David G. Cookson's Blog, page 35
August 8, 2014
My Less Than Secret Life: a Review
My Less Than Secret Life: A Diary, Fiction, Essays by Jonathan AmesMy rating: 4 of 5 stars
Ames’ best and worst quality is his honesty. His absolute, brutal, not-afraid-to-embarrass-himself honesty. He vocalizes thoughts that most of us keep private, which probably should be kept private. While some may look at his many adventures with transvestites/transsexuals and his stories about pooping and nose picking and masturbation as being somewhat vulgar and unnecessary, at least you can say that he is not full of shit. He is far too open to be considered shady or dishonest.
And for me, at least, this works.
My Less than Secret Life is a compilation of much of his late ‘90s/early 2000’s work. It’s a hodgepodge of essays, short stories, letters, what have you, that serve as a very complete (some might think overly complete) picture of the author as a middle aged man.
As with any such compilation, some of it works and some of it doesn’t. I believe the two strongest pieces are the one about how two chapters of his novel were stolen in an elaborate plot by a misguided friend, and the one about visiting a porno movie set with his father. Both stories are riveting, wickedly funny accounts of things that just don’t happen to most people.
In fact, these things and many other things he writes about, including his training for and participating in a boxing match with a stage performer, just don’t happen to anyone. Yet these things happen to Ames on a regular basis. And for the most part, he welcomes the adventure. Because as a true creative non-fiction writer, in the tradition of hunter Thompson and Hemingway, Ames throws himself into the story, to hilarious effect.
I loved most everything about this book: I can’t even count the number of times I laughed out loud at something I’d read. This is a great lead-in to Ames’ fiction (read The Extra Man!), which, as this book shows, isn’t very far from the truth.
View all my reviews
July 18, 2014
I am a baseball fan of the game of baseball: a random personal history of how I got from being a young and confused New England kid to being a huge fan of a team in a town where I hadn’t grown up…
The Triangulation.
I grew up in Pittsfield Massachusetts, which in the eyes of most sports fans should place me as a Boston Red Sox fan. But Massachusetts is a bigger place than most people would assume. Often when people ask me “how far is Pittsfield from Boston?” I say “about 2 and a half hours or as far as you can get without actually leaving the state.” For while in fact the word “Massachusetts” would indicate that my loyalty should be to the home state, in actuality my region of the state was/is a triangulation of 3 separate TV markets, covering 3 separate teams: the aforementioned Boston Red Sox, the New York Yankees, and (if you really hate the Yankees but can’t stand rooting for the Sox) the New York Mets, the one New York team (in any sport) I couldn’t hate if I tried. Growing up in the 80’s, way before ESPN and MLB started dominating the baseball airwaves, I had The Boston Red Sox on WSBK out of Boston, the New York Yankees on WPIX out of New York, and The New York Mets out of WWOR, Secaucus, New Jersey. Realistically, I had a legitimate claim on any one of these teams as “home town” teams, since they were brought to my living room in equal measure. I mostly gravitated to the Sox and the Mets, since I didn’t care too much for the Yankees and they were terrible in the 80’s anyway.
Fair Weather Fan.
Growing up, I was a classic fair weather fan. My reasons for liking teams usually had to do with players I liked, or teams that were doing well.
The first year I started watching baseball was 1984, (the year after the Baltimore Orioles last won the World Series). I had a sticker book of 1983, which required me to buy sets of stickers that fit into that book into the appropriate slots. The packets of stickers were about 60 cents each and contained about 6 stickers with either a baseball player or a baseball scene from that year. Because that sticker book was my obsession that summer, I will always remember a few random things, like that Rick Dempsey was the 1983 World Series MVP, and that the Kansas City Royals finished at an 81-81 record.
But I had no one team I favored. I liked Dale Murphy, so I liked the Braves. I liked Carlton Fisk, who was playing for the White Sox. That year, I watched my first World Series, and I liked the Tigers, who beat the Padres in 5 games (it really was no contest, as that team was a powerhouse that year). The next year, Kansas City won it all, and I for whatever reason started wearing a Royals hat (that was ill-advised). I even rooted for the A’s the year they got beat by Kirk Gibson’s walk-off homerun in Game one of 1988…for a very limited time, at one point or another I had a different favorite team, possibly because I had yet to discover things like team loyalty and hometown pride or the nobility in suffering (like Cubs fans or the Red Sox fans of those days did). I was just a kid who didn’t know any better back then.
1986
But my one true year as a semi-devoted fan of any one particular team was 1986, when I fully backed my “native” Boston (“about 2 and a half hours or as far as you can get without actually leaving the state”) Red Sox…except when I was watching my equally native New York Mets, who were also quite good that year.
Boston had Dwight Evans, Rich Gedman, Roger Clemens, Calvin Shiraldi, Jim Rice, Bill Buckner, and a host of other people I can’t remember off the top of my head. The Mets had Wally Joyner, Len Dykstra, Ray Knight, Howard Johnson, Darryl Strawberry, Dwight Gooden, Ron Darling, Gary Carter, Tim Teufel (of the “Tuefel Shuffle”) George Foster, Mookie Wilson, all managed by Davey Johnson, one of the best managers in baseball…come to think of it, it’s possible I remember more about the Mets than the Sox… (I’m trying to write this without googling: these are just the names I remember…) 1986 was a great year for my dual fandom of these teams, as I pulled for and followed them all year as they began their collision course with one another in that classic World Series. I had to pick a side: I chose the Sox…those of us who were alive and conscious during the 80’s know exactly how that one worked out…
I didn’t actually see the ball go through Buckner’s legs; it all happened past my bedtime (I was 10). My dad told me about it the next morning, in kind of a foggy and confused way that lots of Sox fans felt the next morning. I probably didn’t feel it as intensely as other new Englanders. But when I watched Game 7 and my favorite relief pitcher that year, Calvin Shiraldi, got hammered by the Mets (I don’t actually know what happened, this is just how I remember it), my heart sank as surely as if I’d actually seen that ball go through Buckner’s legs. (My adult self knows what an overhyped error this was. But it will unfairly go down in the annals of scapegoating, along with the Bartman play of 2003. Please, Chicago, forgive that man. Alou would’ve never caught that thing anyway!)
Anyway, after that year I kind of lost interest in the Sox. I just wasn’t as committed as I thought I was. Other than my year I followed the Athletics in ’88, I moved on to other things, namely music and playing the drums in little band called Lampstand. I didn’t watch sports at all for almost 6 years…
Baltimore.
And the next thing you know, I grew up and moved to Baltimore. Where, as it turned out, my love of baseball was restored…
It didn’t happen right away. I moved during the ’94 strike year. I was 18. But sometime during the 1995 season, when some guy named Ripken was making his run toward history, playing in a record 2131 consecutive games, I worked at a deli that was about a half block away from the celebratory parade route for Mr. Ripken, which we were allowed to skip out of work to attend. The next years the team went on two exciting playoff runs that united the city behind them. Suddenly they were the most important thing going. It was during that period right before the Ravens came to town and took primary ownership of the sports attention in Baltimore. In ’97, when the O’s went wire to wire, I remember being in a math class at my Community College, in another Game 6…people running out every other few minutes to check on the score (if this were today, I could have just followed along on my phone). And…the O’s losing to Cleveland in a heartbreaker…
Unlike those games of ten years earlier, this was in my city, my beautiful adopted home city, one I was proud to call home. I moved for my own reasons, but one of which was to be my own person, to assert my independence in a new place where things were fresh and exciting to me. I’ve always seen Baltimore with outsider’s eyes, and I’ve always felt like this was a gift. I love the people, the neighborhoods, the great many things to do, the fact that even now after 20 years I still discover new parks and parts of town I never knew existed, and even more, I love my teams. And while I have learned to love my Ravens (2 Super Bowls makes it easy), I love my Orioles just a little bit more…
The Dark Years.
Yeah, any O’s fan remembers the years between 1998 and 2011. We sucked. Gotta own it: if I refer to an Orioles win by saying “We Won!” I also have to be able to say “We lost.” after a loss. We sucked. Really, really, really, fucking sucked.
This team certainly spent a lot of time punishing me for turning my back on what should have been my childhood team. Watching the Red Sox win 3 World Championships may seem like punishment for not sticking with them. But at the same time, I am not that person anymore. I could no more call myself a Red Sox fan than I could stop breathing or singing in the shower or yelling “moo!” at cows on the side of the road, or yelling “puppy!” whenever I see a puppy. It’s just not me.
