Field of dream-on, McDuff...

Because both the New York Mets and the fabled New York Yankees play home games a hop-and-a-skip (by subway) from where I live, occasionally someone will ask me if I actually ever attend games. I usually say I do but, upon reflection, I realize I don’t go anywhere near as much as I used to. I’m not a huge fan of either team but I do like baseball and I do like taking in the beauty of the game in the flesh, as it were. By that I mean more than just the game itself (which I think is a perfect blend of rules, strategy and geometry); I mean looking down on a perfectly groomed, mathematically aligned field of play; it’s just, well, physically gorgeous. Usually my choice of seat location depends on peer pressure or economics, since the value of any particular seat has skyrocketed over the last five years. Only ten years ago you could cadge a pretty good seat for $12.95 and you could really see the pinstripes if you splurged at, say, $25. If you deigned to join the bleacher bums (not a recommended course of action for the faint of heart) you could fork over $4.95 and take your chances.

This season I have come up empty and I have not attended even one game and, since there are only about 30 games to go, it’s not looking good that I will do so. There are no longer any baseball-buff buds within my own personal posse (except for one rabid Yankee fan who shall remain nameless because he is currently in the depths of despair over his team and, therefore, not to be tolerated on field or off…it’s not the end of the world, Fred, no matter what you think). The tickets available to me through my erstwhile office are now out of reach and, frankly, those “company” seats were not all that good anyway (more on that later).

So the graffiti is on the wall. This years’ attendance, or lack thereof, is liable to stay in place for years to come unless something radical happens. Here’s a small example of why this is: The Yankees have announced that in their new stadium the best seats (not counting skyboxes or owner suites), meaning the first nine rows behind the plate, will cost between $500 and $2,500 each. That’s not a season ticket, son, that’s per game! Say what? From there the prices drop to $75 to $325 for field level seats and $40 to $100 for main level. Even the upper decks will be $20 to $65. You can imagine where those $20 seats are. Whatever you choose to pay it’s going to be a mighty pricey day at the old ball park. So, for me, Casey has pretty much struck out and I’ll probably, in the future, be staying home in Mudville.

The season-ticket seats at Yankee Stadium that my company maintained for years and years were touted as being “really good,” being in the second row in left field. To me, those seats had a problem with the viewing angle to home plate. If you look at a stadium, any stadium, the seats face the railing, right? Which means it is your head that has to swivel to be able to watch the pitcher and batter and, of course, that juxtaposition is the main drama of baseball. Being able to take a really close look at the left fielder, straight on, doesn’t totally cut it and ones neck muscles really don’t need that constant test of resiliency. My suggestion, and I’ve maintained this for decades, is that the seats, all seats, be angled inward so that everyone faces the infield, if not home plate, directly. This makes just too much sense to be adopted, of course. But I’m laying it out there, free of charge.

Dots Entertainment

I’m as susceptible to impluse buys as the next consumer. And wouldn’t you know at the check-out counter at Bed, Bath & Beyond yesterday there was a nice display, and sale, of large boxes of my favorite movie candy. That would be those horrible gumdrops called DOTS. They are practically flavorless but truly addictive and I always succumb to their allure when I go to the movies. I remember them from my misspent youth (they came out in 1945) and always think of them as Mason Dots even though the folks at Tootsie bought out the brand in 1972. They are not even referred to as Tootsie Dots; just DOTS, but the flavors and comforting chewiness remains.

When I say “flavors” I mean they only have a hint of the fruit they are supposed to represent and the box is blatant in its “Fruit-FLAVORED” appellation. I remember watching an episode of Siskel & Ebert many moons ago wherein Ebert challenged Siskel (or vice versa) to a blind taste test of the seven varieties (there are only five now) and Siskel (or Ebert) scored 100%. Very impressive and obviously a Dot connoisseur. I just now tried fishing out a dot from the box and popped it in my mouth without checking its color. I guessed cherry but it was an orange. Well, damn. So I just had to eat 12 more (one serving--140 calories) of various artificial flavors, stuffing my mouth like a wanton woman.

