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Pizza Adventures....by Bob Sanders

I'm not sure where or when I had my first pizza.  My best guess is that it was in Tulsa in the early '60s and definitely in a Pizza Hut.  This would figure since the chain was begun in 1958 by a couple of students at Wichita University--something like 130 miles north of Tulsa.

Pizza Hut was a reasonable beginning and it wasn't until 1968 that matters got serious when I moved from Los Angeles to Chicago to work for Playboy Enterprises.  L.A. was essentially pizza-deprived back then although Sam and Joe Martorano had established Casa Bianca at 1955 Colorado Blvd., a couple of field goals from the Rose Bowl.  The Martoranos had worked at Tony's Pizza in the Windy City but their approach bore little resemblance to the deep dish Chicago product; the crust, I'm told, was light and the toppings slight by comparison.  The California approach to cooking was underway and the pizza obsessive under-served.

I don't recall any L.A. pizza places largely because my dining was pretty much limited to West Hollywood and environs running to the ocean.  With an office at 9255 Sunset Blvd, my favorite places tended to be within walking distance and included: the Cock & Bull across the street; Hamburger Hamlet, eventually a chain created by the still with us Harry and Marilyn Lewis who started at the corner of Sunset & Hilldale; and Frascati, a casual yet classy place with outdoor dining at the rear.  Oh, yes, there was Musso & Frank Grill, still there since 1919.

My discovery of Chicago pizza was made possible by a convention at The Drake Hotel that forced me to stay at the St. Clair on Ohio Street.  The Drake, immediately across the street from the Playboy Building, was the logical place for me but timing, as always, was everything and I was told I could move to The Drake when the convention was over.  We know the importance of timing when we reflect upon Turner Classic Movie's decision to play next Tuesday's (May 29) Irving Thalberg tribute show at 6 a.m. EST.

I didn't need The Drake.  I had settled in at the St. Clair, a place complete with a large contingent of raffish folks from the entertainment industry.  On the top floor was the Chicago Press Club and down the street Ike Sewell's uncommnly popular restaurants, Pizzeria Uno and Due.  I soon found myself eating a fair amount of deep dish that contrasted enormously with prior culinary adventures of the Italian genre.

Sewell, having served in Italy during World War II, had become a regional vice president of Fleishmann's Distilling Corp. and wanted something more exciting.  He found it when he teamed up with pal Ricc Riccardo, an established restaurateur who in in 1935 had turned a former speakeasy into Riccardo Restaurant and Gallery.  A Texan, Sewell wanted to specialize in Mexican food but fate, in the form of a very bad enchilada in a test dinner played a significant role in cuisine history.  Riccardo became so sick that Mexican food was out of the question so he suggested pizza.  Like Sewell, Riccardo had encountered the food while serving in Italy; both were of a mind that the real thing was little more than an appetizer, and they set about inventing something more substantial.  What evolved was a meal-sized pizza with a thick crust and lots of cheese. 

Business did not flourish immediately at the corner of Ohio and Wabash and Sewell soon gave orders to his bartenders to provide free sample slices to customers.  Fortunately for Sewell (Riccardo by then was concentrating on his own restaurant up the street at Rush and Hubbard Streets), Pizzaria Uno's clientele were heavy drinkers and the pizza eventually caught on.  More about the remarkable Riccardo and son Ric, Jr. at a later date.

I lived at the St. Clair for a month, then moved into an apartment on Division Street between State St. and Lake Michigan.  As things turned out, Betty and the kids did not join me in Chicago until August of that year.  It wasn't all bad since Hugh Hefner's home was two blocks away and I had an open invitation to parties that, seemingly, had no end.

The true origins of pizza are difficult to pin down.  People inclined toward conspiracy theories tend to believe that Marco Polo brought back more than spaghetti when he returned from China although such claims are tenuous at best.  We are told the Greeks had a vegetable pizza in ancient times and the Italians improved the product with a variety of fillings before baking.  We do know that Virgil, who lived in the lst Century BC, had the good sense to write a pizza recipe for posterity.

It is generally conceded that the first pizzeria in this country was opened in New York City in 1905 thus planting the city's incestuous family tree.  Like Sewell's experience 50 years later, it was slow to catch on.  It took World War II and a taste acquired by GIs to create a fondness for the food.  Today there are more than 70,000 pizzerias in this country producing an average of 46 slices or 23 lbs. a year for every man, woman and child.  Deep dish pizza, still served at Uno and Due, has run afoul of criticism during recent years for a calorie count of 2,310.  Pizza Hut is out of contention in that league with a modest 9-inch Triple Meat Heliano of 1,280 calories.  And you wonder how this nation got to be one of big butts?

Not credited with a national sense of humor, South Korea spoofed itself when the country's artery-clogged Mr. Pizza unit produced a YouTube pizza story suggesting that Marco Polo stole the pizza recipe not from China but from Korea.  The send up was produced by Gumshoe Pictures and is worth viewing.