Even the Dark Years had their moments. I actually attended my first big league game in 1998. It was the O’s vs the Chicago White Sox, Mark Buehrle was pitching and I think Jose Canseco was still playing. I know that we lost. But I had so much fun going, I kind of didn’t care. My buddy’s dad took a group of us, bought us beers, and as we sat out on beautiful night of mediocre baseball, he seriously questioned why we’d all never done this before?
I really didn’t have an answer for that. But if it had taken me 23 years to finally make it to a big league game, I certainly have made up for that in the years since…
But these were the Dark years of multiple managers and ownership interference and stupid decisions and Albert Belle and losing Mike Mussina and a cover article in a national sports magazine detailing how bad and poorly mismanaged my team was. Things were so bad that a grass roots fan protest was organized: there was a mass walkout during a game, to protest the poor team play and the poor management that had led us into this horrible stretch. I wasn’t a part of that, but I wanted to be.
2012. Buck, and Why I continue to love baseball and the O’s.
Then Buck happened.
Buck Showalter taking over this team at the end of 2010 was the beginning of a sea change in Baltimore. After many years of many different managers, it finally looked like the ownership was getting serious when they hired Buck. The newspaper began printing the O’s record under Buck. And even though it was way late in the season and we were way out of the pennant race, Buck gave us reason to talk about the O’s.
My wife and I love Buck. We watch his press conferences, laugh at his gentle humor; bask in the glow of his simple wisdom. Buck gives us our little moment of Zen, every day. Nothing makes us feel better after a loss than listening to his long-view take on everything. And nothing grounds me more as a fan after a win then understanding his long-view. Baseball is a long season, 162 games a year. One win or win loss isn’t then end of the world, nor is it a reason to think too much of yourself. No matter what, Buck is in charge, and any success the team achieves is surely the result of his leadership, something we had lacked for so many years. One day there will be a statue of him out there past left/centerfield. I just know it.
Then the curse of the Andino happened.
Another major event involving the Boston Red Sox that I didn’t actually see. This was still during what can be considered the Dark Years. I only actually read about it on Facebook, and in spite of my lagging interest in my adopted home team, I at last was able to express pride in them for knocking out the Red Sox on the last day of the 2011 season. The Red Sox, a team whose fans had been invading our stadium for years and possibly edging out traveling New Yorkers for the title of Most Obnoxious Visiting Fans.
(SIDEBAR SOAPBOX: I have nothing against visiting fans. I have been one myself. I have made friends with visiting fans, most notably a very nice group of Detroiters, as well as we have made fans in other cities—San Diegans and Houstonians were all very nice. But when I visit another stadium, I am respectful of my place as a visitor. When I am in another city to see a game, I never refer to it as an “Orioles game”: If we are at an Orioles game played in San Francisco, it is a Giants game; if in Houston, it is an Astros game. To refer to another’s stadium as simply being the site of an “Orioles game” is disrespectful. You are a guest in that city: be polite. While I will cheer loudly for my team when they do something good, I do not smack talk the home team. I also do not lead cheers. In short, I am not an asshole. END OF SIDEBAR SOAPBOX.)
Then 2012 happened.
A magical run that turned my casual but steady fandom of this team into a full on obsession. Just before that season, my wife, who had possibly looked at my devotion to this team with loving but benign detachment, got on board. This was completely her idea and was not done with any coaxing from me and I love her for it. Suddenly she amassed a wealth of knowledge about all the Orioles personal stories, following them on Twitter and keeping up with up and coming stars. Whereas at one time I was driving the bus of the hopeless Oriole trip, now I have a partner in crime who rides with me and knows more about it than I do.
We followed that run all the way to the end. We had tickets and we endured the rain of the first two playoff games at home, yelled our heads off when we won Game 2; then we watched into the wee hours on TV, and even after finally losing to the Yankees in 5 games, I couldn’t help but be proud of my team, and their turnaround.
Now when I go to the home games and see the little Orioles highlight package of the last 60 years, culminating with the footage of the team celebrating on the field after the Wild Card win against Texas and the announcer saying “And the magical run of the Baltimore Orioles continues...” sometimes I have to stop myself from shedding a tear…
And Now…
I have met Orioles, gotten autographs, been interviewed by the TV news, travelled to other stadiums to follow the team, watched the standings, become the go-to guy at work for the answer to questions like "did we win last night?" and "who are we playing today?"…it is important to me in a way that is hard to explain to a non fan. Non fans can say “It’s just a game.” They are free to say that. But if it’s just a game, then it is a game that fills me with joy and exhilaration and dread and heartache and happiness and hope and pride and love. In short: all the things that make up life. The world is a fucked up place full of horrible things and assholes and unpleasantness and problems too big for me to make one damn bit of difference about. But baseball is solid, concrete, and in my view, one of the best diversions ever known to man. If I choose to care about this diversion, I at least keep my sanity and do not give in to the despair of the world.
Pride in a city, pride in a team, and an unwavering faith that one day (hopefully sooner rather than later) a team that I love will make it to the Promised Land have taken me full circle in my life as a baseball fan. While I have always followed the game, it has meant different things to me at different points in my life, and this is what it means now: a little pride, a little faith and a lot of love.
I have been a baseball fan all my life, an Orioles fan for 20 years. Rain or shine, good year or bad: that is what I am. I hope it all makes sense to you but I understand if it doesn’t.
Thank you for reading my words today.
July, 2014.
NOTES:
Things the non-hardcore baseball fan might need to know to understand some of my references:
1. The ball going through Buckner’s legs refers to a play in Game 6 of the 1986 World Series. In extra innings, with a runner on second and the game tied, Mookie Wilson hit a weak ground ball down the first base side, which should have been an easy play for first baseman Bill Buckner, only it went just under his glove and into shallow right field, bringing home Ray Knight, the winning run from third base.
2. “The Bartman play” refers to a foul ball hit with one out in the 8th inning of Game 6 of the National League Championship, Chicago Cubs against the Florida Marlins in 2003. While several fans went for the ball, the unlucky young Steve Bartman was the one whose hand actually tipped the ball preventing any possibility of a catch by the left fielder. Failure to make this out led the Marlins to a huge rally to overcome the Cubs, win the game, force a Game 7, resulting in the Marlins going to the World Series, which they won. There is a GREAT movie about this called “Catching Hell,” which you can probably find on Netflix. Here is a clip of the play.
I grew up in Pittsfield Massachusetts, which in the eyes of most sports fans should place me as a Boston Red Sox fan. But Massachusetts is a bigger place than most people would assume. Often when people ask me “how far is Pittsfield from Boston?” I say “about 2 and a half hours or as far as you can get without actually leaving the state.” For while in fact the word “Massachusetts” would indicate that my loyalty should be to the home state, in actuality my region of the state was/is a triangulation of 3 separate TV markets, covering 3 separate teams: the aforementioned Boston Red Sox, the New York Yankees, and (if you really hate the Yankees but can’t stand rooting for the Sox) the New York Mets, the one New York team (in any sport) I couldn’t hate if I tried. Growing up in the 80’s, way before ESPN and MLB started dominating the baseball airwaves, I had The Boston Red Sox on WSBK out of Boston, the New York Yankees on WPIX out of New York, and The New York Mets out of WWOR, Secaucus, New Jersey. Realistically, I had a legitimate claim on any one of these teams as “home town” teams, since they were brought to my living room in equal measure. I mostly gravitated to the Sox and the Mets, since I didn’t care too much for the Yankees and they were terrible in the 80’s anyway.
Fair Weather Fan.
Growing up, I was a classic fair weather fan. My reasons for liking teams usually had to do with players I liked, or teams that were doing well.
The first year I started watching baseball was 1984, (the year after the Baltimore Orioles last won the World Series). I had a sticker book of 1983, which required me to buy sets of stickers that fit into that book into the appropriate slots. The packets of stickers were about 60 cents each and contained about 6 stickers with either a baseball player or a baseball scene from that year. Because that sticker book was my obsession that summer, I will always remember a few random things, like that Rick Dempsey was the 1983 World Series MVP, and that the Kansas City Royals finished at an 81-81 record.
But I had no one team I favored. I liked Dale Murphy, so I liked the Braves. I liked Carlton Fisk, who was playing for the White Sox. That year, I watched my first World Series, and I liked the Tigers, who beat the Padres in 5 games (it really was no contest, as that team was a powerhouse that year). The next year, Kansas City won it all, and I for whatever reason started wearing a Royals hat (that was ill-advised). I even rooted for the A’s the year they got beat by Kirk Gibson’s walk-off homerun in Game one of 1988…for a very limited time, at one point or another I had a different favorite team, possibly because I had yet to discover things like team loyalty and hometown pride or the nobility in suffering (like Cubs fans or the Red Sox fans of those days did). I was just a kid who didn’t know any better back then.
