Tonight’s the night I’ve been waiting for, and I assume it’s not the first time you’re hearing about this. This evening I’m playing a show at the Goodwill Theatre in Johnson City, New York, with a few friends I haven’t been able to play with in several years. This afternoon we’re recording some original tracks of mine, and the concert is being taped as well. But seriously, who has time for blog entries right now? See you Wednesday… or better yet, see you at the show!
I think this picture pretty much says it all.
Seventy years ago today (or tomorrow, depending on where you were at the time) the largest and most most bloody conflict in the history of mankind came to an end. I realize a formal surrender did not take place until the following month; I will note the anniversary again at that time.
Those of us who did not live through World War II have a tough time grasping the scope of the conflict and its mind-boggling inhumanity. Amazing too is that the era wasn’t that long ago, and there are still people around today who lived through it. Sadly those numbers are falling, and someday that number will be none. But our thoughts will remain… along with our prayers, and a well-timed photograph or two.
There were two shows this summer I’d looked forward to and sadly both of them have fallen flat. The TV reboot of Wet Hot American Summer was a total joke (made it through two episodes out of eight), while NBC’s Mr. Robinson, which airs its next two episodes tonight, I’ve also decided to eschew. You know it’s bad when they start getting rid of episodes two at a time.
Mr. Robinson stars Craig “Hot Tub Time Machine” Robinson in the title role, and is presented by several Frasier alumni. Sounds promising, right? The premise of the show–“professional” musician who moonlights as a substitute teacher–had me intrigued, of course, because, well, that’s my life. I’m sorry to say that it just didn’t come together for me, perhaps because I know just a little bit too much about those subjects.
Thanks, bad TV shows, for giving me so much more free time this summer to do something other than watch TV.
There’s a monstrously large construction site about a mile from my house, different from the one I described two weeks ago. This one I know what it is. It’s called Topgolf, and quite frankly it defies all description and categorization. You can check it out here: http://topgolf.com/us/, or head to one of its 15 locations nationwide. (Ours is one of another 10 on the way.) Apparently this Topgolf is sweeping the nation, and it has taken up much of Virginia Route 7 between Dranesville and Lansdowne. Someday my little Hamlet will no longer be known as Sterling Park but as Topgolf South.
From the highway Topgolf looks like—I don’t know—an Olympic village, perhaps. Its website makes it look like Chuck E. Cheese for adults. Chuck E. Cheese with golf. It actually describes Loudoun County living to a tee (get it? Tee?). People who work all the time need a way to spend all that money quickly in one place and in a ridiculous manner. Check and checkmate.
The casualty in this scene is one Woody’s Golf Range, the driving range/batting cage/minigolf center a little further up Route 7 towards the wilds of D.C. Woody’s has been providing family entertainment in the area for the past 35 years (an eternity in these parts), since Loudoun County was a cow pasture and Fairfax was hardly any better. Woody’s is closing up shop at the end of this season, no doubt in part due to big money competition up the street.
I understand progress, I understand innovation, and I’m sure I’ll make it to Topgolf one of these days. But like everything else in this world, it just won’t be the same.
It just won’t be the same.
I knew I was going to watch last night’s Republican presidential hopefuls debate purely for comedic purposes, and of course it did not disappoint. I knew it wasn’t going to be Lincoln-Douglas or even Kennedy-Nixon, but the show–I use the word with purpose–did hook me for the full two hours.
I didn’t learn anything about the candidates last night that I didn’t already know, and I hope most citizen-voters felt that way. For God’s sake, don’t make this the event through which you learn about the candidates. Perhaps there were two takeaways for viewers last night, or really maybe three. Number one, Jeb Bush is quite tall; that probably makes up for his “women’s health” “flap” from the other day. Number two, people know who John Kasich is; I thought he was great last night, though let’s face it, he did have the homecourt advantage. And a third thing voters may have learned from last night’s debate? Fox News commentators are not going to go easy on Republican candidates. Actually, they will do the opposite. They will spit venom and act more as accusers than moderators. Seriously, did it not seem as though every question last night was some form of candidate so-and-so, we’ve found out about the following mistakes and judged you to be a terrible person… could you expand upon that a bit, please?
In a less-politically correct era there was a quick answer to these types of questions: “I’ve also stopped beating my wife.” Unfortunately you can’t say that anymore because most people hear only the wife-beating part and miss the retort to bad logic and a leading or loaded question. Ted Cruz said something to this effect some months ago and was raked over the coals for it, but I was hoping at least one of these guys would take the bait. Or I was hoping for one candidate to say, “This is a farce and a waste of time. G’night, everybody!”
And please let Fox News commentators moderate the Democratic debates as well. God damn that would be fun to watch.
Thank God for last night’s cliffhanger win, or I’d be calling the Nats, losers of four in a row, victims of the mikeoconnelljr.com curse. Indeed, before last night’s victory the Washington Nationals hadn’t won a game since I called them a pennant lock, and had fallen into second place in the NL East. Still, as they say in baseball, it’s a long season.