Ingredients listed on the box: corn syrup, sugar, modified food starch, malic acid, artificial flavors, sodium citrate, artificial colors (including FD&C Red 40, Yellow 5 and Blue 1). Tootsie, and Mason before them, have a lot to answer for.

Sidenote: In 1911, the Mason company put out a licorice gumdrop named Black Crows. Since I was never much of a fan of licorice I never got hooked on their consumption but I do know the urban legend that the printer misheard when instructed to label the wrapper Black “Rose.” It’s a good story I guess but even though this was in, like, 1890 it seems likely the instructions were followed (maybe they wrote it down wrong); especially when a crow, not a rose, was depicted on the packaging. Of course, that could have come later but, hey, it makes for a good story and a PR opportunity.

Trail's End

At one point in time the Brooklyn Museum took on the task of scavenging decorative architectural pieces from buildings around New York and putting them on display in the garden at the back entrance to the museum. Each item was carefully labeled as to what they were and from what site they were scavenged. At another point in time the museum decided they needed more parking spaces and displaced most of these remnants of the history of New York City by putting them on wooden pallets on a swath of lawn outside the Botanic Gardens and surrounding them with a chain link fence. There they sit today, crumbling away, the reason for their preservation obscured by broken pallets, weeds and neglect. It’s an example of a nice project turned into an eyesore and a rather sad state of affairs. One of the objects has a special resonance for me in that it is a “sort-of” replica of “The End of the Trail,” James Earle Fraser’s “salute” to the American Indian. There is no indication from where this was scavenged.

When I was growing up in the center of the San Joaquin Valley in California there was a small park seven miles to the northeast of my hometown, Tulare, called Mooney Groove. I must have been there a hundred times from babyhood on…it’s even where my high school graduating class held its final social gathering. My memories of Mooney Grove are strange. Along with picnic areas with tables (some covered), there were two or three shaggy, dusty bison penned up in a small corral; it had free ranging peacocks that pierced the air with their haunting cries and it had huge, dark, brooding oak trees scattered randomly about the acreage. And it had the original version of The End of the Trail. To me, even at a fairly early age, it was sad and dusty; the Grove I mean, but the statue was also pretty much a bummer in itself. Look at it. Not exactly joyous.

The End of the Trail is a monumental 18’ plaster sculpture and it was created for the San Francisco 1915 Panama-Pacific International Exposition by James Earle Fraser (who also designed the Buffalo nickel) to immediate popular acclaim (it received the Expo’s gold medal for sculpture). This sculpture is probably the most recognized symbol of the American West and it was touted, at the time, as a “reverent memorial to a great and valiant people.” Native Americans pretty much tend to differ and view it as a reminder of defeat and subjugation; a position I pretty much agree with. Although brilliant in conception and execution, it is one sad piece of fine art.

The original had been destined to be cast in bronze and placed on Presidio Point overlooking SF Bay but material restrictions during WW1 precluded that destiny. Somehow or other (I can’t seem to find out how the hell this happened) the city of Visalia, CA, obtained the discarded statue in 1920 and put it in Mooney Grove, two miles south of town, where it stood for 48 years, gradually deteriorating. Not to give away any secrets but it was during this time that I became familiar with this statue and, through a score of years, considered it just another piece of furniture to climb in the bleak, dusty environs of Mooney Grove. Even then it was apparent the statue was in bad shape and it seemed to me the only thing they did was add another coat of semi-gloss brown paint once a year, eventually blurring every detail and progressively obscuring its greatness.

I do remember when, in 1968, the National Cowboy & Western Heritage Museum in Oklahoma City came calling and acquired this original plaster statue and restored it to its original magnificence. I understand it’s a focal point and what you see first when you enter the museum. I’m not sure what Tulare County received in return except that part of the deal was a bronze replica, which now stands in its original spot in Mooney Grove so, at least, the original idea came to fruition, albeit 60 years later. I also remember, in 1968, feeling sort of protective of this statue and wished, at the time, it could have been restored either in place or situated in its original intended spot in SF.

You can buy bronze replicas of The End of the Trail from the museum. The one that stands 14” is $625. I almost want one…almost. But some memories don’t need to be commemorated.