1986
But my one true year as a semi-devoted fan of any one particular team was 1986, when I fully backed my “native” Boston (“about 2 and a half hours or as far as you can get without actually leaving the state”) Red Sox…except when I was watching my equally native New York Mets, who were also quite good that year.
Boston had Dwight Evans, Rich Gedman, Roger Clemens, Calvin Shiraldi, Jim Rice, Bill Buckner, and a host of other people I can’t remember off the top of my head. The Mets had Wally Joyner, Len Dykstra, Ray Knight, Howard Johnson, Darryl Strawberry, Dwight Gooden, Ron Darling, Gary Carter, Tim Teufel (of the “Tuefel Shuffle”) George Foster, Mookie Wilson, all managed by Davey Johnson, one of the best managers in baseball…come to think of it, it’s possible I remember more about the Mets than the Sox… (I’m trying to write this without googling: these are just the names I remember…) 1986 was a great year for my dual fandom of these teams, as I pulled for and followed them all year as they began their collision course with one another in that classic World Series. I had to pick a side: I chose the Sox…those of us who were alive and conscious during the 80’s know exactly how that one worked out…
I didn’t actually see the ball go through Buckner’s legs; it all happened past my bedtime (I was 10). My dad told me about it the next morning, in kind of a foggy and confused way that lots of Sox fans felt the next morning. I probably didn’t feel it as intensely as other new Englanders. But when I watched Game 7 and my favorite relief pitcher that year, Calvin Shiraldi, got hammered by the Mets (I don’t actually know what happened, this is just how I remember it), my heart sank as surely as if I’d actually seen that ball go through Buckner’s legs. (My adult self knows what an overhyped error this was. But it will unfairly go down in the annals of scapegoating, along with the Bartman play of 2003. Please, Chicago, forgive that man. Alou would’ve never caught that thing anyway!)
Anyway, after that year I kind of lost interest in the Sox. I just wasn’t as committed as I thought I was. Other than my year I followed the Athletics in ’88, I moved on to other things, namely music and playing the drums in little band called Lampstand. I didn’t watch sports at all for almost 6 years…
Baltimore.
And the next thing you know, I grew up and moved to Baltimore. Where, as it turned out, my love of baseball was restored…
It didn’t happen right away. I moved during the ’94 strike year. I was 18. But sometime during the 1995 season, when some guy named Ripken was making his run toward history, playing in a record 2131 consecutive games, I worked at a deli that was about a half block away from the celebratory parade route for Mr. Ripken, which we were allowed to skip out of work to attend. The next years the team went on two exciting playoff runs that united the city behind them. Suddenly they were the most important thing going. It was during that period right before the Ravens came to town and took primary ownership of the sports attention in Baltimore. In ’97, when the O’s went wire to wire, I remember being in a math class at my Community College, in another Game 6…people running out every other few minutes to check on the score (if this were today, I could have just followed along on my phone). And…the O’s losing to Cleveland in a heartbreaker…
Unlike those games of ten years earlier, this was in my city, my beautiful adopted home city, one I was proud to call home. I moved for my own reasons, but one of which was to be my own person, to assert my independence in a new place where things were fresh and exciting to me. I’ve always seen Baltimore with outsider’s eyes, and I’ve always felt like this was a gift. I love the people, the neighborhoods, the great many things to do, the fact that even now after 20 years I still discover new parks and parts of town I never knew existed, and even more, I love my teams. And while I have learned to love my Ravens (2 Super Bowls makes it easy), I love my Orioles just a little bit more…
The Dark Years.
Yeah, any O’s fan remembers the years between 1998 and 2011. We sucked. Gotta own it: if I refer to an Orioles win by saying “We Won!” I also have to be able to say “We lost.” after a loss. We sucked. Really, really, really, fucking sucked.
This team certainly spent a lot of time punishing me for turning my back on what should have been my childhood team. Watching the Red Sox win 3 World Championships may seem like punishment for not sticking with them. But at the same time, I am not that person anymore. I could no more call myself a Red Sox fan than I could stop breathing or singing in the shower or yelling “moo!” at cows on the side of the road, or yelling “puppy!” whenever I see a puppy. It’s just not me.
Even the Dark Years had their moments. I actually attended my first big league game in 1998. It was the O’s vs the Chicago White Sox, Mark Buehrle was pitching and I think Jose Canseco was still playing. I know that we lost. But I had so much fun going, I kind of didn’t care. My buddy’s dad took a group of us, bought us beers, and as we sat out on beautiful night of mediocre baseball, he seriously questioned why we’d all never done this before?
I really didn’t have an answer for that. But if it had taken me 23 years to finally make it to a big league game, I certainly have made up for that in the years since…
But these were the Dark years of multiple managers and ownership interference and stupid decisions and Albert Belle and losing Mike Mussina and a cover article in a national sports magazine detailing how bad and poorly mismanaged my team was. Things were so bad that a grass roots fan protest was organized: there was a mass walkout during a game, to protest the poor team play and the poor management that had led us into this horrible stretch. I wasn’t a part of that, but I wanted to be.
2012. Buck, and Why I continue to love baseball and the O’s.
Then Buck happened.
Buck Showalter taking over this team at the end of 2010 was the beginning of a sea change in Baltimore. After many years of many different managers, it finally looked like the ownership was getting serious when they hired Buck. The newspaper began printing the O’s record under Buck. And even though it was way late in the season and we were way out of the pennant race, Buck gave us reason to talk about the O’s.
My wife and I love Buck. We watch his press conferences, laugh at his gentle humor; bask in the glow of his simple wisdom. Buck gives us our little moment of Zen, every day. Nothing makes us feel better after a loss than listening to his long-view take on everything. And nothing grounds me more as a fan after a win then understanding his long-view. Baseball is a long season, 162 games a year. One win or win loss isn’t then end of the world, nor is it a reason to think too much of yourself. No matter what, Buck is in charge, and any success the team achieves is surely the result of his leadership, something we had lacked for so many years. One day there will be a statue of him out there past left/centerfield. I just know it.
Then the curse of the Andino happened.
Another major event involving the Boston Red Sox that I didn’t actually see. This was still during what can be considered the Dark Years. I only actually read about it on Facebook, and in spite of my lagging interest in my adopted home team, I at last was able to express pride in them for knocking out the Red Sox on the last day of the 2011 season. The Red Sox, a team whose fans had been invading our stadium for years and possibly edging out traveling New Yorkers for the title of Most Obnoxious Visiting Fans.
(SIDEBAR SOAPBOX: I have nothing against visiting fans. I have been one myself. I have made friends with visiting fans, most notably a very nice group of Detroiters, as well as we have made fans in other cities—San Diegans and Houstonians were all very nice. But when I visit another stadium, I am respectful of my place as a visitor. When I am in another city to see a game, I never refer to it as an “Orioles game”: If we are at an Orioles game played in San Francisco, it is a Giants game; if in Houston, it is an Astros game. To refer to another’s stadium as simply being the site of an “Orioles game” is disrespectful. You are a guest in that city: be polite. While I will cheer loudly for my team when they do something good, I do not smack talk the home team. I also do not lead cheers. In short, I am not an asshole. END OF SIDEBAR SOAPBOX.)
Then 2012 happened.
A magical run that turned my casual but steady fandom of this team into a full on obsession. Just before that season, my wife, who had possibly looked at my devotion to this team with loving but benign detachment, got on board. This was completely her idea and was not done with any coaxing from me and I love her for it. Suddenly she amassed a wealth of knowledge about all the Orioles personal stories, following them on Twitter and keeping up with up and coming stars. Whereas at one time I was driving the bus of the hopeless Oriole trip, now I have a partner in crime who rides with me and knows more about it than I do.
We followed that run all the way to the end. We had tickets and we endured the rain of the first two playoff games at home, yelled our heads off when we won Game 2; then we watched into the wee hours on TV, and even after finally losing to the Yankees in 5 games, I couldn’t help but be proud of my team, and their turnaround.
