You're a brave man, Michael Stroganoff

When I was young, and life would throw me a curveball that caught the inside part of the plate, my mom would tell me "You're a brave man Michael Strogoff!" I never knew what the hell she was talking about, thinking she meant something about the soupy hamburger and pasta dish.

So today, at the book store, I am going through a box of books we had taken it and I see a copy of Michael Strogoff by Jules Verne. I never knew he wrote a book called "Michael Strogoff." So now I gotta read it; the missing key to my childhood may lie betwixt its covers. A childhood which now has assumed a much more alluring stance, what with the addition of this newly fabricated wrinkle.

I'll tell you all about the book as soon as I finish reading Nicholas Dawidoff's The Catcher Is A Spy (Sons of Moe Berg unite!).

I am collecting stories from work, got a few good ones recently, but today I am posting a piece I wrote awhile back that is part of a trilogy of sketches. Here, then, is part one:

Her hand was hot to the touch. Burning hot. There was no way it was the result of the weather, it was Summer in Vegas, yes, not Venus. I had been working in the store less than a month, but she was by far the most beautiful woman to come in to the store. She looked like an old crush, a minx with fox-colored hair named Alyssa.

She was shaking my hand and eye-fucking me at the same time. Sirens were going off in my head but I rode my racing heart full speed ahead. She had asked me if I was Michael-- the name of the place is “Michael’s Books & CDs,” after all-- and I fumbled my name, it came tumbling out of my mouth like a bag of marbles on cement. She told me hers: Jessica.


“Jessica,” I thought, added an image to complete a mnemonic device to ensure I would never forget her name. “Just like the sexiest redhead in movie history,” I smiled to myself.

Jessica Rabbit.

Fuck like a bunny.

My train of thought let out a blast of rich, dark smoke. The store was dead, not a customer in sight, when she had walked in. She was looking for a certain book by a certain author, and I happily escorted her over to the shelves where such a book might rest. We stood there and talked about books, and I smelled a hint of beer on her breath. It was one in the afternoon.

College girl.

I found out she was a writer, and then I exposed myself to her. I succumbed to my base urges and whipped out my swelling literary aspiration and boldly waved it in her face.

She liked what she saw. She soaked in all its thick promise- I had teased her with the outline of my novel- and she wanted more. I stopped short of taking the next, logical, step-taking complete advantage of her- and tucked everything back in place. I could see the potential for as much damage as pleasure, and decided to do the right thing. God damn morality.

She bought a book, and thanked me for the inspiring words. Then she did the stretch that cat-like women do that allows you to let your eyes roam all over the undulating lands of their bodies. I said, “The pleasure was all mine,” and that would be the last lie I told her.

That's when she stuck out her hand, searing herself into my soul. Her hand was hot to the touch.

A Tease

I have several ideas that I have thrown together and are now simmering on the back burner of my mind.

Could be a heart stew. Could be ptomaine. Life's a crapshoot that way.

Here is a random part of it, the Evil Henchman's name:




More to follow, as well as a rambling essay of deviency (and how to do it right!).

Take Me Out To A Ballgame...

[This piece, in an earlier form, was published on theloveofsports.com, in their "Old School Love" column]

Immortality: in sports sometimes all it takes is a fraction of a second to turn obscurity into history. Once second you’re Vinko Bogataj, competing at the Ski-flying World Championships, dreaming of ending up on the medal platform, next you’re forever the guy hurtling end over end as Jim McKay intones the classic phrase: “The agony of defeat.”

Sometimes the journey to immortality takes a little longer.

That’s the way it was for Rick Lancellotti. Rick’s claim to fame is that he is the real-life “Crash” Davis; he is the minor league’s all-time home run king. He hit 276 home runs over a twelve year span between 1978 and 1991. He had three brief stints in the Majors, hitting .169 with 2 homers in 65 at-bats. His tenure so tenuous he wound up wearing four different uniform numbers in three years.

Through it all, Rick Lancellotti played in 15 different leagues over the years, and on teams spanning the globe: Canada, Colombia, Italy, Japan, Mexico and Venezuela. He wound up his career with the Parma Angels in Italy, where he won a best hitter award in the European Cup.

You know it’s not too shabby when your road trip reads like a two-week European vacation. Home games in Parma? Dove firmo?

Never one known for his glove, Rick was a DH trapped in a first base/outfielder’s body. The lanky lefty was drafted by the Pirates in 1977, eventually going to San Diego’s AAA team in Las Vegas. A late addition to the Las Vegas Stars’ inaugural season in ’83, Rick hit .302, with 9 dingers and 32 ribbies in 30 games.

Looking up Rick’s stats I came across the roster of the inaugural team and next thing you know I’m riding a wave of nostalgia like I’m Kelly Slater in Waikiki. There were some famous names: future Padres manager Bruce Bochy was a back-up catcher, and Tony Gwynn had a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it rehab assignment there. Kevin McReynolds was the league’s runaway MVP, hitting .377, 46 2B, 32 HR, and 116 RBI in just 113 games. Jerry Davis hit .298, with 23 HR and 100 RBI; Rogers Brown added .331/15/70 in a mere 97 games.

The team took advantage of the local climate—hot and dry as a pizza oven during the summer—and boasted eight players with double digit home run totals. If Rick had hit just one more, they’da had nine.

The Stars also had balance: 7 players had enough larceny in their hearts to swipe at least ten bases. They were an exciting team to watch, most of their home games wound up with football scores. There were lots of 14-10, 17-13 games; some wins, some loses. Playing in a hitter’s park-- in a hitter’s league-- schooled a young pitching staff that included Andy Hawkins (6-4, 6.43 ERA), and future Cub’s pitching coach Larry Rothschild (9-2, 5.09).