Let the games begin...(cough)

I suppose this is a case of “If the standards don’t work for you, well, rather than try to adhere to them, change the standards.” I hadn’t really planned on doing a whole lot of Olympics-blogging but this one cannot be passed up. In this morning’s NY Times Jacques Rogge, the president of the International Olympic Committee, is quoted as saying, “The fog you see is based on the basis of humidity and heat, it doesn’t mean necessarily that it is pollution.” I guess that means that if you call it fog instead of smog it must be okay and is safe for the athletes. The air quality in Beijing this morning was “soupy and gray” with the air quality rating reaching 95, which is acceptable in China (and their Olympics) but far short of clean air standards in the U.S. and everywhere else that monitors that stuff. I think Monsieur Rogge, and his Committee, should have been required to forego their nice, air conditioned limos and jog to the opening ceremonies, don’t you? Then maybe his quote would have been a little more realistic.

A professor at NYU School of Medicine said “a rating of 95 should have been a warning to athletes that the air was noxious and would probably affect some performances. Today the Chinese call it ‘good,’ but in the U.S, we’re in the ‘unhealthy for everyone’ category. This is very bad pollution; we’re talking about something that is nearly triple the U.S. limit for a given day.”

Wow, that must make the marathoners, the triathletes and the road cyclists feel real optimistic about their chances of even surviving, much less winning a medal. And, oh yeah, don't even think about wearing the mask given to you by your own individual sports organizations; that's considered an insult to the host country. Gawd forbid you should have any concern for your own health.

[A side note and probably another nail in the out-of-it coffin of my own personal appreciation of modern architecture: I think the stadium looks like a half deflated balloon being held down by a thousand random rubber bands. I would probably be more impressed if I saw it in person and could thus be overcome by its sheer size.]

Update, August 9, 2008: Wow! Those opening ceremonies were sumpin' else, huh? Spectacular on the tube and they must have been totally mind-blowing in person.

Beyond the gold, silver, bronze (& jade)...

It seems like I have this thought and/or question every four years at about this time. It’s an olympic-sized thought and is possibly unanswerable but I’m still intrigued by the subject. Although the Olympics themselves are all about winning medals there is always a certain aspect of some of the events that is maybe not secondary to winning medals, but is certainly just as important because, usually, winning a gold means that it is possible you have broken a world record. World records cannot be set in a lot of the events because judging is subjective and the numbers only indicate who was the best in that particular event, at that particular venue, at that particular time.

Anyway, my question is: at what point does setting a record stall-out? At what point will the human body become unable to surpass what has been set before? Will there come a time when the human body just cannot run or swim any faster? Or jump any higher or further? I don’t mean this week, of course, because world records will no doubt be set in Beijing; I mean in 100 years or 200 or whenever. Of course human beings will get bigger and stronger and things like lung capacity and muscle strength and a standard of human perfection for a particular sport will increase. But does that mean that someone, 100 years (500?) from now will run a two minute mile?

I’m not considering, here, events that use equipment of some sort. I actually can envision that with the right piece of newly engineered equipment that some dude with the right kind of body and musculature will be able to pole vault 30-35 feet. Why not? And why stop there?

I guess there is no answer but it sure is interesting to contemplate. I wonder if people were thinking in 1956, when Bob Richards pole vaulted over 15 feet (not a record but he won the Olympics) that it wouldn’t take all that much time for someone to clear 20. Or Roger Bannister’s historic breaking of the 4-minute mile barrier in 1954 that was almost immediately followed by a veritable stampede of men following suit and, through the years, knocking almost 17 seconds off that record.

Anyway, I’ll mostly be hanging tough with many hours of tube watching over the next two weeks and wondering if these athletes know the context of their being world beaters of this particular year, decade and/or era. But what they are is really just a continuum of performance that will go faster, higher and more complicated as time flies by.

One additional thought that pleases me is that I think at some point in a lot of sports (100 years?), women will begin to catch up to men and world records will be set by a person; not just a person of a particular gender.