Now when I go to the home games and see the little Orioles highlight package of the last 60 years, culminating with the footage of the team celebrating on the field after the Wild Card win against Texas and the announcer saying “And the magical run of the Baltimore Orioles continues...” sometimes I have to stop myself from shedding a tear…
And Now…
I have met Orioles, gotten autographs, been interviewed by the TV news, travelled to other stadiums to follow the team, watched the standings, become the go-to guy at work for the answer to questions like "did we win last night?" and "who are we playing today?"…it is important to me in a way that is hard to explain to a non fan. Non fans can say “It’s just a game.” They are free to say that. But if it’s just a game, then it is a game that fills me with joy and exhilaration and dread and heartache and happiness and hope and pride and love. In short: all the things that make up life. The world is a fucked up place full of horrible things and assholes and unpleasantness and problems too big for me to make one damn bit of difference about. But baseball is solid, concrete, and in my view, one of the best diversions ever known to man. If I choose to care about this diversion, I at least keep my sanity and do not give in to the despair of the world.
Pride in a city, pride in a team, and an unwavering faith that one day (hopefully sooner rather than later) a team that I love will make it to the Promised Land have taken me full circle in my life as a baseball fan. While I have always followed the game, it has meant different things to me at different points in my life, and this is what it means now: a little pride, a little faith and a lot of love.
I have been a baseball fan all my life, an Orioles fan for 20 years. Rain or shine, good year or bad: that is what I am. I hope it all makes sense to you but I understand if it doesn’t.
Thank you for reading my words today.
July, 2014.
NOTES:
Things the non-hardcore baseball fan might need to know to understand some of my references:
1. The ball going through Buckner’s legs refers to a play in Game 6 of the 1986 World Series. In extra innings, with a runner on second and the game tied, Mookie Wilson hit a weak ground ball down the first base side, which should have been an easy play for first baseman Bill Buckner, only it went just under his glove and into shallow right field, bringing home Ray Knight, the winning run from third base.
2. “The Bartman play” refers to a foul ball hit with one out in the 8th inning of Game 6 of the National League Championship, Chicago Cubs against the Florida Marlins in 2003. While several fans went for the ball, the unlucky young Steve Bartman was the one whose hand actually tipped the ball preventing any possibility of a catch by the left fielder. Failure to make this out led the Marlins to a huge rally to overcome the Cubs, win the game, force a Game 7, resulting in the Marlins going to the World Series, which they won. There is a GREAT movie about this called “Catching Hell,” which you can probably find on Netflix. Here is a clip of the play.
March 29, 2014
Beer Club, Part One: The Elephant Mascot.
Hi, I haven't posted to this blog in forever, so maybe it is just out of left field that I am doing this now. But I have been working on a new novel (or to be more accurate, been editing one I did a few years ago) and have been at a crossroads with what to do with it--to self publish in a paper form, like I did with The Best of Thunder Johnson, or to put it out on-line, or in a blog, such as this one. Today I am sharing the first chapter of Beer Club, for your perusal. If you have any feedback, thoughts, what have you, feel free to comment. I just know that I am at my best creatively when I have the energy of feedback and fan demand.
Beer Club, Part One: The Elephant Mascot.
Chapter one: Kyle’s Job Interview with the Master of the Gamblon Cookie Empire
Man, I hate this part.
Around the eighth inning on a cool night in Gamblon City, the Gamblon CITY Elephants were leading the out of town team by two runs. And I knew what that meant.
If it could be said that sometime after the lobster shuffle, and before the 7th inning stretch, this costume became my prison…then by the eighth, it became my deathtrap. The climb up the pole was a good thirty feet, from which I could access the team flag, which I was required to hoist after every victory. I’d usually begin my climb sometime around the end of the eighth, when all the sweat from my costume had rendered me a soaking mess. Can’t look down, but even if I wanted to I couldn’t, not with this mask in my way.
My name is Kyle Jones, and I am a semiprofessional mascot. The costume I wear, an elephant, is the official mascot of the Gamblon City Elephant Club. How I came from where I was to where I am now is a story and a half, but it pretty much begins this one night that began at the ballpark, where I was, as usual, working hard for a half empty stadium of fans who weren’t really paying attention to me anyway, all the while I was risking my life just to keep my job. Just another day in the life of the mascot.
I climbed, even though the lead was tenuous--we were only up by two runs--but those were the rules laid down by my boss, the man that hired me, Steve Gamblon.
*
“After the Eighth, and we’re up by two or more runs, you start climbing the pole so you can hoist the flag. That’s part of your job, got it?”
I did. Mr. Gamblon probably didn’t even go to these games, but I couldn’t take the chance that one of his minions wouldn’t speak up and tell him about someone shirking his duty by failing to mount the pole. That just wasn’t done around here. So onward I climbed, despite my fear of falling, which, as it turned out, was much less than my fear of unemployment.
Steve Gamblon’s family had made their fortune in the cookie business. It was said that their Oatmeal Chocolate Chip was to die for. In fact, some may have died for it. The recipe was tightly guarded secret, only known to a very small number of executives, and only then on a Need to Know basis. But somebody from the outside got too close…seducing one of the executives, she got the recipe and went public with it…
It didn’t take long for the Gamblon family to act to protect their recipe. Setting up firewalls to block the internet, all over Hawaii. And to deal the harsh consequences to both the woman who made the secret awesome Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Cookie Recipe Public (“Scary good!” said one of the comments on the recipe website, before it was taken down) and to the man who’d allowed himself to be compromised in such a manner.
It was ugly. But the Gambon Family didn’t become the most powerful family in town by sharing their cookie recipe for free. “Free sex that cost you my company is not free!” he said, as he fired the man who’d cost him millions of dollars, while all the grandmas out there were cooking his secret recipe for free, who’d previously been paying to eat his cookies in one of his many stores. It was utterly ridiculous.
This was also the way he ran his baseball team. Ruthless, cutthroat…all the other owners hated him. He’d trade players at the drop of a hat, screw people over on deals that were unfair to everyone. But he got results. They just weren’t good results.
I knew I didn’t want to be on his radar. But there I was. In his office. Facing the one man who could crush me. Or maybe one or two men who could crush me. Me. The elephant getting crushed under the mighty fist of the Gamblon Empire.
*
It had already been an awkward job interview, when I tripped up and gave him a hug instead of a handshake upon meeting him. That was already a tremendous source of stress for me--the handshake, and I’d been struggling with it for years. Back when I was young, it used to be simple: you met someone and shook their hand. Now…well, it’s just complicated, and I was pretty out of the loop with the whole thing. I didn’t know the level of intimacy that fellow humans expected from me. I mean, as the Elephant, in the costume, little kids and drunks were always coming up to me and doing various greetings, handshakes, back slaps. That was to be expected. But the interactions in the real world were baffling. I couldn’t possibly remember them all. I couldn’t possibly know that some person who wanted to hug me was going to be under whelmed and disappointed by my anemic little hand shake, a product of my weakness, resulting from years of lack of exercise and care for my body. And how was I to realize that a hug is inappropriate on a job interview until I had done it about 4 or 5 times without actually getting the job. And nobody told me, and it was hard to look up on the internet because, well, I didn’t have a computer. But I tried to play it off as part of my humor, and I guess it must have worked, as Mr. Gamblon declared me to be a funny guy that he liked.
“You’re a funny guy,” said Steve Gamblon. “I like you.”
*
Half an inning later, when our “closer” has blown yet another lead, few people take note of the elephant shimmying down the pole, having been unsuccessful at my job, even though this wasn’t my fault. I told myself I was going to have a word with our closer, if I had the chance. This team was awful, our fans were awful, and I was awful. The worst mascot out of my class of mascots at mascot school. Back when I was young and full of spirit, I would have hated what I’d become--this bush league town you couldn’t even find on a map. But now it was just what it was, and I’d learned to accept that this is where life had led me.
*
Mascot School was a grueling 6 day ordeal.
“You’re mascots, now, you’re special! My little Miracles! You are athletes! Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise! You represent your team, your fans, and your fellow mascots out there.”
I could have done my job just fine without the sunshine being blown up my ass.
My instructor…known throughout the industry as Marvin the Mackerel, kind of a low level player who nevertheless loved his job and tried to bring the spirit to his students. This is where I’d wound up after answering an ad in the paper, sometime after Elizabeth, my love, left me for Thad Chesterton, a Ken Doll Penis possessor who I will tell you about shortly. Me, in a room with 6 other students of varying levels of enthusiasm.
“All right, now let’s work on spelling out words with our bodies. You!” He pointed to me. “Give me ‘Mississippi!” If anything, it made me feel worse about where I had gone, what I had done with my life. But at the same time, it was easy to get swept up in what mascot school had to teach me, and some of those friendships might have stayed for life, if I wasn’t such a complete shit of a person sometimes.