In 1990, wife Jan and I moved to the Pacific Northwest and San Juan Island's Friday Harbor where nary a pizza could be found until an expanded gas station started cranking out product geared for those of decidedly limited dining experience.  Even the availability of the mainland 60 minutes away by ferry was of pizza disappointment.  Alas, the exquisite pizza and the magnificent hamburger are rarities of the Pacific Northwest.  We eventually discovered, thanks to then banker Brian Brown, an approximation of hamburger heaven on Commercial Avenue in Anacortes.  The Brown Lantern is a burger discovery that resurrected fond memories of Charlie Beinlich's in Northbrook north of Chicago.  Mainland mainstay Bob's (nine locations--three in Bellingham) knows what to put in a bun; by all means, hit the bar in the Barkley Village location for a genuine pub feeling.

Each of us has had memorable dining experiences.  One of mine occurred in 1992 when Jan and I were guests in Barcelona of Antonio Susquellas Escala, whose employment as presidente of EniChem Iberica, S.A. put him in the midst of the Olympic Games.  Tony had been an exchange student in Thousand Oaks, California living with Jan and her family.  Our six weeks with Tony was his "thank you" and included a highly impressive number of event tickets including opening and closing ceremonies.

It was while strolling down Barcelona's impressive La Ramblas that Jan and I, accompanied by my brother John and his wife, Terry, decided to have lunch at the Hotel Royal's Cafeteria La Poma.  Curious about whatever Barcelona's approach to the pizza might be, I ordered a thin-crusted beauty whose intriguing ingredients included walnuts and blue cheese positioned in the pie's center--about a four-inch circle.  Outside of a delicate winner consumed at, of all places, a short-lived Two Illinois Center restaurant developed by Arnold Morton (he built steak house giant Morton's), my experience with the light version had been limited.

The Barcelona product was remarkably good and here I am, 20 years later, recalling its virtues.  I was so caught up in the pizza that I paid little attention to Magic Johnson, a member of the U.S.A. Dream Team, unquestionably the greatest basketball squad ever.  Magic was seated nearby dining while a circus-like scene developed outside in front of a huge hotel window where a human pyramid of kids had materialized.  Mesmerized, the kids were shouting "Ma-jeek, Ma-jeek."  Completing his meal, the basketball star vanished out a back door and the kids disassembled.  Pronounced evidence of the departed youngsters was left behind on the window; the glass was heavily befogged by human vapors.

Pizza satisfaction is a personal thing and my problem with the Fourth Corner version can be summed up in one word: pepperoni.  Enthusiasts of the pepperoni experience are inclined to believe that pepperoni pizza is to the Pacific Northwest what the Packers are to Green Bay.  A current television commercial extolling the glories of Pizza Hut is, I find, a stomach churner of prodigious success.  While an imaginatively constructed pizza heavy on vegetables can mirror the exultant beauty of a Joan Miro work, the Pizza Hut TV effort features a very large pie whose disgusting topping consists of nothing but a slathering of pepperoni that appears to have been sitting for a week under a scorching Arizona desert sun.  It is beyond ugly made even more so by bread sticks of almost equal repulsion.

Reaching pizza nirvana is not easy although there is a greater variety available today than, say, 30 years ago.  Now a $38 billion industry, pizza is available in chains dominated by Pizza Hut, Dominos, and Papa John who claim 21% of the pizzeria total.  With hard times upon us, pizzeria prices have come down--partly because of the frozen variety competition whose costs are appealing.  Papa Murphy's, whose come-on is take-and-bake, is a highly interesting game plan.  A warning: do not deviate fromn Papa's instructions.  Among other things, bake within a hour of pickup and make sure you don't get a product that's been sitting around.

Store-bought frozen product is challenging with Freschetta, Red Baron, DeGiorno, Paul Newman, California and the rest battling it out to see who has the least amount of cardboard taste.  The boredom of pepperoni pizza has dominated Fourth Corner freezers and I had all but given up until three weeks ago when I encountered what I immediately determined as homage to Chicago: sausage and mushroom pizza.  It was at Fred Meyer and, indeed, produced by Kroger, owner of FM.  Further, a rather stunning picture of the pizza was on the black oblong box and within an hour I had achieved a blessedness never imagined from a frozen product.  The crust was thin and flaky but not overly so and the toppings more substantial and decidedly tastier than all others experienced.  At present, there are four Private Selection pizzas (11-14 oz.) that sell for $4.50 each.  The mushrooms used are portobella and shitake and the sausage Italian.  There's some jive on the box about the baking having been done on a marble hearth.

This column, always inclined to recognize superior marketing, believes Private Selection deserves recognition for realizing all frozen pizza boxes are the same shape.  Simply by creating an oblong pizza has the firm given the product recognition in a highly competitive environment.

And, frankly, I don't care if Private Selection pizza is baked on Aunt Tilly's breakfast table.  Now, go get yourself some sausage and mushroom pizza and think Cubs; that is, if you can stand the thought.

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Florida....by Bob Sanders

 

Mike Royko was easily the most entertaining and evocative columnist I've yet to read and I'd rank Jimmy Breslin second probably because I lived in Chicago for 22 years.  The Chicago wonder has been gone two weeks more than 15 years and I continue to miss his incisiveness and wit.  The wonder of it all was that he wrote his column five times a week--a staggering output.  He knew Chicago better than the back of his hand and he could spot a phony by way of uncommon insight.

Royko had a lot of targets.  Writing for first the Daily News, then the Sun-Times and, finally, the Tribune, the columnist went after the Mayors Daley, aldermen on the take, cops with more than character flaws, the Cubs when they were playing badly (and that was most of the time), Hollywood's latest darlings, and adjacent states including Indiana.

