Friday Fiction Fix: "The Death of the Right Fielder"

In case you didn't know, Dane Cook is eighch-aye-larry-us. I won't plug his MLB post-season commercials from a year ago, and he's been way less than funny in the two movies I've seen him in, but his stand-up makes me laugh. A lot. I just spent an hour and fifteen minutes in line at a branch of the Missouri Division of Motor Vehicles. We here at the House of Georges use the phrase "good times" a lot. Probably too much. But let me tell you that that wait, to pay the state of Missouri $70 was really, really good times. And it made me think of this bit Cook did several years ago, before he was lambasted by people not named Bankmeister as an unfunny tool. Though I use quotes, I paraphrase:

"So I'm at the DMV the other day. And I'm just standin' there. Waitin' in line. I'm rocking back and forth on my heels doin' that thing we all do in line at the DMV where we rock back and forth, shift our stance, look around, and sigh a lot. We all do that there. And you know what's weird? We're all in line, and nobody's talking to anybody. Period. And here's the weird part: we're all thinking the exact same thing. And that's, 'GOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHhhhh!'

I can't think of anything more painful than being in line at the DMV. You know what they should do? They should have a guy standing there by the door that just punches you in the eye when you walk in. At least that way, your painfully long and slow wait won't seem that bad.

You know, in the year 3015, everything will be all futuristic, and we'll probably have time portals for travel, where you just step in to this tube, and schhhwwwipp! there you are. But the DMV will still be there, and it will still be slow. You'll be like, 'How long is this going to take?' and they'll respond, 'about nine seconds,' to which you exclaim 'nine seconds? nine fucking seconds? I have to be at work in like three seconds!'"

To me, that's funny shit. And yes, I'll introduce this new feature, and make some sense of all this...you know where.

The coupling of Mr. Cook's humor with my own experiences prompted me to bring a book to the DMV. That book is a collection of short fiction called The Coast of Chicago by Stuart Dybek. Dybek is originally from Chicago, and currently teaches at Northwestern University. In 2006, he was the Cockefair Chair Writer-In-Residence at the University of Missouri-Kansas City, and I had the pleasure of spending the better part of the week with him, during which time I hungrily devoured I Sailed With Magellan, a collection I would pit against some of the best by Carver, O'Connor, etc.

Today, though, I stood and read several short stories from Chicago, one of which is entitled "The Death of the Right Fielder," and since it's playoff baseball time, a time in which many right fielders will die (Editor's Note: And by "die" I mean "go home for the off-season."), and this is the House of Georges, the idea for a new feature was born. In an effort to obey rules and laws associated with phrases like "fair use" and "copyright infringement," I will of course not transcribe the entire short story, but pieces I found funny, as in Dane Cook.

See? See how I tied that together all neat and motif-like?

"The infield is for wisecrackers, pepper-pots, gum-poppers; the outfield is for loners, onlookers, brooders, who would rather study clover and swat gnats than holler. People could pretty much be divided between infielders and outfielders. Not that one always has a choice. He didn't necessarily choose right field so much as accept it...

...There was the same gray on his black, high-top gym shoes, as if he'd been running through lime, and along the bill of his baseball cap -- the blue felt one with the red C which he always denied stood for the Chicago Cubs. He may have been a loner, but he didn't want to be identified with a loser. He lacked the sense of humor for that, lacked the perverse pride that sticking for losers season after season breeds, and the love. He was just an ordinary guy, .250 at the plate, and we stood over him not knowing what to do next...

...Past thirty-five the talk starts about being over the hill, about a graying Phil Niekro in his forties still fanning them with the knuckler as if it's some kind of miracle, about Pete Rose still going in headfirst at forty, beating the odds. And maybe the talk is right. One remembers Willie Mays, forty-two years old and a Met, dropping that can-of-corn fly in the '73 Series, all that grace stripped away and with it the conviction, leaving a man confused and apologetic about the boy in him..."

The Coast of Chicago was published by Picador press, and can be purchased here. I Sailed With Magellan can be bought here.
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My Sports Life is a Rock Song: "Get on the Good Foot"

"Said the long-hair hippies and the afro blacks, they all get together across the tracks, and they party. On the good foot."

That's right. Welcome, welcome, welcome. Welcome to installment number two of "My Sports Life is a Rock Song." And like I said last week, in this feature's debut, it doesn't have to necessarily be rock, boys and girls. In fact, this week, in case it wasn't obvious already, the theme is soul. And soul -- also in the vein of plainly apparent -- is a good thing. And like my professional-sports-blogging colleage pointed out this morning, these are indeed heady times in KC. The Jayhawks look to knock off ol' GW tomorrow night in San Antonio, and the Royals...well, just see for yourself. (Editor's Note: Remind me to change that link, should they fall from their first-place stronghold.) There's lots to cover though, so let's get to it. Right after the "Read More" link, of course.