*
Most games in the big league had two or three of us working a game, swapping out between innings, but down here where the small timers worked, where the less marquee names worked, it was just me, working all by myself and destroying myself by the end of every night. Pay was lower here, there was little glory to be had, and there was certainly no love for me and my lot. How I envied those big time mascots--the Philly Phanatic, the San Diego Chicken, the Oriole Bird--those guys had the Gig. Me, I was just a fat old elephant in a suit that, as it happened, also served as my only piece of clothing. More on that later…
Some would rather die than take off their mask…not me. That head was hot, and they really weren’t paying me enough down here to maintain any semblance of an illusion. But there was still the concern of getting fired, and so whenever I was climbing the pole or doing a trick I usually left it on.
The Gamblon Elephants were the farm team, class AA minus, of some big league team in a league that was setting itself up as competition for major League baseball (?) The local folks in Gamblon, or the townies, had a saying: if you can’t bet on it, it doesn’t exist. It was pretty fitting that I was involved on one of the only things that they wouldn’t allow anyone to bet on. And for all intents and purposes, I may as well have not existed…
I forget sometimes how much I hate sports. Football, in particular. I’ve always been more into the art and theater, and a bit chubby to boot. It’s appropriate that in my chosen profession I’m forced to play my part as a cartoon image of the largest land mammal. So much going into it makes me uncomfortable. So many body, contorting, so many men who’d bristle at the thought of even sitting too close to another man on the bus for fear of appearing homosexual see no problem with the quarterback bending over to rape the center play after play. I Know…I’m not really saying anything that hasn’t been said before. But what really bothers me is see my mascot brothers and sisters abusing their bodies in the ways they do--the Philly Psychotic, the San Bernardino Scaffolder, the World Famous San Diego Fucken Chicken. Besides, what did they have that I didn’t have? Why were they playing the big time when I was stuck in this half assed little burg.
My job as the Elephant mascot was to do tricks during the key moments of the game. I had magic tricks, jokes, animal related skits…all pantomime, mind you, but some classics, and the few kids who came to these games seemed to like what I did. But with the way that we were ignored by the tourists and shunned by the local chamber of commerce (we were the only local team to not be included in the “Fun things to do while you find yourself having fun in Gamblon” brochure--ahh, that was all politics anyway, don’t get me started) and also we were a professional team that none of the local sports books did not include in their daily score sheets--also politics--don’t get me started there either--- no one could bet on us in a town that would bet on anything and everything, and therefore, in the eyes of most everyone but the hard core religious conservatives and family men who brought their…family people, we were just irrelevant. And I was just irrelevant. A lonely, fat, overheated mascot in a suit with little or no ventilation. I was soaked with the sweat of a life filled with failure where even at my age I continued to be mystified by the success of others and at the same time uninterested in gaining any of it for myself.
It ain’t easy being grey.
*
“An actor, eh?” As Steve Gamblon went over my checkered job history, I tried not to allude too much to the fact that I was viewing this mascot gig as pretty much the desperation job that it was. My resume wouldn’t blow anybody away, but at least it was well typed. “Ever been in anything I know, that I might have heard of?”
I kind of resented this sort of question when people gave it. It wasn’t the sort of thing you asked of other people. As if “you” hearing of it somehow made it legitimate. But at least this time I was ready for it, as I had the perfect “illegitimate” production that I’m sure he’d never heard of.
“Have you heard of ‘Phantom of the Arena’?” It was the first thing that popped into my head. I’m sure my ex, Elizabeth, wouldn’t have cared that I was using her crappy play to land a crappy job. Plus, I’m sure she’d appreciate my contribution to its “buzz.”
*
“Why not just do the real ‘Phantom?’” I remember saying, much to my great regret. “you know, the one that involves an Opera? I hear that one was quite successful.”
She just stared at me and launched into some ill-conceived rant about how “Thad Chesterton was a genius” and “Thad Chesterton had studied under Strasburg” and “Thad was turning theater on its ear” and “if only New York would see it our way” he’d be treated like the star he was truly born to be, and, my favorite, “This is the Real Phantom! Who are you to question its legitimacy?”
I’ve got nothing against theater folk. I mean, I’m one of them, at least I used to be. But come on! How can you possibly take yourself so seriously. And, (more applicable to my situation) how did Thad come off as better than me? I mean, could you even FIND the man’s penis? Or was he just flat, like a Ken doll??? Did they even have sex? Okay. That was cheap shot. And I’m sorry, I think. No. I’m not. I’m not sorry at all when I speak the truth.
“It’s new, I killed it in the performances at the local playhouse. Director Thad Chesterton is a genius who expertly handles his actors.”
What I meant was that he “Expertly handles” my ex girlfriend with his Ken Doll Penis…ahh, I’ll get to it. We hadn’t been connecting well since she had hooked up with some guy from the local theater group--some real fruity phony baloney guy named Thad Chesterton.
“Honey, do we have any fruit?”
“I think so.”
“What about baloney?”
“I think we have some in the drawer?”
“Hey, is this baloney?”
“No sir, that’s something new. It’s phony baloney.”
*
“Great, great,” he said, not really caring, still looking down at the expertly typed resume. Which, of course, somebody else had typed for me.
“I also can juggle,” I added, helpfully, or at least I thought I was being helpful.
“Great, great,” he said again, then, apparently pressed for time, he just decided to hire me in spite of his lack of real knowledge about me…
“You start Sunday. We’ll fit you for a costume. Your name is Packy, the loveable Pachyderm Mascot for the Gamblon Elephants. Congratulations.” Given what I know now about the unforgiving work that was going to be ahead of me, I’m not sure that congratulations was the right word. I’d have no union, physical work, working outdoors in part time seasonal work for a megalomaniacal owner for a team that hadn’t won a damn thing in years. No job protection, I could be replaced by anybody at any time if I got hurt doing a back flip or something. And damned if my back didn’t still hurt from some of the things I would soon be doing for that team. It was going to be a thankless job. But as I would learn later, I needed that thankless job to reach a point much later in my spiritual development. Which wouldn’t come until much later and enlightenment was upon me.
“Thank you,” I said, remembering this time to skip the hug and simply shake his hand. “Thanks a lot.” Pump, up and down, up and down, up and down, one two three times…and we are done. There. That wasn’t so bad.
Anyway, that’s how I wound up here, on this hot August night in Gamblon, working up a stench inside my suit while minor leaguers sent here by teams that didn’t want them to play for fans who didn’t care and never watched me anyway.
*
“Tough one, tough one.” I could hear them talking as I stood over the sink trying to decide whether I needed to vomit. The, reliever who’d been up and down so many times, I can’t even remember his name or what team he was from--the one who’d blown the game.
“You think blowing the game was tough?” I heard myself saying to him. “You try climbing up and down that pole every night after some pretty boy washed up reliever has blown another game for his team. Go fuck yourself, pretty boy.”
I don’t know what came over me. The best I can come up with is that I’m just baffled by ambition, and achievement. But I also hated climbing down a pole after our guy couldn’t hold a lead.
He just looked at me like I had two heads--another disgruntled fan, perhaps, but still hard to take seriously, because after all, I was dressed in an elephant costume. This guy…he couldn’t hold his dick, let alone a lead. And that bastard actually smiled at me. That pretty boy smile. God, I hated people like him. Like that pretty boy who stole my woman away from me, Thad Chesterton.
Late, after washing out as a pitcher, he would try to come back as the water boy. Failure hung a cloud over everything in this town. From the losing baseball team that wasn’t even important enough to apply the effort to ignore, to the thousands of losers who came through the city limits to hit up our cheesy little “downtown casino zone,” a red light district that went on for all of one block. I couldn’t help but feel like I’d just been trapped in a world where the imagination had gone out the window, and the dreams didn’t die so much as they just didn’t get up the energy to care anymore.
Beer Club, Part One: The Elephant Mascot.
Chapter one: Kyle’s Job Interview with the Master of the Gamblon Cookie Empire
Man, I hate this part.
Around the eighth inning on a cool night in Gamblon City, the Gamblon CITY Elephants were leading the out of town team by two runs. And I knew what that meant.
If it could be said that sometime after the lobster shuffle, and before the 7th inning stretch, this costume became my prison…then by the eighth, it became my deathtrap. The climb up the pole was a good thirty feet, from which I could access the team flag, which I was required to hoist after every victory. I’d usually begin my climb sometime around the end of the eighth, when all the sweat from my costume had rendered me a soaking mess. Can’t look down, but even if I wanted to I couldn’t, not with this mask in my way.