On the American League front, I hope you were watching last night my beloved New York Yankees trounce the once-mighty Boston Red Sox. The Bronx Bombers blew open a tight 4-3 game with nine runs in the seventh inning. They’re now five and a half games up in their division, and at the risk of yet another MOC “cover” curse…
Give them the pennant!
I had the pleasure of spending yesterday afternoon in Frederick, Maryland, for a minor league baseball game between the Frederick Keys and the Myrtle Beach Pelicans. The game was played at Harry Grove Stadium, a quaint little park on the southern edge of town. Actually, as of six months ago, the park is officially called Nymeo Field at Harry Grove Stadium, proof again that even quaint ballfields in 18th century cities must carry corporate sponsorship in 2015. (Nymeo is apparently some kind of local credit union. Harry Grove? Founder of a pre-war professional team in town known as the—get this—Frederick Hustlers. Awesome.)
I was joined at the game by a few old friends and a few new friends taking up a full aisle two rows behind the home team’s dugout. I couldn’t have asked for a better seat or a nicer day—not bad for probably the only one I’ll go to all year. The game was one of those in which I really didn’t care about the outcome, though one usually finds himself rooting for the home team, of course. The only name I recognized on either roster was that of the visitor’s hitting coach, one Mariano Duncan, one-time Yankee infielder and two-time World Series champion. Duncan played his final major league game in 1997, I’m sure before half the fans at the game yesterday were even born. And some of the players on the field could barely grip a bat.
Minor league baseball, of course, is real America, even with its ridiculous in-game promotions and eight-dollar beers. (Or perhaps that is real America, and it’s time for me to rethink what I mean by that phrase.) I should make mention of the fact that the Keys are named for a certain local poet, he of Star-Spangled Banner fame. You could say Francis Scott Key’s work shows up at more ballgames than that any other poet, save perhaps the fellas who wrote “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” and anyone who wants to take credit for the phrase !@#$^%. It’s got to be intimidating to sing the national anthem in Key’s (sort of) hometown, but it was belted out with aplomb by my one-time bandmate David Marcus, he of Market Street Big Band fame. (It’s true we all know everybody in small-town America.)
As for the game itself, the Keys pulled out a 2-0 win in what turned out to be a great pitchers’ duel played in two hours, 22 minutes. I left a scoreless game after five innings, returning to babysitting duty on the homefront, of course, but I’d gotten my money’s worth. I think one day next year I’ll begin taking Franklin with me to ballgames, because it’s really never too early to start.
I’ll probably make it through only three innings that day.
I do root for the home team, my Washington Nationals, as National League teams go, and I’ll admit I was a bit skeptical about the move to get Jonathan Papelbon as the team’s new closer. Locker room dynamics? Storen moving to a new role?
If there were any questions about the move I refer one to yesterday’s game.
And to today’s headline.
The PGA Tour comes to my hometown this weekend (sort of), as Robert Trent Jones Golf Club in Gainesville, Virginia, plays host to the Quicken Loans National. The tournament’s frontman is none other than Eldrick “Tiger” Woods. Those of you a little older may remember him as a good golfer.
Gainesville is about a seven iron from where I live, or about driver-three wood-three wood with traffic. Compare this to my old hometown PGA stop (the B.C. Open–also not in my hometown but in nearby Endicott, New York), a seven iron from my house and well, we don’t have a word for “traffic” back home.
I’ll be watching the tournament this week, of course. From the privacy and convenience of my nearby home. And Eldrick? Come on, show us a little of that nearly-40-and-now-an-underdog-hero-A-Rod-type magic. For old times’ sake?
Though I no longer think of 40 as being “old,” let’s face it, it’s up there for a professional athlete. Alex Rodriguez, the man who has lived no ordinary life and led no ordinary career, turns 40 today, and is playing his best ball in at least half a decade. Way to go, slugger.
Even though he plays for my beloved New York Yankees, I haven’t felt the need to root for A-Rod the past few seasons. Especially last season, when the guy didn’t even play, sitting out the year on a PED-related suspension. I’ll admit I pretty much thought A-Rod was done, and didn’t care whether he ever appeared in pinstripes or any other uniform again. Then there he was at spring training this year. Clean? Yup. Repentant? Perhaps. A team player? Seems so. Feared hitter in the Yankee lineup? As the season has rolled on… yes.
This past Saturday’s performance–three home runs to lead the team to victory–was no Babe Ruth Story fluke. He’s having a great season. Indeed, between the way he and teammate Mark Teixeira are hitting this year, you’d think it was 2009 or something.
Author’s note: 2009 has been the only year this century (counting 2000 as the old century) the Yankees have won the World Series. A repeat performance of that season would be quite the 40th birthday present, would it not be? Just sayin’.