The Future Star Dilemma

Back in my childhood trading card days, (the glory years of these cards were the late 70's and early 80's) many sets had a team's (less often a “mixture” of teams) future prospects listed on a single card.  It was usually three players. More often than not (exceptions to this rule were guys like Cal Ripken, Jr. and Paul Molitor) these players seemed not to make it to the big leagues, and if they did they didn’t achieve much. In the set for 1977 Topps, mixed future stars from different teams appeared on one card.  It was an odd set up, really, compared to what came before and after that season. 

However there was one particular card, in that 77 set, where each player left their mark on the game in a different way and at a different level. 

Here is that story.

Jack Clark

Now, Jack “The Ripper” Clark ripped up Major League Baseball for years.  He had one of those "borderline" hall of fame careers, where some may feel as though he should be in the legendary confines anyway.  I mean, after all, he hit 340 home runs, banged out 1826 hits, was a four time all star and twice a silver slugger.  I mean, if that's not enough to gain entry it's GOTTA be close.  So close, Columbia University has developed a test where Clark's career is used as a measuring stick for whether or not a considered player belongs in The Hall.  Somewhere, that has GOT to have Jack shaking his head.  And with a career this good, this long, why is his rookie card (shared with others or not) only valued at a couple bucks?

Ruppert Jones

Hall of Fame aside, I used to purposely collect cards of players who had damn fine careers, but despite their numbers, were considered in the hobby's nomenclature as "commons".  Guys like Jason Thompson, Jeff Burroughs, Cesar Cedeno, Tony Armas, and as seen here, Ruppert Jones.  Believe it or not, there's a lot of guys out there that topped 1,000 hits, 150 or more homers, and racked up some steals and batting average but would never even come within sniffing distance of Cooperstown.  Damn shame, really, to put up such impressive stats, and be thought of as a "common".  At least they would usually make their own team's Hall of Fame. 

 

Lee Mazzilli.  

Mazzilli sprung onto a bad Mets team in 1976.  He was built like an underwear model, hit for average and occasional power, ran the field and the bases well.  Apparently the only thing he was lacking in was arm strength. (However he was ambidextrous).  He did nail down an all-star spot once, but there's one thing he led the league in consistently.  BIG HAIR.

The ladies loved Lee.  He probably was the only thing selling tickets at Shea in his era.  Regardless, after a damn fine five year stint, he was traded, and ended up being a career journeyman.  In 1986, he returned as a role player to the Mets and helped them get a World Series championship.  He retired to do some managing and even got himself into the movies.  How fitting.

Source: SABR Bio Project

Dan Thomas

Out of the 4 players on this card, this one is the most sad and disturbing.  Dan Thomas was one of the first "can't miss" prospects that gave 70's Brewers hopefuls hope.  He got off to a slow start in the minor leagues that had folks worried, but soon righted the ship (other than a 2 month suspension for a parking lot punch-out of an umpire).  Once he got to The Show his talent popped up. Sadly, a serious bout with mental illness surfaced, this seemed to level off with his joining of a religious sect.  With this, he told the Brewers brass that he couldn't play evenings on weekends, as that was his religion's sabbath, thus resulting in him becoming known as "The Sundown Kid".  Eventually, he ended up ridden out of the league due to those religion-related issues and further mental problems.  After some independent league play, he downgraded to odd jobs before being arrested for a sexual assault of a minor.  He then hung himself in jail, and was buried in a paupers grave as he was also penniless at this time. 

Now I'm fuckin' depressed. 

Source:  The Shepherd Express

As a kid, one Christmas, my parents bought me a couple of vintage issues of Street and Smiths baseball preview. And I believe it was the 1977 Milwaukee Brewers preview article that showed a photograph of Dan Thomas sliding into third base.

 I remember looking at an otherwise dismal prediction for the 77 Brewers, and thinking “who the hell is this guy?”  He became a mystery during the pre internet era.  As the years passed, I’ve learned about Dan Thomas from reading about him on Josh Wilker’s “Cardboard Gods” website, and a rather informative article in Milwaukee’s “Shepherd's Press” magazine. Otherwise little more. 