My name is Kyle Jones, and I am a semiprofessional mascot. The costume I wear, an elephant, is the official mascot of the Gamblon City Elephant Club. How I came from where I was to where I am now is a story and a half, but it pretty much begins this one night that began at the ballpark, where I was, as usual, working hard for a half empty stadium of fans who weren’t really paying attention to me anyway, all the while I was risking my life just to keep my job. Just another day in the life of the mascot.
I climbed, even though the lead was tenuous--we were only up by two runs--but those were the rules laid down by my boss, the man that hired me, Steve Gamblon.
*
“After the Eighth, and we’re up by two or more runs, you start climbing the pole so you can hoist the flag. That’s part of your job, got it?”
I did. Mr. Gamblon probably didn’t even go to these games, but I couldn’t take the chance that one of his minions wouldn’t speak up and tell him about someone shirking his duty by failing to mount the pole. That just wasn’t done around here. So onward I climbed, despite my fear of falling, which, as it turned out, was much less than my fear of unemployment.
Steve Gamblon’s family had made their fortune in the cookie business. It was said that their Oatmeal Chocolate Chip was to die for. In fact, some may have died for it. The recipe was tightly guarded secret, only known to a very small number of executives, and only then on a Need to Know basis. But somebody from the outside got too close…seducing one of the executives, she got the recipe and went public with it…
It didn’t take long for the Gamblon family to act to protect their recipe. Setting up firewalls to block the internet, all over Hawaii. And to deal the harsh consequences to both the woman who made the secret awesome Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Cookie Recipe Public (“Scary good!” said one of the comments on the recipe website, before it was taken down) and to the man who’d allowed himself to be compromised in such a manner.
It was ugly. But the Gambon Family didn’t become the most powerful family in town by sharing their cookie recipe for free. “Free sex that cost you my company is not free!” he said, as he fired the man who’d cost him millions of dollars, while all the grandmas out there were cooking his secret recipe for free, who’d previously been paying to eat his cookies in one of his many stores. It was utterly ridiculous.
This was also the way he ran his baseball team. Ruthless, cutthroat…all the other owners hated him. He’d trade players at the drop of a hat, screw people over on deals that were unfair to everyone. But he got results. They just weren’t good results.
I knew I didn’t want to be on his radar. But there I was. In his office. Facing the one man who could crush me. Or maybe one or two men who could crush me. Me. The elephant getting crushed under the mighty fist of the Gamblon Empire.
*
It had already been an awkward job interview, when I tripped up and gave him a hug instead of a handshake upon meeting him. That was already a tremendous source of stress for me--the handshake, and I’d been struggling with it for years. Back when I was young, it used to be simple: you met someone and shook their hand. Now…well, it’s just complicated, and I was pretty out of the loop with the whole thing. I didn’t know the level of intimacy that fellow humans expected from me. I mean, as the Elephant, in the costume, little kids and drunks were always coming up to me and doing various greetings, handshakes, back slaps. That was to be expected. But the interactions in the real world were baffling. I couldn’t possibly remember them all. I couldn’t possibly know that some person who wanted to hug me was going to be under whelmed and disappointed by my anemic little hand shake, a product of my weakness, resulting from years of lack of exercise and care for my body. And how was I to realize that a hug is inappropriate on a job interview until I had done it about 4 or 5 times without actually getting the job. And nobody told me, and it was hard to look up on the internet because, well, I didn’t have a computer. But I tried to play it off as part of my humor, and I guess it must have worked, as Mr. Gamblon declared me to be a funny guy that he liked.
“You’re a funny guy,” said Steve Gamblon. “I like you.”
*
Half an inning later, when our “closer” has blown yet another lead, few people take note of the elephant shimmying down the pole, having been unsuccessful at my job, even though this wasn’t my fault. I told myself I was going to have a word with our closer, if I had the chance. This team was awful, our fans were awful, and I was awful. The worst mascot out of my class of mascots at mascot school. Back when I was young and full of spirit, I would have hated what I’d become--this bush league town you couldn’t even find on a map. But now it was just what it was, and I’d learned to accept that this is where life had led me.
*
Mascot School was a grueling 6 day ordeal.
“You’re mascots, now, you’re special! My little Miracles! You are athletes! Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise! You represent your team, your fans, and your fellow mascots out there.”
I could have done my job just fine without the sunshine being blown up my ass.
My instructor…known throughout the industry as Marvin the Mackerel, kind of a low level player who nevertheless loved his job and tried to bring the spirit to his students. This is where I’d wound up after answering an ad in the paper, sometime after Elizabeth, my love, left me for Thad Chesterton, a Ken Doll Penis possessor who I will tell you about shortly. Me, in a room with 6 other students of varying levels of enthusiasm.
“All right, now let’s work on spelling out words with our bodies. You!” He pointed to me. “Give me ‘Mississippi!” If anything, it made me feel worse about where I had gone, what I had done with my life. But at the same time, it was easy to get swept up in what mascot school had to teach me, and some of those friendships might have stayed for life, if I wasn’t such a complete shit of a person sometimes.
*
Most games in the big league had two or three of us working a game, swapping out between innings, but down here where the small timers worked, where the less marquee names worked, it was just me, working all by myself and destroying myself by the end of every night. Pay was lower here, there was little glory to be had, and there was certainly no love for me and my lot. How I envied those big time mascots--the Philly Phanatic, the San Diego Chicken, the Oriole Bird--those guys had the Gig. Me, I was just a fat old elephant in a suit that, as it happened, also served as my only piece of clothing. More on that later…
Some would rather die than take off their mask…not me. That head was hot, and they really weren’t paying me enough down here to maintain any semblance of an illusion. But there was still the concern of getting fired, and so whenever I was climbing the pole or doing a trick I usually left it on.
The Gamblon Elephants were the farm team, class AA minus, of some big league team in a league that was setting itself up as competition for major League baseball (?) The local folks in Gamblon, or the townies, had a saying: if you can’t bet on it, it doesn’t exist. It was pretty fitting that I was involved on one of the only things that they wouldn’t allow anyone to bet on. And for all intents and purposes, I may as well have not existed…
I forget sometimes how much I hate sports. Football, in particular. I’ve always been more into the art and theater, and a bit chubby to boot. It’s appropriate that in my chosen profession I’m forced to play my part as a cartoon image of the largest land mammal. So much going into it makes me uncomfortable. So many body, contorting, so many men who’d bristle at the thought of even sitting too close to another man on the bus for fear of appearing homosexual see no problem with the quarterback bending over to rape the center play after play. I Know…I’m not really saying anything that hasn’t been said before. But what really bothers me is see my mascot brothers and sisters abusing their bodies in the ways they do--the Philly Psychotic, the San Bernardino Scaffolder, the World Famous San Diego Fucken Chicken. Besides, what did they have that I didn’t have? Why were they playing the big time when I was stuck in this half assed little burg.
My job as the Elephant mascot was to do tricks during the key moments of the game. I had magic tricks, jokes, animal related skits…all pantomime, mind you, but some classics, and the few kids who came to these games seemed to like what I did. But with the way that we were ignored by the tourists and shunned by the local chamber of commerce (we were the only local team to not be included in the “Fun things to do while you find yourself having fun in Gamblon” brochure--ahh, that was all politics anyway, don’t get me started) and also we were a professional team that none of the local sports books did not include in their daily score sheets--also politics--don’t get me started there either--- no one could bet on us in a town that would bet on anything and everything, and therefore, in the eyes of most everyone but the hard core religious conservatives and family men who brought their…family people, we were just irrelevant. And I was just irrelevant. A lonely, fat, overheated mascot in a suit with little or no ventilation. I was soaked with the sweat of a life filled with failure where even at my age I continued to be mystified by the success of others and at the same time uninterested in gaining any of it for myself.
It ain’t easy being grey.
*
“An actor, eh?” As Steve Gamblon went over my checkered job history, I tried not to allude too much to the fact that I was viewing this mascot gig as pretty much the desperation job that it was. My resume wouldn’t blow anybody away, but at least it was well typed. “Ever been in anything I know, that I might have heard of?”
I kind of resented this sort of question when people gave it. It wasn’t the sort of thing you asked of other people. As if “you” hearing of it somehow made it legitimate. But at least this time I was ready for it, as I had the perfect “illegitimate” production that I’m sure he’d never heard of.
“Have you heard of ‘Phantom of the Arena’?” It was the first thing that popped into my head. I’m sure my ex, Elizabeth, wouldn’t have cared that I was using her crappy play to land a crappy job. Plus, I’m sure she’d appreciate my contribution to its “buzz.”