Were he still among us, I think Royko would have been absolutely captivated by Florida, that skinny Texas of extraordinary confusion.

It's difficult to know where to begin with something as curious as Florida.  There are the people past including: railway magnet Henry Flagler; the fabulous Mizner brothers who became the rogues of the 1920s Florida Land Boom and whose raffish personalities gave further understanding of the affinity New Yorkers have for Florida; Meyer Lansky, otherwise known as the "Mob's Accountant," and Hank Meyer, a public relations whiz so persuasive that he talked Second Corner weathermen into never crediting Miami Beach with temperatures higher than 89.  They do today, but Meyer is no longer among us.

Let us leap immediately into the contemporary Florida now recognized as the fraud capital of the U.S., a reputation well-established long before Bernie  ripped off so many friends and relatives in Palm Beach, easily his favorite hunting ground.  Florida led the nation last year with 130,449 complaints while also grabbing the top spot in home foreclosures and identity theft.  The Bermuda Triangle of the latter is the Miami metropolitan area where 51 percent of the state's complaints originated last year.  Way to go, Miami, whose numbers were nearly double those of the next-highest U.S. metro area.

While best known for 114 hurricanes (37 major) since 1851, dead beat Florida also has impressive credit card debt records with four cities in the top 25.

In the dumper job-wise, Florida will have to wait at least another year to realize all the magnificence inherent in a mega-casino bill pulled from consideration the other day by House sponsor Erik Fresen when it became clear passage was not possible.  Not even a statewide TV advertising campaign, in addition to glitzy architectural renderings we've come to expect from the Sunshine State, could make possible three $2 billion mega casinos in Miami-Dade and Broward Counties.  Las Vegas-style gambling in South Florida can yet be a reality.  After all, like corporations, casinos are people.

As if living in Florida isn't difficult enough, The National Transportation Safety Board tells us the state is on its list of those needing the most improvement in highway safety.  The problem involves an out-of-touch legislature unwilling to pass a single distracted driving law.  While more than 70 percent of Florida voters support a ban on text messaging while driving, the legislature has been turning down safety bills since 2006 when the problem was timidly referred to as "hands free."

The concerned have statistics to back up their contention tht keeping legal outrageous driving is not acceptable.  During the first 10 months of 2011, electronic distractions led to 2,218 vehicle accidents in the state with 145 linked to texting and drivingl.  The big year for messaging bills that never made it out of committee was 2008 when in e met such a fate.  Of little help is Gov. Rick Scott, a conservative Republican (thought I'd never get there, did you?) who vetoed a bill in 2011 that would have required education about the dangers of electronic distracted driving.  What a flippant thought.

Sometimes referred to as the Persistent Vegetative State, voters not long ago passed a law making the wearing of baggy pants a criminal offense that can cost the offender up to $150 and 60 days in jail.  Ah, priorities where in Florida baggy pants are more important than electronic distraction while driving.

Oh, yes.  Did you know that Orlando, where Mickey Mouse is king, is the kiddie porn capital of this here country?  That's according to a Men's Health Magazine study based upon such factors as hard core DVD purchases, rentals, and streams.  Florida is so salacious that Las Vegas finished second with New York coming in 77th out of 100.

It may have been the butterfly ballot of 2000 that first brought our attention to Florida in terms of how corrupt and screwed up it is.  The hanging chad became one of those infamous terms forever associated with America's only stolen election although Jack Kennedy's win in 1958 is a reasonable Republican response.  The brilliant punch card design was on its way out with but 37.3% of voters using the system in 1996.  Socioeconomics determined which counties would keep punch card voting and Palm Beach County was considered disadvantaged without funds to buy voting machines.

What set up confusion in Palm Beach County was the state's 1998 gubernatorial election in which Jeb Bush beat incumbent governor Lawton Chiles.  Had George W. Bush's brother lost in Florida, Gore would have won in 2000 because of a first position on the ballot.  The 1996 election found Republican Bob Dole second on the ballot because Chiles was in office so Dole got all the ruined ballots.  With Jeb Bush Governor, Gore got second place on the ballot and lost the election.  It was those error-prone folks in Palm Beach County who determined the election along with a lot of help from the U.S. Supreme Court.  Proof that Bush was unfairly awarded the Presidency is every one of Pat Buchanan's 3,407 Palm Beach County votes.  The total represented 19.6% of votes cast, a highly suspect number since the Reform Party candidate pulled but 5.4% of the total in 1996.  There were 336 registered Reform Party members in 2000.  Once Bush was in office, he made certain that the lede paragraph of his obituary will make mention of his war criminality rather than the flukiness of the 2000 election.

Speaking of criminals, there's a burgeoning number of Floridians who will steal anything not nailed down.  Among them is a guy who concentrates on ripping off large amounts of medical equipment.  His specialty: heart monitors unhooked from their owners.

Floridians are often challenged by a lack of awareness as evidenced by the flight trainer who didn't find it unusual shortly before 9/11 when he was told by a cash-paying aviation "student" to forget about landing instructions and "just teach me to fly it around."

Key West, where weirdness might peak, is worth mentioning if only because of the German doctor who fell in love with a young tuberculosis patient.  She eventually died and he tried to restore her to life after stealing her from her tomb.  In a plot twist Tim Burton probably wouldn't touch, the doctor had sexual relations with her corpse quite possibly proving, once again, that a good bedside manner can go a long way.

