, how hot it was, etc.
Now it's back! Flying at an altitude of 30 miles, going 64,000 miles an hour, Cassini took this shot:
Let me repeat that: 64,000 mph, and skimming only 30 miles above the surface. That's an exacting flight path, particularly when it's being flown by people literally 800 million miles away.
Next pass will be from 15 miles high.
The reason Enceladus is getting so much attention is because of those geysers. They come out of a set of four great cracks in the ice called the Tiger Stripes. Beneath the cracks is some sort of heat source, probably in the form of tidal friction from Saturn (though the Babe in the Universe thinks, predictably, that it may be a black hole). The combination of water, a heat source, and the presence of carbon molecules (discovered in the ice geyser during the last fly-by) have made this number one with a bullet on the short list of places offering the possibility of life in our solar system. Nowhere else have water, a heat source, and carbon molecules been found in the same place. All three are considered prerequisites for life.
This is an exciting time. Ice on Mars. Methane lakes on Titan.
Life here on Earth is tenacious and resilient enough so that we find it in the Arctic, in deserts, in acidic environments, high radiation environments, huddled against underwater volcanic vents. Perhaps it's merely a hedge against my Godless world view, but I'd like to believe life is as plentiful out in space, and as infinitely varied, as it is here on Earth.
We might find out real soon.
I'd be remiss if I didn't add that Pedro pitched a poem of a game this last Saturday, his best outing of the season. 7 innings pitched, 1 earned run, 8 hits, 1 walk. He's back! And, not coincidently, the Metros are in first place.
The Yankees, meanwhile, with virtually the same record, are 10 games out of first place. Ah, the vicissitudes of baseball.
No camping trip last weekend, due to heavy rains. And although rain is always welcome here in the high desert, and Saturday was a dream, cabin fever settled in with a vengeance by Sunday afternoon. Thus the crying unicorns.
I know I've written about it a lot in the past, but I can't help but gush: the Cassini spacecraft is the single coolest thing we've ever flung into space (at least until the New Horizons probe gets to Pluto and the Kuiper Belt and eventually even our good friend The Oort Cloud). The Cassini mission just gets cooler and cooler, weirder and weirder, dipping and diving among the moons and rings and other strange critters orbiting Saturn, changing course every few weeks to check out something new and improbable. It's not a pre-programmed path, but done somewhat on-the-fly; whenever they find something cool they scoot Cassini past it for a closer look. A few months ago Cassini did a spectacular fly-by of Saturn's bizarre ice-spewing moon Enceladus, where it flew through a giant ice geyser to see what it was made of, how hot it was, etc.
Now it's back! Flying at an altitude of 30 miles, going 64,000 miles an hour, Cassini took this shot:
Let me repeat that: 64,000 mph, and skimming only 30 miles above the surface. That's an exacting flight path, particularly when it's being flown by people literally 800 million miles away.
Next pass will be from 15 miles high.
The reason Enceladus is getting so much attention is because of those geysers. They come out of a set of four great cracks in the ice called the Tiger Stripes. Beneath the cracks is some sort of heat source, probably in the form of tidal friction from Saturn (though the Babe in the Universe thinks, predictably, that it may be a black hole). The combination of water, a heat source, and the presence of carbon molecules (discovered in the ice geyser during the last fly-by) have made this number one with a bullet on the short list of places offering the possibility of life in our solar system. Nowhere else have water, a heat source, and carbon molecules been found in the same place. All three are considered prerequisites for life. This is an exciting time. Ice on Mars. Methane lakes on Titan.
Life here on Earth is tenacious and resilient enough so that we find it in the Arctic, in deserts, in acidic environments, high radiation environments, huddled against underwater volcanic vents. Perhaps it's merely a hedge against my Godless world view, but I'd like to believe life is as plentiful out in space, and as infinitely varied, as it is here on Earth.
We might find out real soon.
I'd be remiss if I didn't add that Pedro pitched a poem of a game this last Saturday, his best outing of the season. 7 innings pitched, 1 earned run, 8 hits, 1 walk. He's back! And, not coincidently, the Metros are in first place.
The Yankees, meanwhile, with virtually the same record, are 10 games out of first place. Ah, the vicissitudes of baseball.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Fucking Yankees
Okay, okay, relax, I’ll play nice. I have come to praise Yankee Stadium, not to bury it. Yesterday was the last All-Star game at Yankee Stadium, this October will be the last baseball game there. Ever. It’s getting torn down and replaced by a glitzy modern replica, currently being built across the street. Were I the Commissioner of Baseball I'd ban the destruction of the stadium as "not in the best interests of baseball," a clause they've used in the past to block trades and the selling of entire teams. Alas, I'm in charge of nothing but my own children. And even that's pretty tenuous.
