55 Flash Fiction Friday - Necromancy - 10/22/09

Each week G-Man of 55 Flash Fiction Friday challenges us to make sense using exactly 55 words. I put a bit of a twist on it this week. One of my loyal readers, Lena, selected the subject for my submission this week. She chose Necromancy of all things. I gave myself five minutes to come up with this, so it is not a masterpiece. I love taking requests.

He had an extraordinary capability.
He could transport himself into the arena of whatever genre of movie he viewed.
He had journeyed to Hogwarts and Tatooine, walked the Field of Dreams and the streets of Casablanca.
He avoided certain films.
He had no taste for necromancy.
No interest in seeing “Dead People all the time.”

Baseball on Television - 7/11/09

Today I watched the Fox broadcast of the Yankees and Angels and though my Yankees got drubbed it was one of the most enjoyable games I have ever watched. What made it so pleasant was that for most of the game there were no announcers. I do not know if it was a technical problem or not but it made the game amazing. I often turn off the sound during a televised game to avoid the inane comments of the announcers. What made this broadcast even superior to a muted version is that I could still hear the sounds of the ballpark. It was just like watching it from the stands. I could hear the crowd, the crack of the bat, and the pop of the ball into the catcher’s mitt. I could hear the Angels fans boo Alex Rodriguez as he hit two home runs.
While announcers were essential to a radio broadcast, they are totally unnecessary for television. There is not one announcer that enhances the game for me. They spend most of their time stating the obvious. “That pitch was high and outside.” Really? I could have sworn it was low and away. Then they feel the need to fill any silence with ridiculous statistics and minutia. I don’t care that Jorge Posada bats .400 on Tuesdays following a new moon or that the Yankees are undefeated when leading by 10 runs in the ninth inning.

I can see and interpret all important aspects of the game without assistance, as can anyone who is enough of a fan of baseball to actually watch an entire game.

One of the most absurd aspects of televised broadcasts these days is the interview of managers between innings.

Announcer: “So, what does your team have to do to win this game?”
Joe Girardi: “It is important that we score more runs than the other team.”
Announcer: “What can Joba Chamberlain do to reduce his pitch count and number of walks?”
Joe Girardi: “He needs to throw more strikes.”
Thanks so much for that insight.

I hope Fox plans more of these announcerless games. I don’t usually watch baseball unless the Yankees are playing but I might start. Not really, when the Yankees werer not at bat I went over to CMT and watched my favorite film, Field of Dreams.

Sunday Scribblings - "Pilgrimage" - 1/18/09

This week’s Sunday Scribblings prompt is “Pilgrimage.” The following event came to mind:

I have driven across the United States several times. Well, nearly all the way across. I usually have driven back and forth from Idaho or Wyoming to the coast of South Carolina or Georgia. One way is between two thousand and twenty six hundred miles depending upon points of embarkation and debarkation. Though I love my country, the vast majority of it is pretty boring visually, particularly the Midwest. The only thing that rises above the horizon of corn is an occasional silo. It is topographically challenged.


So in order to break the monotony of interstate highway driving, I have sometimes ventured off the beaten path to visit a point of interest. I have seen the world’s largest ball of twine in Cawker City, Kansas.

I have detoured to see professional and collegiate stadiums and Boot Hill in Dodge City Kansas.

I have visited the Superman Museum in Metropolis, Illinois

and Carhenge (yep there is one) in Alliance, Nebraska,

But none of these were really planned, just a spur of the moment diversion. Sometimes just spotting and advertisement, "Prairie dog town, two miles."

On one of my trips south, I actually did make a major course change and embark on a pilgrimage of sorts. Along with reading, music, and film, sports are a major part of my life. Two of my all-time sports heroes, Larry Bird and Don Mattingly, are from Indiana. Larry is from French Lick (the name alone is worth a visit) and Donny Baseball is from Evanston. I am certain that some of my readers are alarmed that I would know that minutiae. People that know me will not be surprised at all. Anyway, Indiana is not on my normal intracontinental route. I am guessing that Indiana is not on anyone’s route, unless one races automobiles. I am probably the only person in history who has gone on a pilgrimage to Indiana.

So after I passed through St Louis (always a pleasure), instead of taking Interstate 57 South toward Paducah, Kentucky, I stayed on Interstate 64 and took it into Indiana. I visited French Lick first because I did not know what time the Larry Bird Museum might close. At the time, it was located in the lobby of a hotel, so I did not need to worry. French Lick was pretty much a hell-hole, but in the years since my visit they have built casinos and golf courses. If I lived in French Lick I would open up a massage parlor/ice cream shop. Happy endings for all.

But it was heartwarming to see how a small town (under 2,000 then) honors their favorite son. His image was everywhere. I come from a small town that has never really had anyone to honor. The only resident’s images are on the wall of the post office and sometimes offer a reward. Exploring French Lick, I was pretty sure that Larry got his looks from some selective in-breeding.

Then it was on to Evansville about 90 miles away, where I had dinner at Mattingly’s 23 Restaurant and met Don’s brother, Randy. At least, he said he was Don’s brother. It is possible that Evansville residents take turns hanging around the restaurant bar pretending to be Don’s brother, encouraging tourists to stay and have a few drinks. After hearing what a fan I was and that I was on a pilgrimage, Randy gave me an autographed photo of Don. At least, he said it was autographed by Don. It could have been autographed by any of the town’s Randys.

Anyway, I felt good about my pilgrimage; even though I found out later that I was only 500 miles from the Field of Dreams in Dyersville, Iowa.
You might think that is quite a haul but I once drove 830 miles from Darien, Georgia to O’Fallon, Illinois to have lunch with a woman, because she didn’t believe I would. I guess the joke was on you, Angie Buhrman. Never, test my inclination and resolve to do ridiculous things.