Thomas’ career statistics are far from as impressive as the other 3 guys on the card, as he only played parts of two seasons, yet he is still so invariably different from the other three players in a thousand other ways.  The degree of difference is more than the other three players are from each other, though those chaps are all shades apart to some extent.  However, there’s no denying that all four of these players left an indelible yet distinctly different mark on major league baseball in some form or fashion, good or bad, light or dark.

And that’s what makes this “future star”card unique among it’s contemporaries. 

Orangey's Journey

 "He was horrible.  The lone biker of the apocalypse

A man with all the powers of Hell at his command.  He could turn

the day into night, and lay waste to everything in 

his path.

He was especially hard on the little things-the helpless

and the gentle creatures." 

-H.I. McDonough

Raising Arizona

These cruel types are why I did what I did.  What I did for the orange one.  With tears in my eyes, clenched fists, and an overabundance of love in my heart.

I have removed him from the path of violence.

ORANGEY'S JOURNEY

For quite some time we were visited by a feral, yet gorgeous tabby that we took to for his beauty.  His smoky fur, his bright green eyes, his striped tail that wrapped around his rear end as he ate the food we left out for him.  We named him Stormy and fed him regularly, as he appeared regularly.  We even built him a little house and insulated it in hopes that the front porch would become his permanent, and safe residence.  

Then, one night, some sounds erupted from our front step, the location of the feedings.  When we gathered at the front door, a gorgeous orange medium length cat was approaching.  I supposed he was hungry.  He couldn't look at Stormy, who was rigid at the dish, and the new guy appeared intimidated.  

He left quickly.  I followed but couldn't get him to hesitate long enough for me to pick him up, or console him.   Frani and I assumed because of his looks and demeanor that he lived nearby and was just exploring.  

We were wrong. 

He began appearing more often than Stormy even, who shortly thereafter moved on to somewhere else.  It became obvious this orange fluffball (who Frani began calling "Orangey") had taken to Frani, as he would eat, and then stick around to roll about and be petted and rubbed.  Frani anticipated Orangey's appearances, and this caused him to sometimes wait over an hour for her to come outside with food and love. 

This was proven by the cheap WYZE camera we installed to see if cats were taking to the little house.  One time, the camera let us know Orangey was on the front step while we were picking Cameron up from work.  We yelled at the app for Orangey to stay put while we drove home, so Frani could get him fed when we returned. 

He did.

This was all very cute until a couple of months later, Orangey began to show up with ugly injuries.  Some limping, frightening cuts, a closed eye, and eventually a bloody ear that had me deciding enough was fucking enough.  Orangey, nor Frani and I could take anymore.  This little cat wasn't equipped for the wild.  

I had to act. 

I was on spring break from my job and spent an entire Thursday on the phone and keyboard, searching for solutions for Orangey's conundrum.  I wanted to save him from an outside world that was unfair to this friendly and peaceful creature.  I eventually found my answer when our friend Tonya was able to hook us up with not only a trap and vet visit, but a crate to hold him in as he recuperated from this ruckus. 

Frani and Tonya are the true heroes of the story as Frani's repeatedly gentle attention and consistent healthy meals brought Orangey back to us, and Tonya's knowledge of the feline species and connection to a rescue provided us with the ability to catch Orangey and store him safely for a couple of days.  

We did catch a raccoon the first night of the trapping, that was exciting. 

So, shockingly, that first Friday afternoon Orangey made a rare afternoon visit and was trapped.   The veterinarian opened from lunch 15 minutes after, and we were able to get him in for a walk-in visit.   While Frani parked and I waited in line on the sidewalk with Orangey in the trap, I apologized to Orangey. 

 I remembered the frigid night Frani and I tried to get him in the little house we built for Stormy, when Frani opened the door to the heated house of ours for him and he refused entry.  I remembered the hard rains, wondering if he had shelter.  I remembered what a bastard I was for allowing it all unhalted. Through tears and huffing breath I told Orangey through the caging of his trap that I was sorry I hadn't acted sooner, that I hadn't done anything with the first injury, that I hadn't trapped him earlier.

For the first time in my life I asked an animal for forgiveness. 