Let's make it encore, Key West, where in 1984 the entire police department was declared an illegal enterprise under the RICO laws--usually used to shut down mobsters.  One witness testified to delivering bags of coke to city hall on a regular basis.

Of much more recent vintage has been the Trayvon Martin shooting by George Zimmerman in which Florida's short-sighted stand your ground law is being questioned now by even the fools in government who came up with such an un-civilized law.  It's always interesting to learn what adjoining states are doing and, to little surprise, Georgia, South Carolina and Alabama have similar laws.  Yahoo states do as Yahoo states are.

A town with an innate ability to insult a celebrity is Lauderhill that once invited actor James Earl Jones to speak at a Martin Luther King, Jr. celebration and receive a plaque to commemorate the occasion.  Everything went according to plan until the presentation of the plaque.  It was inscribed to James Earl Ray, the man who assassinated King.

Enormously funny author Carl Hiassen has kicked the state around while living in South Florida.  It was during a Steve Kroft interview on "60 Minutes" that Hiassen revealed a lot of his plot developments are based upon actual people including the heroine of Skinny Dip who was flung off the stern of a cruise ship, only to be saved by a floating bale of marijuana.  Other characters include a professional wheelchair thief, a school board candidate whose legal residence was a tool shed, and a U.S. attorney who bit a stripper during a table dance.  Oh, and let's not forget a South Florida mayor who tried to employ city hall workers to kill her husband.

One of the verities of Florida, sometimes referred to as "America's Penis," is the vast number of retirees living in places like The Villages whose TV advertising budget is probably exceeded only by that of Super PAC Restore Our Future.  The Villages residents, as might be expected, resort to print advertising including the following under the heading: Long Term Commitment: Recent widow who has just burned fourth husband, and am looking for someone to round out a six-unit plot.  Dizziness, fainting, shortness of breath not a problem.  It would appear it's possible to have a sense of humor in the Alligator State despite living conditions on the challenging side.

Adding to Florida's uniqueness is the topography.  The lowest high point of any state is Britton Hill at 345 ft.  To no one's surprise, there are theorists fully convinced a great day is coming when a really significant tsunami will do what Floridians have been unable to do thus far: put the state out of its misery.

And, as the saying goes, there's much, much more not touched upon in this sally including the continuing role of Miami's Little Havana in our Cuban policy and the laugh-out-loud rewriting of Senator Marco Rubio's family history; the unusual death 10 years ago of a Joe Scarborough ("Morning Joe") employee in Walton Beach; the odd case of Terry Schiavo kept alive for six years in a vegetative state for political purposes; and Jeb Bush's request for an Orlando court-appointed guardian for the fetus of a mentally disabled rape victim.  He was refused.

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Fourth Corner Mayberry....by Bob Sanders

Readers of this space know of my intense perturbation regarding the media's "selling" of Bellingham, the Fourth Corner community I call home.  The remarkable amount of publicity suggesting people move here has become a very real problem.

My thinking is not original.  I first heard such observations from a San Juan Island neighbor, author Ernie Gann, who refused to tell the media where he lived.  The adventure novelist (The High and the Mighty among his triumphs) was convinced the less the rest of the world knew about the island, the better off islanders would be.

It was nearly three years ago that I began undertaking efforts to debunk Bellingham utilizing a campaign that would paint for public consumption a joyless picture of the city.  In my role as the Picasso of PR, that pursuance has included changing our current unofficial motto, "City of Subdued Excitement," to something a bit more pretentious like "City of Sublimely Subdued Subjective Excitement," or even "Tony Soprano's Kinda Town."

Just why 'hamsters are lethargic, indifferent and depressed was examined a couple of years ago by way of an interview with Dr. I.B. Spacey.  It was Spacey, Bellingham's world-renowned master of medical world stuff and all-around smart ass, who targeted vitamin D deficiency as the community's dirty little secret.  Spacey's pioneering efforts produced the intriguing information that more than 90 percent of blood tests here reveal deplorable vitamin D deficiencies.  Interestingly enough, the vitamin D story is now on the back burner because of superior opportunities to inform about the real Bellingham.

Chances are pretty good you don't know that whooping cough in Whatcom County has reached epidemic proportions and is on pace to soon number 3,000 cases.  The county ranks fifth in the state and is first among the 10 largest with populations of more than 150,000.  The reason for Whatcom/Bellingham's record is the increased rejection of the pertussis vaccine.  The past 12 years have seen the rejection figure double so spread the word that there are an awful lot of stupid 'hamsters you wouldn't want living next door to you should a move here be considered.

The challenges of life in Bellingham in addition to the major vitamin deficiency and whooping cough, have been reduced in priority by the Hammer the 'hamsters Committee devoted to reducing our population.  The HHC has chosen to inundate the world's media with information about the community's immature leadership during recent years.  In the committee's sights are: the firing of the city's parks & recreation director for failure to properly reconfigure a golf course pond; the sliding past an asleep-at-the-switch City Council of a hidden camera scheme that led to the mayor's re-election defeat; and the thoroughly bizarre story of two Port Commissioners (there are three) who forced the resignation of the Executive Director in what recalled the Machiavellian maneuvers intrinsic to many of the plot twists of television's "Mayberry RFD."