Update, August 24, 2008: Amazingly, 41 world records were set at the Beijing Olympics, some by wide margins. Wow, as I conjectured above, just how onward and upward can it get?

Life is pretty good...

I’ve seen these tee-shirts and various other products around for quite a while now, at least seven or eight years but not being the glass-half-full type I pretty much cringed at the sentiment, which I thought was only a half-step up from the smiley face that was ubiquitous for way too many years of my adult life (and still is, damn you AOL). This character is named Jake and he’s sort-of the spokesperson or, at least, the catalyst for a multi-million dollar outfit called Life is Good Inc. I’ve never had the least urge to buy anything with Jake on it but I was strolling by a small store on 7th Avenue in Brooklyn named Slope Sports that carries a line of Life is Good stuff, mostly for children seemingly, but they obviously had some sort of backlog of seldom-purchased men’s tees in XL and XXL sizes which drew me to those particular stacks on the two-for-the-price-of-one table. And, you know what? The shirts passed the finger-fondling test with flying colors. Smooth and soft in attractive colors and, better yet, some designs did not have Jake on them.

They are not cheap at the retail price for one but I bought the two offered and, as it turns out, actually like them a lot and love the feel of the nice, soft cloth on my wretched, old, bumpy torso. One of them has a small peace sign on the front and the other a long, skinny, vertical American flag and, yes, both say Life is Good on them but, you know, I don’t mind at all. Sometimes life is good, especially when you like what you buy and feel it was a bargain to boot. When I got home and opened the bag there was, in addition to the two shirts, a free packet of Life is Good lemonade mix and a Life is Good decal. How nice, and it made me feel just jake!

My Weekend at the...oh, wait...

I like movies, really I do. But I’m not the once-a-week maven I used to be so I pretty much try to pick and choose those movies that I, well, pick and choose. Right now I have the urge to catch something new this weekend or, at least, break down and get myself out of the house, the garden and the bowling alley. I’m not much in the mood for any of the new junk, er, current movies: Mama Mia and/or The Dark Knight will probably never be on my agenda unless, one day, I’m in the company of someone who wants to see a chick flick or a teen toon. Yes, I’m susceptible to peer pressure although, frankly, I’m usually the one applying the pressure. Anyway, as is my wont, I turned to the Friday edition of the New York Times to see what their variety of critics recommend. Well, not much. Here’s the recap with, I think, telling quotes (but out of context, exactly like the raves within the ads for the very same movies):

Swing Vote – “A pleasant muddle about life, liberty and the pursuit of Budweiser…”

In Search of a Midnight Kiss – “…is largely about how this likable pup (our hero) gets off the bench, the couch, his bed – out of his head and into the world – which means it’s about growing up.”

Profit Motive and the Whispering Wind – “There is no narration, and virtually no living human beings appear on the screen. Instead [it] contemplates the violence and struggle of the past by examining the markers and monuments that turn up in graveyards across the country.”

The Mummy; Tomb of the Dragon Emperor – “…the action sequences are edited into an incoherent jumble that makes you feel trapped on a rickety airplane sitting in a pool of yak vomit.”

Sixty Six – “A North London nebbish, whose bar mitzvah is about to be overshadowed by one of the most ecstatic moments in Britain’s history; its unexpected triumph at the World Cup Final…is a dolorous comedy that leans heavily, if inoffensively, on ethnic stereotypes.”

Stealing America; Vote by Vote – “…might have been this year’s most alarming and patriotic documentary if it weren’t so shoddy and dull.”

America the Beautiful – “Clueless, directionless and altogether pointless [it] will outrage only those who have spent the last 50 years in suspended animation.”

Frozen River – “…evokes a perfect storm of present-day woes: illegal immigration, ethnic tension, depressed real estate, high gas prices and dire poverty.” [This movie has garnered universal raves and just might be something I might see someday. That is, on the day I want to get depressed and perhaps suicidal enough to lust for succor on a rickety airplane with a lap full of yak vomit.]

Oh, yeah, lest I forget: There is a retrospective of Elliott Gould movies at the Brooklyn Academy of Music’s “BAMcinematek.” Say what?