It was at this vet visit that it was confirmed that Orangey was far from feral, and actually one of the most affectionate cats all of us ever dealt with.  He gave cuddles to the tech, the veterinarian, and also Fran and I as he was treated, received tests, and antibiotics.  We took him home and fell in love.  This little boy was so in need of affection that the first thing he did upon release from his crate after eating, was rotate his snuggles between Frani and I.  That night, Orangey must have had the most restful sleep he had enjoyed in possibly months.

Tonya surprised us by letting us know that as a true superhero, her assistance went beyond traps and crates.  After she returned from a trip she would take Orangey to stay with her for a time as future treatments were pending, her connections with the rescue would be a true boon to Orangey's recovery, and with her working from home, this poor boy wouldn't have to spend so much time alone. 

For two days,  Frani and I fed, held, and loved Orangey, and he gave 100% of that affection back.  

So when it came time for Tonya to pick him up, I wasn't ready.  I cried hard and long at his departure, even though I knew it was the best thing for him. It wasn’t easy for Frani either. 

Relief came with videos and pictures of Tonya's loving care and Orangey's quick acceptance of it.  Tonya bathed and cleaned him, gave him room to roam and regular cuddles. 

Orangey eventually was neutered and put in a position to be eventually hopefully adopted.  While with Tonya, we saw videos of him playing with toys and responding to attention in ways we didn't think possible. 

What's next in Orangey's story is still pending, but I'll be damned if any one of the three of us will allow it to be negative. 

This little guy has been through hell, and will never sleep outside, or have to fight for his life again. 

We love you, Orangey. 

Those Quiet Moments: The Ranker Event

 My wonderful in-laws celebrated their 60th anniversary this past November.  We had a great party with family, friends, food, and other "f" words, but not what you think.  Frivolity, fun, and fantastic vibes.

That's what I'm talking about.  60 years is a heck of an achievement.  Congratulations, I do love you both deeply.

So, my wonderful in-laws, Frank and Mary, received a slew of meal gift cards from the many guests.  So, of course a Friday evening a few weeks back, they invited us to have dinner with them courtesy of the gift card extravaganza, this particular one from Red Lobster (For the Seafood Lover in You!).  

I hate seafood. 

Me and the youngest had cheeseburgers. But, I must say, for a seafood establishment it was a pretty damn good cheeseburger.  Cameron would agree with me.

We enjoyed our dinner and conversation thoroughly and had reached the point of being ready to go home.  Now Frani and her Dad are given to the occasional sweet tooth.  Both of them were lamenting the fact that McDonalds no longer has the fried apple pies that were a pretty cool dessert choice back in the 1970's.  I believe that it was some sort of litigious event involving the hot apple interior and people who don't read packaging safety instructions that led to McDonalds converting to a rather bland and much cooler turnover style apple pie in the modern day. 

Either that, or the health kick that has also led to Baked Lay's Potato Chips. 

But not Whataburger.  Oh, no.  They're still slingin' the real deal to this day. 

So, as the dinner gods would have it, there is a Whataburger right next door to the Red Lobster (For the Seafood Lover in YOU!) that we were dining at.   

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Whataburger (@whataburger)

We decided to go through the drive thru and that's where this story gets stupid. 

Frank pulls up to the speaker and here is the exchange; scripted, and with permission of the federal government, unredacted.

Speaker:  "Hi! Welcome to Whataburger, how can I help you?"

Frank: "Hey there!  I'll take 3 apple pies, please."

Speaker: "3 apple pies?  That'll be 5.49.   The name please?"

Let me interject here.  At this point all of us in the car were a bit surprised by him asking the name as this order was not placed using a mobile device or internet connection.   A bit odd.  

Frank:  "Frank"

Speaker:  "Ranker?"  (My father-in-law's head cocked back in utter confusion at this)

Now, we're in trouble.  Frani, Cameron, and myself have begun struggling to attempt to restrain laughter at this.  Cameron reminds us of the time that we stopped at a hotel on a trip, and the concierge couldn't find the name that my wife got the reservation with.  After 15 minutes of keyboard-clacking and conferring with management, she asked Frani:

"Are you Rrances Will?"   This irritated me.  I wanted to say something along the lines of "How many Frances and Rrances with the same last name do you expect would make a reservation for the same day and time?"   But I didn't. 