The firing late in 2010 of veteran and highly-regarded Parks & Recreation Director Paul Leuthold had unusual beginnings.  Upkeep of Padden Lake Golf Course is the city's responsibility and it was mayor Dan Pike who, while checking out the course, made a critical comment to Leuthold about a pond located between the 13th and 15th fairways.  It needed work alternately described as silt removal or drainage and Leuthold, aware of the importance of cost-saving, put friend/city engineer Mark Handzlik to work.  Handzlik, a golfer, was "paid" with free golf.  It was win win for the city.  According to Handzlik, both his boss and the city manager knew of the arrangement.

Suddenly, everything went Mayberry and got either Gooberized or Gomerized to death depending upon one's point of view.  Charges of conflict of interest, violating policies on moonlighting, using city computers, and being on the city's clock while working on the project were bruited about.  The mayor, normally placid (some say right out of "Murder She Wrote") turned nasty levying a sentence that hardly fit the "crime." Result: Leuthold and Handzlik were fired.  As things turned out, the firings were a factor leading to Pike's re-election failure last November.

Another factor was the hidden cameras fiasco, additional proof that you simply stay away from Bellingham unless you want to experience fools gladly as they attempt to myopically claim Subdued City as the Santa Barbara of the North.

It was mayor Pike who signed a contract with something called ATS that would have placed red-light cameras at four intersections in addition to speed snappers in two school zones.  The signing followed a Council closed-to-the-public 6-1 vote that approved the deal.  Earlier, the Council had voted unanimously to encourage public expression.  Subdued City rose up in a wrath most righteous, got an initiative on last November's ballot and there went the traffic cameras.  Pike was defeated, but wait a minute.  The state Supreme Court ruled the initiative against the cameras was invalid.

There was, of course, money involved and Bellingham's plan was to write at least two traffic tickets per location per day to equal a yearly cost of  $28,500 per camera.  Those tickets were to cost $124 at the intersections and $250 at the school zones.  This was in stark contrast to Mukilteo's approach to matters.  Mukilteo, for the geographically-deprived, is halfway to Seattle and set costs at $20 while enabling the public to vote.

The slumbering City Council in March of this year voted to pay ATS $100,000 by June 1 to end all the foolishness.  There is a chilling history of money spent here on surveys, advanced planning documents and architectural renderings plus the disheartening waste of time offered in the name of public good by committees and public commentary.

Another story to pass along to friends and relatives considering a move to Subdued City is a real classic involving the Port of Bellingham whose inability to get things done is legendary.  Turf warfare is what a lot of it is all about and savage infighting has characterized the Port Commission's inability to work with the City Council whose shortcomings are hardly breaking news.

For something like 18 months, Charlie Sheldon worked effectively as Port of Bellingham Executive Director having been hired by Commissioners who couldn't come up with a choice during a first round of interviews.  Sheldon, with an excellent record in a similar position in Seattle, eventually was chosen and did work that pleased everyone including Commissioner Scott Walker who eventually changed his mind.  Meanwhile, former Commissioners, ex-mayors and others of political bent came to believe Sheldon was the real deal.  That is everyone but Walker.

On March 30, the three port commissioners held an executive meeting.  It was closed to the public with only invited staff and counsel also in attendance to discuss "personnel."  The discussion was about Sheldon with Walker unable to convince fellow commissioner Jim Jorgensen to ask for Sheldon's resignation.  According to witnesses, Walker would not elaborate on his disappointment with Sheldon.

It was at this point that an illegal weekend meeting between Walker and Jorgensen was held.  Jorgensen eventually caved and Sheldon was forced to resign.  Walker and Jorgensen had engaged in a "serial meeting" in which two commissioners talked through an intermediary from the Port staff.  It was a violation of the Open Meetings Act of Washington State.

In one of those journalistic embarrassments underlining the Bellingham Herald's lack of responsibility to its readers, the reporter who normally covers the Port for the paper was out of town.  No one stepped in for him and the paper was beaten for two days by John Servais who publishes the on-line Northwest Citizen.  Originally from Green Bay, Wisconsin, Servais was the principal force behind The Independent, now defunct.  Servais, highly sensitive about such matters as inept leadership and lazy journalism, has called for a public response.  One option is to recall Walker and elect a replacement this fall.  The other is to expand the commission to five members, a move that would produce better Port decisions and lessen the possibility of further outrages.  An open to the public Port meeting, at which a problem-solving expansion can be accomplished, will be held Monday (May 14).  No one is holding their breath.

One month after Sheldon left office, Walker's indignation was finally explained by something called the Pacific Maritime Online.  Sheldon had taken a busines trip to the Caribbean and Walker was miffed for his not informing the board.  According to many, Walker's idea of travel exotica might involve a visit to nearby Marietta whose resemblance to Dismal Seepage of "Vic & Sade" is striking.

At this writing, 'hamsters can affix their names to a petition calling for an expansion of Port commissioners from three to five.  Needed are 6,915 valid signatures, a number that amounts to 10 percent of last November's voters.

No way do you want to move to Bellingham.  No way, that is, unless you yearn for a real life version of "Mayberry RFD."

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Petitions....by Bob Sanders

 

With the world going broke and Dwight Eisenhower's warning about the military-industrial complex giving us further pause, one has to wonder about the lack of outrage being registered concerning the frightening number of problems facing this country.