There we are. Much better. So, when everyone and their uncle is done circle jerking about some dumb calendar, I's ready to talk some sports. Like, say tonight, when we get into the bottom part of the rotation, with John Bale facing Scott Baker. This is when things should get interesting. The trio of Gil Meche, Brian Bannister, and Zach Greinke was able to mow through a powerful Detroit Tiger lineup. And that fucking ruled. Baker notched nine Ws for the Twinkies last year, while Bale hasn't started a game since 2003. Then, on Saturday, Trey Hillman's hijinks have tweeked what we anticipated to be the five-man gig. That is, Meche will take the mound (against Livan Hernandez) again, and fifth-spot man Brett Tomko, who came in for some middle relief on Monday, will get his first start on Sunday (against none other than the Boofmeister himself). After that of course, Rustoleum's Yankees come to town for opening day at The K. Until then, however, there is much left to prove for this quintet of hurlers.

In hoops news, Bill "I like toupees on my" Self ventures into the Final Four for the first time tomorrow night. And he faces none other than former KU Head Coach Roy Williams. And that game should be a barnburner.

I'll admit: I'm nervous as hell for this contest to get here, and get over with, KU victorious, of course. The Lone Reader, along with new commenter Vintage Pancho, tried to convince me over beers the other evening that the championship game on Monday is a bigger match than tomorrow's tilt. I disagree. Yes. It's been 20 years since the championship found its way through the Phog, and yes, many years later, Roy outright lied to the world, saying he'd never leave Lawrence, and of course he left and quickly won a championship with Matt Dougherty's recruits. But the championship game isn't here yet. Round one of the Final Four is.

And it's like this: In 1988, the 'Hawks started off the tourney in Nebraska, then went to Detroit, just before coming to the center of gay-calendar production to claim their thrown. This year, they went through Omaha and the Motor City as well. In 2003, Roy reached the championship game, and on April 2, he was faced with a swarm of media, demanding to know whether or not he'd leave to fill Dougherty's vacancy, in his home state, at his alma matter of the University of North Carolina. Two days ago (Note: Also April 2, for those of you who've yet to purchase your gay calendar), Sean Sutton, allegedly under tremendous pressure, resigned from Oklahoma State, which, surprise, is Self's home state, and alma matter. Self is handling the press well, the intelligence gained from Williams' blundering, and the behavior of dumbfucks like this guy, examples of what not to do. He claims, in his true-to-form clammering style, that his focus is on the title.

So Roy's had his cake and eaten it, too. It's only fitting, and kharmically correct, that he get eliminated from contention -- this time with his own recruits -- by the bleeding Jayhawks. It wasn't until today, either, that I truly felt solid about this game. Well, I mean, this helped.



A lot. So, uh, thanks to Cecil's favoritest magazine.

But, I've got to throw this in there, too, regardless of how calendar gay, or impossible, it might sound to some. In '88, I watched that "Danny and the Miracles" championship with my mom. And it was amazing. A few years prior, however, I watched some post-season KU basketball at the Lone Reader household. With us then, was the lady written about here. As mentioned in that post, she was a special lady. And she loved the crimson and blue like no other. She'll be with us on Saturday, as we whisper sweet rock chalks into Roy's ears.

And it will be then, and only then, that we may discuss the championship game.

So, it's time to get on the good foot. It's time to bring this Royals fever to a boil. It's time to Beak 'Em, Hawks. It's time to let those funky horns blow, dig deep into that funky bass, skank with that popcorn guitar riff, and "take care of business, sister, I'm your fella." On the good foot.
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My Sports Life is a Rock Song: "Foreplay/Long Time"

Greetings, and welcome to the newest House of Georges feature entitled "My Sports Life is a Rock Song." The deal is this: every Friday (Editor's Note: Fat Chance.), we're gonna break down our tiny little world of sports, and, with the help of the selected song/our unmatchable journalistic prowess, compare the two.

The rules are simple; we'll make them up as we go, and, before Cecil feels his sac shrivel and crawl up into his manly core, rule #1 is that it doesn't have to be a rock song. It just gave the feature's title a little more proverbial punch. So, Cecil, if you ever choose to take part in this, or any other feature, (Note: See above note.), feel free to do a Screeching Weasel or a Chris Gaines song. Or whatever the hell it is you listen to.

Anyhoo. Find the goods after the jump.