*
“Why not just do the real ‘Phantom?’” I remember saying, much to my great regret. “you know, the one that involves an Opera? I hear that one was quite successful.”
She just stared at me and launched into some ill-conceived rant about how “Thad Chesterton was a genius” and “Thad Chesterton had studied under Strasburg” and “Thad was turning theater on its ear” and “if only New York would see it our way” he’d be treated like the star he was truly born to be, and, my favorite, “This is the Real Phantom! Who are you to question its legitimacy?”
I’ve got nothing against theater folk. I mean, I’m one of them, at least I used to be. But come on! How can you possibly take yourself so seriously. And, (more applicable to my situation) how did Thad come off as better than me? I mean, could you even FIND the man’s penis? Or was he just flat, like a Ken doll??? Did they even have sex? Okay. That was cheap shot. And I’m sorry, I think. No. I’m not. I’m not sorry at all when I speak the truth.
“It’s new, I killed it in the performances at the local playhouse. Director Thad Chesterton is a genius who expertly handles his actors.”
What I meant was that he “Expertly handles” my ex girlfriend with his Ken Doll Penis…ahh, I’ll get to it. We hadn’t been connecting well since she had hooked up with some guy from the local theater group--some real fruity phony baloney guy named Thad Chesterton.
“Honey, do we have any fruit?”
“I think so.”
“What about baloney?”
“I think we have some in the drawer?”
“Hey, is this baloney?”
“No sir, that’s something new. It’s phony baloney.”
*
“Great, great,” he said, not really caring, still looking down at the expertly typed resume. Which, of course, somebody else had typed for me.
“I also can juggle,” I added, helpfully, or at least I thought I was being helpful.
“Great, great,” he said again, then, apparently pressed for time, he just decided to hire me in spite of his lack of real knowledge about me…
“You start Sunday. We’ll fit you for a costume. Your name is Packy, the loveable Pachyderm Mascot for the Gamblon Elephants. Congratulations.” Given what I know now about the unforgiving work that was going to be ahead of me, I’m not sure that congratulations was the right word. I’d have no union, physical work, working outdoors in part time seasonal work for a megalomaniacal owner for a team that hadn’t won a damn thing in years. No job protection, I could be replaced by anybody at any time if I got hurt doing a back flip or something. And damned if my back didn’t still hurt from some of the things I would soon be doing for that team. It was going to be a thankless job. But as I would learn later, I needed that thankless job to reach a point much later in my spiritual development. Which wouldn’t come until much later and enlightenment was upon me.
“Thank you,” I said, remembering this time to skip the hug and simply shake his hand. “Thanks a lot.” Pump, up and down, up and down, up and down, one two three times…and we are done. There. That wasn’t so bad.
Anyway, that’s how I wound up here, on this hot August night in Gamblon, working up a stench inside my suit while minor leaguers sent here by teams that didn’t want them to play for fans who didn’t care and never watched me anyway.
*
“Tough one, tough one.” I could hear them talking as I stood over the sink trying to decide whether I needed to vomit. The, reliever who’d been up and down so many times, I can’t even remember his name or what team he was from--the one who’d blown the game.
“You think blowing the game was tough?” I heard myself saying to him. “You try climbing up and down that pole every night after some pretty boy washed up reliever has blown another game for his team. Go fuck yourself, pretty boy.”
I don’t know what came over me. The best I can come up with is that I’m just baffled by ambition, and achievement. But I also hated climbing down a pole after our guy couldn’t hold a lead.
He just looked at me like I had two heads--another disgruntled fan, perhaps, but still hard to take seriously, because after all, I was dressed in an elephant costume. This guy…he couldn’t hold his dick, let alone a lead. And that bastard actually smiled at me. That pretty boy smile. God, I hated people like him. Like that pretty boy who stole my woman away from me, Thad Chesterton.
Late, after washing out as a pitcher, he would try to come back as the water boy. Failure hung a cloud over everything in this town. From the losing baseball team that wasn’t even important enough to apply the effort to ignore, to the thousands of losers who came through the city limits to hit up our cheesy little “downtown casino zone,” a red light district that went on for all of one block. I couldn’t help but feel like I’d just been trapped in a world where the imagination had gone out the window, and the dreams didn’t die so much as they just didn’t get up the energy to care anymore.
February 23, 2011
How to Become a Famous Writer...a review
How to Become a Famous Writer Before You're Dead: Your Words in Print and Your Name in Lights by Ariel GoreMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
I’ve always wanted to be a writer. But Dave…you are a writer! Yeah…but I’m not a famous writer. I have to admit, the sheer brazen nature of this book appealed to me. The act of self-promotion requires an incredible amount of confidence--or at least the great ability to fake it. In this book, author Ariel Gore advocates all manner of self-promotion and creativity in the attempt to make a name for yourself. In many ways, this could serve as a companion piece to my other favorite book about writing, No Plot, No Problem, by the founder of National Novel Writing Month, Chris Baty, which also advocates plowing ahead beyond self-doubt to do the wonderfully ridiculous act of writing a 50 thousand word novel in 30 days. The best advice any writer can ever get is simply to write. Write every day. Write even when you don’t feel like it.
Ariel Gore starts the book with a powerful hook: a letter from a friend, who wants her help in the quest to become a famous writer. Gore says she will help her, that they should meet and have coffee and talk about how she can help her become a literary superstar. But of course, life gets in the way, and before they can ever get together to talk, her friend has a seizure and dies, at age 23. All the advice in this book is what she would have said to her if they had ever had that meeting.
The book itself is a rollicking run through the craft of writing and self-promoting, and is an inspirational tribute to her friend, the writer. It is less of a step by step/how to manual and more of a motivational piece--though, to be sure, there is a lot of solid advice here, and many things I might have never thought of--such as why a large advance is not necessarily a good thing or why you shouldn’t change your name or why you should be nice to interns.
I recommend this to any writer who needs a kick in the butt, or anyone who just needs to be reminded that all art is worth the struggle.
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October 20, 2010
My Gentle Plug for Others to Join Me on Next Month’s Quest.
I always introduce myself as a writer and sort-of musician, and now I add to that, a ramp agent. And as a writer, sort of musician, and ramp agent who writes about being a ramp agent, I am going to use my little forum to invite anyone interested to do something that I have been doing for the last 2 years.
The National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) is an event that is now in its 12th year. It is a fun exercise in what founder Chris Baty calls “exuberant imperfection,” or in other words, writing a 50 thousand word novel in only 30 days--during the month of November. More info here: http://www.nanowrimo.org/eng/whatisnano
It’s hard, it’s messy, it seems impossible. But it is possible, and what’s more, it is so much fun that I can’t possibly imagine ever going a year without doing it.
November is already my favorite month of the year, with my birthday (the 19th!), football season, the leaves changing, Thanksgiving (along with the Fourth of July, my favorite holiday), and add to that the 30 day sprint to 50 thousand words. And I’m especially excited for this year, because my new job has introduced me to so many people and so many new situations (as my lovely wife said it would when she encouraged me to take this job!) that I think I have a whole new well of inspiration to draw from.
The first year I did it, I came up with the book I called The Best of Thunder Johnson, a story about a cable access employee who accidentally broadcasts a porno movie over the air and then becomes the focus of a disturbed mental patient’s rage. It was fun, it was inspired, and overall I am happy with the final result. It is a story that would never have been possible had I not put forth the effort to write so much in so little time, even if the original product was a complete mess.
I encourage anyone out there to try this with me. You say you don’t have time, that no one can possibly do a good job on a novel in such a short time? That’s half the point! It’s actually more fun to do things like this when you have less time. Because that way, the time you spend writing becomes sacred, and more meaningful, and dare I say, more meditative. It creates a break from the busy world you inhabit. And besides, sleep is overrated.
So do this with me: write a novel. Be my writing buddy! Writing starts November 1!
The National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) is an event that is now in its 12th year. It is a fun exercise in what founder Chris Baty calls “exuberant imperfection,” or in other words, writing a 50 thousand word novel in only 30 days--during the month of November. More info here: http://www.nanowrimo.org/eng/whatisnano
It’s hard, it’s messy, it seems impossible. But it is possible, and what’s more, it is so much fun that I can’t possibly imagine ever going a year without doing it.
November is already my favorite month of the year, with my birthday (the 19th!), football season, the leaves changing, Thanksgiving (along with the Fourth of July, my favorite holiday), and add to that the 30 day sprint to 50 thousand words. And I’m especially excited for this year, because my new job has introduced me to so many people and so many new situations (as my lovely wife said it would when she encouraged me to take this job!) that I think I have a whole new well of inspiration to draw from.