The anger simply isn't there although the concept of paper petitioning democratic governments, as old as the Magna Carta, remains in place while not in vogue.  Petitioning doesn't appear to be the serious process it once was; perhaps it's a matter of having given up on our Washington politicians, a suggestion of obvious merit judging from those single digit approval ratings.  Maybe we have backed away from the out-of-touchers and have turned to the internet to register what, unfortunately, is often trivial whining.  Fortunately, we remain inclined to petition on a local level and it was a Bellingham, WA story that whirled my mind toward the electronic petition gaining in popularity as our favored method of registering complaint.

The Bellingham tale is about the Executive Director of the Port Commission who was fired by two of three Commissioners, the second of whom required a decidedly illegal weekend shoring up by the originator of the scheme.  Without going into great detail, one of the Commissioners didn't like the Executive Director, a hire out of Seattle where he was highly regarded.  According to those who know about such things, his Bellingham work was exemplary.  A petition to save the Executive Director's job was enjoined by a less effective paper version.  Close to 1,000 signatures and an April 17 heavily-attended and vocal Port meeting failed to impress the two Commissioners and the Executive Director's job was not saved.  Other than learning of some Machiavellian involvement by a few Port staffers, the public still doesn't have any details of the firing.  Petitioners will now attempt to increase the number of Port Commissioners to five.

Known as the City of Subdued Excitement, Bellingham achieves minor titillation most often when someone screws up at City Hall or at the Whatcom County level.  It's the kind of place where an ex-mayor (he lost in November) succeeded in sliding a street-based camera security system past the City Council, then lost the election in all likelihood because his maneuver was recalled by an aroused citizenry that first produced a petition with enough signatures.  The Council settled with the camera people for $100,000 later breathing great sighs of relief that the city had gotten off so cheaply.  We put up with a lot of shit in Bellingham.  Largely inured to such foolishness, we've become subdued although occasionally capable of retort.

It was a petition that started the camera folly rolling in another direction and 'hamsters became aware of the Port story when it was revealed by John Servais who publishes online the NorthwestCitizen.  More down the road about Servais whose story beat the Bellingham Herald's version by two days.  There are times when 'hamsters feel they are living in Mayberry and the Herald accounts for a lot of those times.

Curious about internet petitions and whether or not the American public has turned to them to express anger, I began searching the internet discovering a plethora.  One is in behalf of an actor, Patrick Murphy, who plays Dr. Derek Sheppard on "Grey's Anatomy."  Aware that the medical world provides fabulous fodder for fixated followers fascinated by favorite TV doctors from Ben Casey to House, I was not surprised to find petitioners desperately wanting Murphy to play Dr. Stephen Vincent Strange for Marvel Comics' upcoming "Doctor Strange."

It's good to know the Druids are not being ignored thanks largely to right-wing columnist Melanie Phillips who got on a tear back in October when she took exception to the British government's determination that the Druids have an official religion that enables them charitable status.  Phillips writes for the Mail and it wasn't long before King Arthur Pondragon, a Druid activist, showed up at the Mail with an online petition of more than 4,000 signatures.  Do not show pictures of Druids to Jesse Jackson or Al Sharpton.  Druid apparel is heavy on white sheets.

Half-time at the Super Bowl, like the Academy Awards, gets a lot of yawns and this year's use of Madonna got very mixed reviews.  Hard to believe, but there's a hue and possibly even a cry from fans of Weird Al Yankovic (I'd call him Weird but we have yet to reach a first name basis) has "unparalleled showmanship," fans extol his "wide-swath of musical styles ranging from grunge parody to rap parody," and, least we forget, "geek appeal" that would translate into "killer ratings."  By all means, let's never lose sight of geek appeal.

Decidedly on the serious side are a couple of petitions that recently forced a reaction by the White House and may have struck a blow to millions of conspiracy theorists.  The petitions, containing 17,000 signatures, called on the government to disclose knowledge of extraterrestrial beings and contact with them.  As a result, the White House has started a new andd highly original initiative called "We the People" that encourages petitions while denying there is any "credible evidence of extraterrestrial presence here on earth."

To pierce or not to pierce appears to be the question following tattoo adornment.  Just as marijuana is the gateway drug, it appears that's the case with tattoos although Elke of the UK doesn't make a reference to any tats in her petition located on the Bureau of Petitions website.  "I really want to get my nose pierced," she writes, "but mum won't let me...I think she will if I get enough signatures, I am 16, so I think I am old enough to make my own decisions...please sign!!!  Thus far Elke has pleaded her way to 100 signatures.

Another slant on piercing is offered on the Care2Petitionsite where an attention-getting headline, Outlaw the Piercing Gun NOW!!! leads the reader into claims that the instrument is unhygienic, inaccurate and dangereous.  With a goal of 1,000 signatures, 613 have signed up so far.  No word yet about reaction from the National Rifle Association.

Holly's petition is to own a cat and may be found on Petition buzz whose website is, indeed, impressive.  There are 10 categories, enough to satisfy the biggest complainers among us.  Entertainment & Media, for example, has 886 offerings while the sports world has 277.  Civil and Human Rights presently includes 664.  A hot whine these days is a 20% VAT charge on sports nutrition drinks in Britain that will go into effect October 12 unless enough squawks materialize.  The complaints, now numbering 22,413, are being sent to Chancellor of the Exchequer George Osborne.  One of the fascinating aspects of Petition buzz is its thoroughness including tips on the use of Paypal to collect donations.  