One of the most memorable wins was a Sunday game in which they fell behind early and looked bad doing it. By the late innings the crowd had thinned out and my friends all wanted to join the exodus. But I, having years earlier left a USC-Notre Dame football game five minutes before Joe Montana decided to kick start his legacy, firmly said “I ain’t leavin’ till the last out is made.”

Miraculously the Stars started to make me look good, stringing together a rally of bloop hits, walks, and forced errors, getting within two runs in the ninth. Then, with two on and two out, Joe Lansford—former All-star Carney’s big little brother-- lumbered to the plate. Listed at 6’5 and an only-if-he-lifts-one-leg-off-the-scale 225 pounds, Joe Lansford was an imposing presence at the plate. In 140 games that year, he hit 27 dingers and tied McReynolds for the team lead with 116 RBI’s. He could rake. In this specific at bat, however, he was doing a very good impression of a guy waving a fly swatter blindfolded. The first pitch was high and Lansford’s bat low.

Strike one!

My friends all stood up-- half cheering, half eyeing the exits. The next pitch bounced in the dirt just in front of home plate, but not before Joe had a chance to swing wildly over it.

Strike two!

Let me stop right now to add that it was a truly horrible swing. He looked like a well hit tetherball wrapping around a schoolyard pole. My friends were headed up the concourse, fishing out their car keys, when pitch three was delivered- and, KARACK!, promptly launched over the scoreboard in Left. It was the longest walk-off home run my friends never saw.

Ultimately the Stars, aided by the late-season pick up of Lancellotti, finished the season 83-60, two games out of first place. They made it to the semi-finals of the PCL playoffs before being eliminated. In the process, they captured the attention of jaded Las Vegans and made minor league baseball a part of the “Entertainment Capitol of the World.”

In 1984, his first full season with the Stars, Lancellotti drove in 131 runs and finished second in the voting for League MVP. The Stars had a lot of talent on that team, as well as a lot of personalities. Their catcher, Doug Gwosdz, had one of the best nicknames ever: “Eye Chart.” Doug could have used one, his numbers (.228/6/27), were myopic. Even with his personal success, it was the end of the line for Rick in the Padres’ organization. He would return to the PCL a couple years later, though, having a monster offensive season for the Giant’s affiliate in Phoenix. He hit 31 homers for the Firebirds, but it wasn’t enough to catch on with the parent club.

Rick put up some awesome numbers. I don’t care what the level of competition it is--even if you’re talking stickball-- 276 homers is a lot of homers to hit. But the numbers that really popped out were these: Rick Lancellotti played for twenty teams, in fifteen leagues, in seven countries, spanning four continents. You gotta give some Old School Love to a guy who can produce anywhere.

If you’re wondering what Rick Lancellotti is doing these days, he’s running the Buffalo School of Baseball, as well as working as a hitting instructor for the Kalamazoo Kings. Every day, he’s bringing a world of experience with him-- literally-- as he teaches a new generation of players to do what he did so well. So, I guess you could credit him with a lot more than 276 home runs being hit. A tip of the cap, then, to Rick Lancellotti-- the Minor League's all-time home run king.

A Book Lover's Dream

I am gonna be lazy and post an amazing film from 4th Estate Publishers' 25th Anniversary. It was produced by Apt Studio, and they are genius:

A while back I chopped down the olive tree in front of my house, even though I’m allergic to the olives and it was a big ass tree that nearly fell on top of me when the wind shifted just as I cut through the trunk. I was glad to suffer through the pain and risk, though. The way I looked at it, each one of those olives that were weighing heavy on that tree’s branches was a potential olive tree in itself, and would eventually add to the local pollen count if it reached maturity.So, I planned on getting them before they got me.

Well, right before I walked outside to start the job I was watching ESPN. They were talking about an athelete who had just gotten arrested for DUI. Like that’s news. Later, when I went inside to get some water, they were talking about a Nascar driver that had gotten pulled over for drunk driving. Not the same athelete from before, but a brand new bag of douche-iness.

This recent upsurge in the number of celebrities getting DUI’s (which reminds me- how surprised can you be about somebody with the last name of Busch being arrested for a DUI?) is quite alarming. Something needs to be done about it.

The problem isn’t so much the self-indulgent, ego-driven nature of the celebrity lifestyle.The root of the problem- the crux of the biscuit, so to speak- is that we have too damn many celebrities.

Anyone can be a celebrity these days.

Anybody.

I think we need to thin out the ‘glitterati’ a wee bit. I know that sounds harsh, but when you look at the direction our Prison Industrial Complex is heading- it won’t be long before sport hunting becomes a way to thin out the burgeoning ‘criminal’ population. A violent solution aimed at a mostly non-violent class of people.

I say, spare the imprisoned souls. Go after the ‘celebutantes’ and ‘celebutards’ instead.Especially the ones with dogs named “Tinkerbell” and shit.

Or anybody who names their kid after a character in “Jungle Book,” say.

Now I know the taking of a human soul is a terrible sin- the worst- but I’m talking about reality show contestants, people who do “Celebrity Rehab” as a career move, and the Hilton sisters. They’re soulless. That should mitigate the sin to merely ‘Venal,’ I’m sure.C’mon, these people have about as much soul as Pat Boone’s version of “Tutti Frutti.”

Speaking of Pat Boone, he’s one of the first out of the chute. Remember that “In A Metal Mood” album he did a few years back? Let’s just say Satan’s pissed, and God’s not taking his phone calls anymore.The way I justify it is this: Just like the potent olive, destined to become a fruitful tree, these celebrities are just seed bearers for a whole new crop of potential misery.However- again just like the olive- if enough pressure is applied to the seed it can produce a handy product that we can actually use.

Just think about it for a while.