Most of the readers of this blog know that the Yankees rank pretty high on the “Things I Detest” meter, just below the Bush administration, just above Bratz dolls (not currently on my childrens' cultural radar but which, I promise you now, they will never own). Luckily, my hatred of things Yankee does not extend to their stadium. I’ve been there maybe 10 times, and every time I walked through the entrance and saw the startlingly green grass field before me, the famous facade beyond it, and that short right-field porch where so many historic home run balls have been dumped, I’ve gotten a small and palpable thrill. It’s a jewel of a stadium, worthy of its legends, passed down from Ruth to DiMaggio to Mantle to Mattingly to Jeter. There are more fistfights in the stands than any other stadium I’ve been to. I’ve had my cap (a Killebrew era Twins cap, no less) grabbed off my head by a drunken Yankees fan and thrown into the parking lot. No matter. Even the wildly rowdy Stan’s Sports Bar across the street is the perfect bar in the perfect place. Just don’t wear a Mets jersey in there.
I was at Yankee Stadium about a week after Mickey Mantle died. In an uncharacteristically classy move, between innings, when they usually play Utz chips jingles and classic rock at ear-splitting volume, the noise suddenly faded, and a big number “7” (Mantle’s number) was put on the Jumbotron. No fanfare, no music, no announcer. Just the “7.” In the space of less than a minute the stadium hushed to near silence. I won’t say there wasn’t a dry eye in the house, because I don’t know that to be true. But mine certainly weren’t.
You may be asking yourself "But Shea Stadium is being torn down this year too. Where his beloved Mets play? Why isn't he whining about that?"
Well, you almost certainly weren't asking yourself that, but I'm a sucker for the cheap rhetorical device. And the answer is: Shea Stadium is a horrible concrete monstrosity in a bad location. Like watching baseball in a missile silo. Or a WWII bunker. When they tear down Shea, I will dance happily atop the rubble.
They've won 9 in a row, by the way. Let's go Mets!
Oh, and one last bit of baseball: with the acquisition of pitcher Rich Hardin, I officially pick the Cubs to get to the World Series this year. Not win it, mind you, but get there.
You heard it here first!
Most of the readers of this blog know that the Yankees rank pretty high on the “Things I Detest” meter, just below the Bush administration, just above Bratz dolls (not currently on my childrens' cultural radar but which, I promise you now, they will never own). Luckily, my hatred of things Yankee does not extend to their stadium. I’ve been there maybe 10 times, and every time I walked through the entrance and saw the startlingly green grass field before me, the famous facade beyond it, and that short right-field porch where so many historic home run balls have been dumped, I’ve gotten a small and palpable thrill. It’s a jewel of a stadium, worthy of its legends, passed down from Ruth to DiMaggio to Mantle to Mattingly to Jeter. There are more fistfights in the stands than any other stadium I’ve been to. I’ve had my cap (a Killebrew era Twins cap, no less) grabbed off my head by a drunken Yankees fan and thrown into the parking lot. No matter. Even the wildly rowdy Stan’s Sports Bar across the street is the perfect bar in the perfect place. Just don’t wear a Mets jersey in there.
I was at Yankee Stadium about a week after Mickey Mantle died. In an uncharacteristically classy move, between innings, when they usually play Utz chips jingles and classic rock at ear-splitting volume, the noise suddenly faded, and a big number “7” (Mantle’s number) was put on the Jumbotron. No fanfare, no music, no announcer. Just the “7.” In the space of less than a minute the stadium hushed to near silence. I won’t say there wasn’t a dry eye in the house, because I don’t know that to be true. But mine certainly weren’t.
You may be asking yourself "But Shea Stadium is being torn down this year too. Where his beloved Mets play? Why isn't he whining about that?"
Well, you almost certainly weren't asking yourself that, but I'm a sucker for the cheap rhetorical device. And the answer is: Shea Stadium is a horrible concrete monstrosity in a bad location. Like watching baseball in a missile silo. Or a WWII bunker. When they tear down Shea, I will dance happily atop the rubble.
They've won 9 in a row, by the way. Let's go Mets!
Oh, and one last bit of baseball: with the acquisition of pitcher Rich Hardin, I officially pick the Cubs to get to the World Series this year. Not win it, mind you, but get there.
You heard it here first!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)