I'm not gonna pull any punches, especially with tipoff under three hours away. Thus, I'm going to assume that, with the YouSpaces and eSeeds, and even the old-fangled radio frequencies out there, that everyone knows the jam. And, midwestern/redneck/fat-chick lover/drunken/sophomoric as it sounds, it is in fact a rockin' good song. Well, at least it was the first 6000 times I heard it. Now, what with the ridiculous number of pharmaceuticals I've consumed, and radio stations from which I've been banned, I couldn't distinguish between it and something from the new Jay-Z album.

My sports world, nevertheless, looks a bit like this in the summer:



this in the fall:



this in the winter:



and this in the spring:



Pretty rough. Or, as Old No. 7 would say, "That's uh, that's a lot of third place teams, dude." I, of course, am left with nothing to do but kick him in the shins out of sheer agreement.

The Blues, in case you don't know, dear reader, are a tiny handful of seasons removed from the longest playoff-appearance streak in all of professional sports. They of course reached the Conference Finals in the last year of said streak, not to even sniff the playoffs since. I like Andy Kitchen. I remain confident he's got the club headed in the right direction. But, Christ. Only a team I root for would make the cup finals the first three years of their existence (Note: Prior to mine own.), and never make it again.

And the Crimson and Blue, while on the verge of an Elite Eight appearance, have won a championship in my life -- 20 years ago, but nonetheless, they won -- have managed to get knocked off in ultra-disappointing fashion year after year since I entered high school. Seven, of course, has made a game out of tabbing their annual March Madness elimination, and he, of course, can duct tape himself to any ship's anchor.

Back to the song, though. The Foreplay portion of "Foreplay/Long Time" may as well be an audio advertisement for the Kansas City Royals. Last year the theme was "True. Blue. Tradition.", and I liked it. This year, it's "New. Blue. Tradition.", and I like that even better. Dayton Moore and Trey Hillman have this club headed in the right direction. Problem is, once you're on the path, it's the potholes ahead that keep the championship so far out of reach. Like, you know, the fact that there's a ton of good clubs in the American League, or the fact that the Royals have so little cash flow, or the fact that, according to my new favorite sports blogger, who happens to be right, they have no power at the plate. But the pipe-organ wizardry of Tom Scholz, man genius, begins as a delicate trickle, and builds into, surprise, a rocketesque explosion of tickled ivories plastics. It embodies the potential of the Kansas City Royals. They could explode from barely below-mediocre pitching to pretty okay, and they could -- could, I tell ya', could -- continue to show offensive improvement. If they could grasp these two things, they'll be on par to fulfill my prediction of .500 ball this year and an AL Central title the next.

This sentiment, of course, whirs us right in to the Long Time of the song. And that, if you haven't already figured it out, is the Kansas City Chiefs. It's not as if those two words don't speak a thousand verses, because they do. Brad Delp belts out a lot of lyrics that could summarize my life as a Chiefs fan, but we'll allow it to summarize the last 14 years of it. Which takes us back to the 1994 AFC Conference Championship Game, the only time in my life that the Chiefs were a tomahawk chop away from a Super Bowl berth. They of course, haven't won a post-season contest since, but us fools keep coming back for more, regardless of Delp's repeated phrase "Guess I should be goin', yeah."

No. Time didn't wait for him, and it doesn't wait for Chiefs fans either. It keeps on rollin'. (Note: If at any point you tire of the depressing theme of non-winning sports franchises, feel free to e-mail Old No. 7. He can tell you a bible's worth about championships. And soap on a rope, too, I hear.) So just when Scholz, Delp, Goodreau, and company have you convinced to bolt, and leave your headdress afire, they rock out. Which, to make a contemporary comparison, is kind of like the Chiefs defense under Herm Edwards and Gunther Cunningham, and you're tempted to stick around. Then Delp comes back with some less profound lyrics, and the taste of the Chiefs offense sets up camp on your tongue. (Note: This guy, who is by far the best editor I've ever worked with and/or for, would kill me for using the word "you" so often in this ramblage, but damn it, YOU know what I be sayin', precious readers.)

Like all songs, "Foreplay/Long Time" fades out, and the album ends, or the DJ follows it up with some Steely Dan, or a 2Pac track comes up next on your eSeeds in shuffle mode. And that blasted, confounded time, keeps on rollin', leaving us uneducated, drunken, fat-toofless-girlfriend-havin' hicks with the same old tired hardware on the shelf. And this hillbilly is tired of it, emotionally spent, and running on the fumes of the ideal. Never you fear, though, I'll be there, dumb as ever, for the next season. And the one after that. And the one after that. And one day, my son, will tell the same story that I shared with you today about some teams, and a song that came from an MIT grad that formed a band named after a city. A good Irish-Catholic city, no less.