Ranker?

Frank: "No, it's Frank"

Speaker:  "Okay, please pull around the drivers ahead of you, to the stop sign"

Now, I'm thinking this is no biggie.  We just ordered 3 apple pies, and they probably need to be dropped into the deep frier.  I was wrong.

Now as soon as my father-in-law pulls up to the stop sign, someone comes flying out of the door and down the steps of the side entrance of the Whataburger, and begins racing for the car.  In an extremely surreal exchange, he hands over the bag, and asks for the money.  Frani hands Frank $6.00, which he hands to the Whataburger employee, now panting like a dog in a 100 degree room.  With that he said "thanks" and bee-lined back to the restaurant with not a single mention of change. 

We were all caught off guard. Chortling laughter had begun with the word "ranker" and went on through the pull up to the stop sign and the track-star Whataburger apple pie messenger.  It continued through his complete ignoring of the fact that the money handed him exceeded the price of the purchase, before he pulled a speed trial rocket run back to his place of employment.

Frank was baffled.  Mary was laughing hard, and Frani and I were roaring in the back seat, as everything that happened in that 60 seconds was so stupid and bizarre (and a tad surreal) we could do little else. 

Regardless of it all, 3 people had their apple pies, and all was right with the universe, even if it was tilted in a somewhat odd way.

Ranker?

Spectrum: Tangerine Dream

 

What caused me to fall in love with the haunting music of Tangerine Dream was a trailer I saw for William Friedkin’s Sorcerer on Spectrum. Now many of you have heard this music used in other trailers for films that the music never appeared in.  "Betrayal" is a standby used by many for years to punctuate the drama of the film they were trying to sell in a trailer. 

Tangerine Dream's music is a synthesizer driven soundscape very similar to what John Carpenter creates for his films, and even more so, his Lost Themes albums. I own several Tangerine Dream albums including the soundtracks for Sorcerer and Thief, and some of their own commercially released LPs. 

Their music is infinitely unique and definitely lends itself to films, to images, to facial expressions,  to the works of many great artists. I mean, even in a film like Miracle Mile which has a different tone than many of the other films that Tangerine Dream's music has graced, the Dream makes it work . Miracle Mile is a soundtrack that I own and adore, but has a magic quite different, yet equally as powerful as their other works.

But I’ll never forget the power in that trailer for Sorcerer on Spectrum. It’s a fantastic film.  I’ve seen it several times to this day.  But Watching that two minute trailer, hearing that haunting music accompanying those images and those facial expressions and not knowing at all what was happening,  I was transfixed before having even seen it.

Sorcerer is a great movie and I highly recommend anyone see it.  Is it horror? No, but yes. Is it action? No, but yes. Is it crime? 

No, but yes.

   

William Friedkin may have made The Exorcist, The French Connection, and  To Live and Die in LA, but the one movie of his that has a cult following, however deserves much more, is indeed Sorcerer, which was based on Arnaud’s book The Wages of Fear . 

If it wasn’t for Spectrum, I may have never discovered this film, Tangerine Dream, or the depths of Billy Friedkin . 

Baseball Cards and Funny Names

 

I know I've written about baseball cards on here before, as well as baseball itself.   But have I written about the silly-ass kid mentality involved ? 

Probably Not. 

One of the joys of collecting baseball cards as an adolescent, and looking at or trading them with your friends is laughing at some of the players names.  Sometimes, you're just aghast at them.  What about guys like the late Biff Pocoroba?  How about legendary Bill Naharodony?  Buddy Biancalana anyone?  Maybe, just maybe, you're a fan of Kurt Bevacqua (who Tommy Lasorda once said "couldn't hit water if he fell out of a fuckin' boat") and his Bazooka world record gum bubble, and accompanying card?

One of my friends in the sixth grade and I often got a chuckle at just what the name looked like.  He referred to a California Angels pitcher as Don "Ass".  Yes, it was spelled "Aase", (and pronounced Ah-Say) but giant blasts of laughter would explode from both of us if one of us uttered "What do you want to trade me for my 1979 Don Ass?"  Your eyes viewed the name, your brain processed it, and your mouth pronounced: "Ass". 