Tattoos for cats seem a bit obscure but the Russians are stirring things up as they occasionally do.  Thus far, 24,322 cat lovers have expressed outrage at Russian tattooist Timur Rimit whose artistry is now being worn by his hairless sphinx.  Another tat catastrophe is Mickey whose chest is now emblazoned with a likeness of King Tut.  Both Mickey's owner, Oskana Popova, and Timur did make certain that three hours of sedation accompanied the procedure.  Thus far 646,120 facebookers have made clear their removed disenchantment by registering a thumbs down.

Any sprawling topic like petitioning has to include the Japanese and it was U.N. Donne, head of Japanese Studies at the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS) in London, who knows just how weird are the Japanese and you thought their Hello Kitty assault rifle and the square watermelon were something along with penis ice cream and the breast grabber amusement arcade prize game?  A thousand people recently signed a petition demanding that the government legalize marriage to cartoon characters.  The petition does not make clear whether sexual identity is of any consequence in cartoon nuptials.

And, finally, it's good to know a sense of humor is possible in Pakistan.  The humorist is a judge who recently heard a petitioner, one Atiqur Rehman, who claimed to be Meera's husband.  Meera, for the uninformed, is a Bollywood babe who will do anything for publicity--most notably calling off engagements and weddings.  One of her biggest scores was achieved starring in a movie featuring a kissing scene deemed "immoral" by Pakistanis not fond of her making films in India.

Rehman's request was pretty unique: he wanted to have a test conducted to determine the actress's virginity.  The judge thought for a moment, then declined the request suggesting such an examination would open a Pandora's box.

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Obtusely Ozzie....by Bob Sanders

 

No one has ever accused Ozzie Guillen of thinking things through but the remarkable championing of Fidel Castro by the Marlins manager was as startling as Sarah Palin authoring a book about geography or, perhaps, providing us with an insightful analysis of the New York Times.

In the world of public relations, Guillen's gaffe is one of the grand disasters ranking right up there with the Chicago Tribune's Dewey Defeats Truman.

Highly creative writers of satire would have to draw upon muses of incredible inspiration to come up with Guillen's bizarre foot-in-mouth classic.  Just imagine.  Born in Venezuela and a resident of South Florida for the past 12 years, Guillen was a major league shortstop for 16 years, and a manager the past eight.  Playing with and managing Cuban players, he is well aware not only of life in Cuba, but, also, the low esteem citizens of Little Havana have for Castro.

Sensationally bumptious, Guillen had worn out his welcome in Chicago while plying his managerial skills for the White Sox and owner Jerry Reinsdorf.  Guillen's mouth got in the way of success following a World Series win in 2005 when he called a Sun-Times sports columnist a "fagot."  It was not the only time Guillen had demonstrated a lack of sensitivity when involved with the press.

Timing, as we have come to realize, is everything and Guillen's big trouble in Little Havana was astonishing in its essential perversity.  At least he didn't resort to sky-writing his declaration although, come to think of it, that would have been a fine photo op.

Take what had been the Florida Marlins and, as Henny Youngman would have put it, "please."  The Marlins, in spite of reasonable success on the field, have been box office failures fielding teams on the cheap while unable to connect with South Florida fans any better than Mitt Romney with Tea Party types.  What to do?

Starting with a name change, the Florida Marlins became the Miami Marlins and a new state-of-the-art tax-funded stadium was built within the cozy confines of Little Havana.  It cost $645 million and the sheer logic of it all was breath-taking.  Either by birth, pass along genes, or osmosis, those Cuban-Americans are nuts about what they call biesbol going back to the good old days before Castro, Che Guevara and others turned the country Communist, then invited the Russians to help create those missile-threatening 10 days in May that gave John F. Kennedy his finest moments in office.

Little Havana, once described as a Disney version of a displaced Cuba, is a unique place--so much so that U.S. policy toward Cuba is based upon the feelings of a minuscule percentage of this country's population.  A piece of Miami has the kind of clout envied even by Chicagoans who pioneered in such matters. 

The Marlins needed a manager and Guillen was more than available.  Owner Jeffrey Loria signed him to a four-year contract figuring that a Latino leader, admittedly a little loony at times, would captivate the fans of Little Havana with stream of consciousness rants accompanied by legendary accomplishments on the diamond.  Ah, the anticipated joys of genuine verbal linkage to the baseball fans of Little Havana.

As far as subject matter for those intemperate moments, such a possibility as the manager's love for Castro could not possibly have entered Loria's mind.  Castro's popularity in Little Havana is roughly that of a KKK Grand Dragon in Harlem.

It's worth noting that Chicago's press gave Guillen a lot of slack during all eight years of his responsibilities positioning him somewhere between aldermen on the take and Wrigley's latest chewing gum.  Time magazine's Sean Gregory, unaware that Ozzie is Ozzie, reported off-the-cuff flippancy leading with the manager's love for Castro.  The Chicago press would have turned a deaf ear but the guy from Time failed to play the game with dire results for Guillen.  Guillen, who has a heart-on-his-sleeve for anything Latin American, had expressed earlier devotion to Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez.

