Showing posts from July, 2019

The Radio Broadcast

I really do wish that the Giants broadcast team would disassociate their collective selves from David Fleming. I’m certain that I want him gone because I’m from a different generation, and view baseball radio announcers as something other than whining, nit-picking, depressing, overly-critical, children who don’t appear to have a decent grip of the game. Or maybe it’s because he peppers his diatribes with the word “literally”. Irritating. Literally irritating. I’m also certain that the radio broadcast managers are happy with him. I don’t know why that is, but I’m sure that they are. I catch the games on Sirius Radio, so I’m stuck with him unless I re-subscribe to MLB.TV, which won’t likely happen. The problem with MLB.TV is their insistence in abandoning fans like me in favor of younger fans. Problem being that the younger fans aren’t really baseball fans. They’re highlight fans. Home Runs. Spectacular Catches. Facebook TV. YouTube broadcasts. Basebal

The Ravine

Right next to our driveway is what I call “The Ravine”--It’s a small gorge filled to the brim with what the state calls invasive species—Japanese Knotweed (a sort of bamboo) and wild blackberries (a sort of cobbler-on-the-hoof). Parts of The Ravine are owned by the property owners here, and parts of it are city property…..I think. None of it is actually my problem. The Ravine also hosts a wide variety of critters, birds, and dead or dying trees. I figure the trees to fall at the worst possible time and hit cars, houses, power lines, or some other necessary thing during a snowstorm this winter. The critters are legion. Squirrels, raccoons, possums, and rabbits by the tubful. Birds, you ask? Jays, doves, pigeons, the occasional trespassing crow, and small birds of a wide variety. Yes, I feed them. If I don’t, they go after the blueberries. I hook up Lil (the Terrier) on our little hill where the vegetables and berries are located to keep the critters at b

Protect Your Kids

I’ve been reading, like most of the rest of us, about the repetitive tragedies of children being injured at MLB parks by foul balls. And the eternal subsequent hand-wringing about how to properly protect everyone from possible injury. Oh, My. 1-Protect your children. Not just at ballparks. 2-Teach those kids to pay attention when they are in a possibly dangerous place. Not JUST MLB parks. 3-If you can’t manage that, sit in the bleachers where it’s safer, or….. 4-Watch the game on TV. This isn’t a baseball problem, it's a lack of parental supervision. Here’s another solution: Quit having games at the existing ballparks. MLB has plenty of cash, so they could buy up a shit-load of South Dakota property (or Nebraska—you get the idea, I’m sure), build a dozen or so ball fields where all MLB games would be played, then video-streamed to the big screen TVs that already exist at the ball parks. Easy-Peasy. You could have picnics on what was

The New Neighbors

At the end of our very tiny street in our very tiny town, there’s a house that sat vacant and for sale for a couple of years. It was recently purchased by a young(ish) couple—Lotsa tattoos, plenty-o-cars and trucks...Both smokers. None of that is any of my business. I introduced myself when they moved in, but they don’t seem interested, which is probably a good thing, but you never know. They have, on occasion, a small boy who seems friendless. He’s significantly overweight, maybe 6 or 7 years old. Their lot ends at the corner where the mail-box cluster for our tiny street is located. Since we moved in, the mail-box corner was nicely shaded by a cluster of plum trees. The added advantage to the shade was the presence of plums. Tasty little plums. Made for a fine plum buckle on occasion. My suspicion is that the plum trees somehow offended the new neighbors, because those trees have been decimated. Interestingly, after they were cut down, they were simply left wh

Target Demographics

What follows is a fine example of how my mind will let one thing lead to another………. Just watched Reign of Fire, that post apocalyptic dragon-fest of 2002, and found that it is set in the far-off distant future world of 2020. I love that part. To me, 2002 is yesterday. I still have socks that were purchased in 2002. Which made me think about…..Something that happened last week: As it turns out, I am a security guy at the local community college (part-time) and, as such, occasionally write a parking ticket or do some other minor-league interfacing with the local police department. Last week, one of the instructors reported a theft of some college property, so I took down all the info for the on-line police report (the police department doesn’t actually take reports in the field for cold cases anymore, but that’s a story for another day). I needed the instructor’s birth date to complete the report, and he told me he was born in 1990. 1990. Music that was popula

Getting Old

I hadn’t really thought too much about getting old. My Dad was 40 when I was born, so, in retrospect, he was always sort of old. But he never really acted like it, and he didn’t actually start looking old until I was in my 30s. Plus, we lived in different towns and I didn’t see him more than once a month or so. Thing was, he kept working at a job (in a lumber mill) until he was 76 years old. What with him working like that, it never occurred to me that he was wearing out. Or getting tired of the grind. Or that the way he had lived (and, brother, he lived) might just perhaps have caused his bones and joints to hurt. I just never thought about it. My Dad, I think, was blessed with the same sort of genealogical heritage that he passed along to me. Or cursed with it, if you know what I mean, and I think you just might. One of his favorite lines was this: “If I’d known I was going to live this long, I woulda taken better care of myself”. Now that I’m 70, I ag

Portland News

I may or may not have mentioned that I live in Castle Rock, Washington. It’s a small town about an hour or two North of Portland, Oregon (depending on traffic), and about the same distance South of Seattle, Washington. Castle Rock is right on Interstate 5. Castle Rock is not Portland or Seattle. In the last election, we voted Trump, but historically, it’s been mixed—Lots of union guys here, and they tend to vote Democrat even when it leaves a foul taste in their mouth. I told you that so I could tell you this: We don’t have any local news. When I turn on the morning news, I get to pick Seattle or Portland. It’s like being pecked to death by ducks. This morning, the Portland stations (which I go to almost all the time) were all a-flutter with the women’s gold cup USA championship. Whoopee. Portland wants to be Europe, and Soccer is Europe in a nutshell. A perfect fit. They ran baseball outta town decades ago—too American, and too pedestrian. The big i

Summer Rain

I become a bit more disillusioned with what passes for Summer in Castle Rock every year. Not that I don’t like it here—I do, but….. It’s July the 7 th , and I started to cut the grass (some people might say they mowed the lawn, but for that you need an actual LAWN), only to have it start raining. Raining on July 7 th . When we moved here, the standing joke was that we have two seasons—Winter and August. At least I thought it was a joke when I was a newcomer. Then, I figured that we were just having an odd Summer season. Or two. I only need to know if global warming (OOPS—I mean climate change) might include an actual Summer up here in the greater Pacific Northwest. If so, I’m all for it. Go ahead and change, O Climate Gods. It’s funny to watch lifetime residents change to flip-flops, shorts, and tank tops whenever the temperature reaches 65. Or watch local news and have a special on drought, sunscreen, and hydration whenever it fails to rai