Children.

Of course even adults will do this.  I occasionally watch videos from the online baseball card chap with the moniker "Junk Wax Sal" who records himself opening packs.  He has come across a late 80's card of the Mr. Aase, and also referred to him as "Don Ass".   Sal's a grown-ass man.   I guess the shit will always be funny, if you're at least partly a child at heart. 

Junk Wax Sal

Of course when it comes to baseball players with unfortunate names, there's a legendary pairing.  Dick Pole and Peter LaCock.  I am in no way, shape, or form making those names up.  And if you need evidence try this out from the always great Josh Wilker:  Cardboard Gods

I've written that baseball and humor go together like chocolate and peanut butter.  It's borderline perfection, like they were almost made for one another.   So, why should it be any different that baseball cards are often funny? There's snafus of course, like the 1979 Topps card of Bump (Bump?  Gales of laughter were emitted up into the atmosphere from youngsters that were visible from satellites at that name) Wills in his full Rangers regalia on a card designated for a player for the Blue Jays. 

In reality, errors exist all over the card world and have for decades.  But what about shit that happens in camera?  Like "Fuck Face" being written on the knob of Billy Ripken's bat as he poses for his card not knowing it's there.  Or Bob Uecker batting left handed in his 1965 Topps card, though he was a pure right handed batsmen?  Leave it to Bob to pull the wool over the eyes of the Topps Chewing Gum company.

Reasons to laugh can boil down to many things, whether it's a stupid looking face, a guy with a monstrosity of a last name, (or one that evokes naughty words), or goofy errors in the printing or photography process, (I'm sure to this day that Aurelio Rodriguez is thrilled that his 1969 Topps Card is actually the Angels bat boy).  Because of all of this, I can always look back at those days, remember my own laughter and that of my friends, and smile. 

Musical Thoughts: “I like the old stuff”

A lot of people utter the phrase “I like their old stuff”, particularly when it comes to actors, directors, and authors. 

But, boy does it come into play with musicians and bands. 

For instance, in my opinion, Aerosmith was better before their 1980 break up.  The Stones reached their peak with Sticky Fingers. Glass Houses was Billy Joel’s epoch. 

But the peak of all this discussion to me is AC/DC.  Their best stuff hands down was the Bon Scott era. Powerage, Let There Be Rock, and Highway to Hell are amongst the greatest hard rock albums ever.

But with that, comes a bit of a mystery.  I fell in love with AC/DC at the age of 9 with Back in Black . This, of course was their first record after Bon died, sadly from alcohol induced aspiration in January of 1980. 

Bon was a legendary gutter poet. It’s true many of their songs were about sex, booze, and Rock and Roll, but Bon had a way with double entendres and turns of phrase that made the lyricism smarter than it’s topics.  Unlike the post-Back in Black material however, Bon could venture into territory that stretched a bit.  What’s Next to the Moon, Down Payment Blues, Overdose, and If You Want Blood were songs about the human condition and even ventured into political or somewhat romantic territory. 

This is where my question lies.  Back in Black's lyrics were gutter poetry at its finest.  And Bon’s replacement, Brian Johnson, never wrote lyrics like the ones that appeared on that album ever again.  Despite the bands insistence that Brian wrote all the lyrics, did he then only have one album in him?  

What about the episode of VH-1’s Behind the Music where Malcom Young stated that the music was set and the rest of the band were “ready for bon” just before he passed away?  I don’t know that I believe the songs were complete without the lyrics and even some of the vocals being demo-ed.  Historically, I don’t know that the band worked that way. 

We will never really know, but when I listen to You Shook Me All Night Long, Have a Drink On Me, and Rock and Roll aint Noise Pollution,  I have my doubts about the author of Back in Black's lyrics. Especially knowing that What Do You Do For Money Honey had been written as far back as Powerage. 

It’s all a mystery, and will remain so.  It’s been said Bon played drums on some of Back in Black's demos, and past interviews stated Bon contributed “a little bit” lyrically. 

Who knows?  

If you read The Last Highway by Jesse Fink, I think you’ll be further convinced.