The first year I did it, I came up with the book I called The Best of Thunder Johnson, a story about a cable access employee who accidentally broadcasts a porno movie over the air and then becomes the focus of a disturbed mental patient’s rage. It was fun, it was inspired, and overall I am happy with the final result. It is a story that would never have been possible had I not put forth the effort to write so much in so little time, even if the original product was a complete mess.
I encourage anyone out there to try this with me. You say you don’t have time, that no one can possibly do a good job on a novel in such a short time? That’s half the point! It’s actually more fun to do things like this when you have less time. Because that way, the time you spend writing becomes sacred, and more meaningful, and dare I say, more meditative. It creates a break from the busy world you inhabit. And besides, sleep is overrated.
So do this with me: write a novel. Be my writing buddy! Writing starts November 1!
September 28, 2010
Update: request for new trial to fight unfairly high parking fine!
Still trying to fight the $102 parking fine, on the basis that it is unfairly high. They gave me a trial date that I couldn't make. I requested a new date. This is their letter in response:
They usually make it so that it is too difficult to even bother fighting. They assume that most people have day jobs and that they won't bother losing pay to fight the ticket. Not me: I plan to be a big pain in the ass to Baltimore City, who makes her residents put up with a lot of shit in this area. Is the penalty for parking ever worth $102 dollars? Does the punishment fit the crime?
I don't think so.
They usually make it so that it is too difficult to even bother fighting. They assume that most people have day jobs and that they won't bother losing pay to fight the ticket. Not me: I plan to be a big pain in the ass to Baltimore City, who makes her residents put up with a lot of shit in this area. Is the penalty for parking ever worth $102 dollars? Does the punishment fit the crime?
I don't think so.
September 15, 2010
quick thought about writing...
I’m reading over my last year's somewhat forgotten NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) novel, which I tentatively titled “The Self-Affirmator.” And I think I have given it short shrift by not editing it. As I read over this raw manuscript, I’m finding myself loving it and hating it at the same time, but somewhere in there is a story that I like. I guess I’m thinking about it because the next NaNoWriMo is upcoming, and I’m excited about it.
I look at what I came up with last year as a really hard-fought victory which I rewarded myself by…failing to follow through. I know I’ve been busy and all that, with home improvements that have taken up my work space, with job changes that have kept me…well, working. And that, coupled with an ambivalence about my writing has let this sit on the shelf. And you know what? It shouldn’t. Writing is about committing to the work, believing in yourself and the power of your work.
On my wall hangs a great quote: “Those seeking success in their writing must, above all, be prepared for the long haul, with unflinching commitment to their work…as with a broken heart, there is no therapy but going forward.”*
I should look at my wall more often.
*from Writer's Journal--when I have time I'll make sure to credit this properly, 'k?
I look at what I came up with last year as a really hard-fought victory which I rewarded myself by…failing to follow through. I know I’ve been busy and all that, with home improvements that have taken up my work space, with job changes that have kept me…well, working. And that, coupled with an ambivalence about my writing has let this sit on the shelf. And you know what? It shouldn’t. Writing is about committing to the work, believing in yourself and the power of your work.
On my wall hangs a great quote: “Those seeking success in their writing must, above all, be prepared for the long haul, with unflinching commitment to their work…as with a broken heart, there is no therapy but going forward.”*
I should look at my wall more often.
*from Writer's Journal--when I have time I'll make sure to credit this properly, 'k?
September 14, 2010
September 14, 2010.
September 14, 2010.
To : District Court of Maryland
CC: Baltimore City Parking Fines Section.
Enclosed is a copy of my notice to stand trial in the case of parking violation number 9******. I am requesting a new trial date because the trial date of September 17, for which I was notified by letter on September 13, is much too short notice to get off of work. Please grant me a new trial date so that I have time to arrange to have off. Thank you for your attention in this matter.
David Cookson
Baltimore, MD
21211
To : District Court of Maryland
CC: Baltimore City Parking Fines Section.
Enclosed is a copy of my notice to stand trial in the case of parking violation number 9******. I am requesting a new trial date because the trial date of September 17, for which I was notified by letter on September 13, is much too short notice to get off of work. Please grant me a new trial date so that I have time to arrange to have off. Thank you for your attention in this matter.
David Cookson
Baltimore, MD
21211
September 3, 2010
I'm fighting my $102 parking ticket...
Tuesday was a much needed day off where I took care of many of the ordinary things I used to take for granted. When it came time for dinner, I jumped in the car and headed down toward the stadium to Potbelly’s (a wonderful Chicago-based sandwich joint which utterly destroys the swill they serve at Subway). Usually when we are down that way for an O’s game, I park for free in a secret spot (okay: I used to live in that neighborhood, so it’s not really so secret.) But for whatever reason I got down there and parked somewhere else. Hell, I was only going to be picking up some sandwiches, it wasn’t like I was parking for the game…
I took the short walk down to the sandwich place, picked up our food, plus lunch for tomorrow, and when I returned no more than 20 minutes later, the three cars on the street were getting ticketed: including mine.
It’s been awhile, I thought. I guess I was due. I turned it over to see what the damage was: $102! For parking in a stadium zone!
I felt myself going through the six stages of grief, already firmly in stage 1: denial. How was this possible? I was away for 20 minutes! I’d been parking down here forever, on the other side of the street, and never had a problem. But now, because I was silly enough to put it on the “odd” side, I got a massive, unrealistically large sum of $102. The only good part about this was that I had made it back early enough to avoid the tow truck, which was already taking the other wayward parked cars on the street.
I’ve been going over in my head what $102 means to me: how many bags I have to stack to make that, how much overtime, how many hours that is for me...and it hurts. I just don’t see how what I did warrants that level of a ticket. I can accept the occasional $27 for an expired meter, maybe even a $42 for parking in a two hour zone for three hours. But $102 for 20 minutes? It really seems excessive. And that is why I am going to court to fight this.
Anytime I get a ticket, I always defiantly claim stuff like “I’m gonna fight this with every last ounce of strength left in my body!” only to give in to the eventual apathy and just pay the stupid fine. But now, I’m actually going to do it.
I’ve put in a request for a trial, if for no better reason than because I feel I have nothing to lose. My argument is simple: the fine is excessive. If I have to pay it then I have to pay it. But living in Baltimore City is painful enough: high crime, a crappy baseball team, awful traffic, bad public transportation, corruption at City Hall…I think it’s time to stand up and make someone justify this to me. The worst that can happen is the judge tells me to shut up and pay the stupid fine. But maybe, just maybe I will prevail...
Has anyone out there ever challenged a parking ticket? I want to hear from you!
August 8, 2010
Books: With Garlic and Victory
WIth Garlic and Victory by J. M. I. KaganMy rating: 4 of 5 stars
Disclosure: Author is a long-time friend of mine, and I am familiar with many of the real-life characters upon which his material is drawn.
With Garlic and Victory is (to my knowledge) Josh’s second book, and it’s work would appear to have been written/collected in the last 8-10 years. It is an enjoyable read, with a mixture of stories and blank verse poems which read like stories, reminiscent of the work of Charles Bukowski. Josh is painfully honest about himself in his writing, and his depictions of his life as a poor, beer-drinking, coffee-swilling artist who has made a career out of working in kitchens, are tremendously entertaining and truthful.
“So why do you want to work here?” he stretched out on the seat, arms folded, his face betrayed the countenance of a man suffering with hot grease on his balls and a spatula broken off in his ass…
“Well, I’m new in town and times are hard, so…”
“Well, as an employer, it’s hard to hear I was your last resort…listen, I can take one look at you and see you won’t fit in here…”
“THAT’S IT? You called me all the way out here for a two minute interview hoping I’d tell you my dream in life, my true aspiration was to flip burgers? What kind of asshole are you?”
I walked out.
In many ways I consider Josh’s work a throwback--his work would be perfectly at home in Depression era fiction: the story of a factotum just trying to survive. The opening story about trying to get a job in a restaurant in Portland, only to fail because the boss didn’t think he would be a proper ass-kisser, and the story about donating plasma for money are sad reminders of a rough time for the both of us (something we both did when we lived in Portland) but it is very in-line with the rest of the themes running through With Garlic and Victory: Everything is bullshit--and work is just a means to an end to put food on the table and beer in the fridge while keeping your soul intact. Anyone who tries to tell you otherwise is a goddamn liar.
At 85 pages, this book that breezes right along. I’d have read the whole thing in one sitting if I could have. Great job!
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