Oh, and in the random thoughts department, words cannot describe how disappointed I am that the MyTubers removed the embed option from this (lyrics NSFW), although I'd probably get a whiny phone call from Seven about the kids, etc. being exposed to blah, blah, blah. But honestly, what hard-working American man doesn't have his car washed just like this. With this soundtrack, of course. Read more

Cutting Edge Reporting Meets Home Decor

There's a story behind this clip. I promise there is. But that scoop is far less important than the valuable interior design ideas you can get from the color scheme of this lovely master suite.

Blond hues accented by waves of pink and black? Sweeping the nation, I tell you. Sweeping. The. Nation.

You can peep further tips at one of these broad's websites.

(Link courtesy of my favorite blogmaster, Mr. Ufford.)

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Ground Zero

In retrospect, the cigars were a bad choice.

It was perhaps four or five hours ago, maybe fifty feet from the coffee shop I write from now, that I dipped into my pocket for some stogies. We puffed on them, and I'm not going to lie, mirth ensued. But now the staff of the HoG (and the Lone Reader!) are headed to the Missouri-Kansas border to fucking play hockey.

On the list of all-time bad ideas, this one ranks No. 1 by about a million. I feel like a commander at the Bay of Pigs, launching the boats and saying "Well Hal, it sure is a nice day for an invasion." At first my concern was the risk of injured wedding guests and, oh, the fact that none of us know how to ice skate. But those worries have been superceded by the crippling hangover and cigar-flavored gerbil that has taken up residence in my throat.

Regardless, today's topic is the the fishwrap perched next to me. I've always really liked the Kansas City Star (and when does one italicize the just the newspaper name, not the city, and when does one do it all?). Granted, I only read it on the morning of Chiefs-Broncos games at Arrowhead, when I'm full of hope and vinegar. And then I take a massive shit that smells like smoked pork.

Back on topic: The Star is a tremendous daily from a midsized Midwestern burg. The sports page is tight, and reflective of the hardcore fan that dwells in this city. For years Jason Whitlock patrolled the sports columns, but I haven't the foggiest of what his actual job is these days--I think he still literally mails one in to the Star now and then. And of course the professor emeritus is Joe Posnanski (who I used to always confuse with Ed Podolak), arguably the best columnist in America.

You can tell a lot about a fan base by the way their sports page prioritizes various topics. If you're in the South, college football is generally page 1, above the fold, even in April--you don't see this in, say, Denver. One of the things I love about Vegas is the Review-Journal's lineup: they give the appropriate amount of respect to the NFL, of course, but tend to shun all of the sports that shun Sin City: baseball, pro basketball, and the NHL. However, the leagues that thrive in Vegas (boxing, NASCAR, motocross, college basketball, golf, etc.) are treated like royalty on the sports page.

This here, of course, is an NFL city first and foremost. The Chiefs are covered every single day whether one of their players was arrested or not. College hoops and racin' are big as well. As we're smack dab in the middle of baseball season and the Royals are, um, pacing themselves, the tone of horsehide coverage is fairly self-mocking and masochistic. The Star does not pretend that the Royals are not subpar, unlike, say, the Denver Post's ultraserious coverage of the typically woeful Rockies.

Light on the links today, I know, but I'm in a hurry to go throw up on an ice rink. I must say, to my esteemed Administrator--There's still time to bail on the wedding, dude. Kidding. Congratulations, bro, and welcome to the everlasting furnace of shit that is marriage. I sure hope we sing the National Anthem at the ceremony.

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Farewell From the Monkey House

When I hunkered down, and signed a lease with my 18th-and-final college roommate, I had know idea what knowledge a young painting major from Philadelphia would bestow upon me. During the course of our three years together, he would teach me about oils, canvas framing, the Broadstreet Bullies, politics, and he would also introduce me to the ingenious literature of this man -- one Kurt Vonnegut Jr. The phenomenal author of Deadeye Dick, Bluebeard, God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, Siren of the Titans, Cat's Cradle, Slaughterhouse Five, and Breakfast of Champions (just to name of few) has left us. Mr. Vonnegut had not been in good health for some time now, and, as I understand it he suffered brain injuries from a fall a couple of weeks ago, and the man upstairs decided it was time. Not that anyone wants the life of anyone in poor health to linger, but I'm amazed that two authors that have influenced me perhaps like no other, continued to live long enough for me to absorb the majority of their works, and then die a couple of years apart. Suffice it to say that many tremendous works of Mr. Vonnegut's have been published. Many of his speeches circulate on these here internets. Some of them have never surfaced in great numbers. To pick one does not imply its betterness than the others, but that's what I'll do. For now. God bless you, Mr. Vonnegut. And we thank you for your attention. Read more