Two of the very strange aspects of the Guillen contretemps is Castro's "role" in baseball and Guillen's stupidity in not offering a reasonable explanation of why he loves Castro.  There exists a reason.

A much bandied-about folklore tale is Castro's involvement with baseball.  According to Snopes.com, one odd scenario has Castro awarded a tryout by either the New York Yankees or Washington Senators.  The left-handed pitcher was rejected, so goes the story, thus making possible the overthrowing of the Batista regime, the Soviet-aligned government in Cuba, the Bay of Pigs fiasco, and the Cuban Missile Crisis.

It was a Yale historian, professor Roberto Gonzalez Echevarria, who researched thousands of Cuban baseball box scores finally finding one of an intramural game between the Law and Business Schools at the University of Havana.  It was in El Mundo in November, 1946 when an F. Castro pitched and lost, 5-4.  The dictator, of course, added to the quirkiness of his horsehide "career" by dressing in the uniform of a tongue-in-cheek team called Barbudos (Bearded Ones).  That was after he came to power in 1959 and he played in just a few games.  A photo helps promulgate the myth.

Guillen has reason to love Castro because of pitcher Jose Contreras.  As kindly as Castro might look upon a fellow pitcher, Contreras was tired of being the premier amateur pitcher in the world.  His fast ball was in the mid-90s, his curve exceptional and, besides, there was money to be made in the major leagues for a guy who said he was 31.  Contreras was the sort of fellow who could beat the United States on one day's rest for the championship of the 1999 Pan American Games.  He struck out 13 in eight innings.  Contreras was tired of amateur scuffling and life under Castro had its shortcomings.

The Yankees, quite naturally, had their usual big bucks to spend on a world class pitcher who finally defected to Gotham in 2002.  Contreras got the largest deal ever to run from Castro--$32 million for four years.  Guillen began managing the White Sox the next year.  

Contreras went 7-2 in 2003 and Guillen was particularly impressed on September 23 of that year when the Cuban pitcher shut out the White Sox for eight innings while striking out nine.  The baseball expression that you can't have enough pitching was a canard that year to the Yanks who traded Contreras to the White Sox and a salivating Guillen on July's last day in 2004.

The next year was a singular one for both Guillen and Contreras.  The latter started the season slowly reaching the All-Star break with a 4-3 record.  Contreras became the White Sox most reliable pitcher winning his last eight starts while gaining status as the stopper of the team's losing streaks.  He finished the season 15-7 with a 3.61 ERA getting 154 strikeouts in 204 2/3 innings.  Guillen had to love Castro.

He had to love him even more when the Sox beat the Los Angeles Angels for the American League flag, eventually winning the World Series with four straight victories over the Houson Astros.  Contreras started game one of every series going 3-1.

Contreras was so sensational that television commentators said that the fire-balling right hander had his name banned from being mentioned in Cuba by order of Castro--no way to treat a fellow pitcher.  Further, according to one story, White Sox games were banned from TV and could be seen only by way of illegal television satellites.  Contreras was a household name while Guillen had become the first Latino to manage a World Series winner.  There was a lot of love on Chicago's South Side.

The following year Contreras won a 17th consecutive game breaking the White Sox team record.  The string included eight victories gained the prior season.  Injuries impacted losing seasons the next two years and he was sent to the bullpen, then the minor leagues in 2009.  Guillen finally gave up on Contreras and he was traded to the Colorado Rockies on August 31, 2009 for cash and a minor league pitcher.  Love only goes so far.

The Contreras story continues today.  On January 28, 2010, the now 40-year-old pitcher signed a one-year, $1.5 (later upped to $2.5) million deal with the Philadelphia Phillies, one of baseball's better teams.  The bad news is that Contreras is pitching relief for far less money although further compensation awaits a World Series winner.  The good news is that he finally made it despite years of deprivation in Cuba where, presumably, the beisbol hip hold guarded conversations about that superb pitcher from Las Martinas.

Meanwhile, those with knowledge of Guillen's real raison d'etre for a professed love of Fidel Castro can't figure out the manager's failure to explain the easily explainable and the good fortune made possible when a Cuban pitcher fled his homeland because of appalling conditions, including playing baseball for free.  Thank you, Fidel.

Baseball is a sport where brilliance is sometimes hidden by a failure to communicate effectively.  Casey Stengel, Yogi Berra, and, yes, maybe, Ozzie will attain their status if he can keep his job with the Marlins following five days banishment.

And, should employment at the major league level continue, perhaps Guillen will learn how to spin a disaster like love for Castro.  It shouldn't have been that difficult.

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Sarah Revisited....by Bob Sanders

 

Anyone who thought Sarah Palin was simply going to disappear from public consciousness has been convinced otherwise by two cable films during recent days.

The first, "Game Change," debuted this past weekend on HBO and it must have been tempting to those responsible for creating the film's trailers to borrow from the marketing maneuvers of Jack Nicholson's 1980 "The Shining."  Yes, Sarah is back.

Perverse pleasures admitted, this viewer has missed Palin and it may very well be due to the obvious contrasts she offers to the rag tag collection of politicians who for far too long have flailed away at nailing down the Republican Party's presidential nomination.  Mitt Romney, challenged by Rick Santorum, Newt Gingrich, and Ron Paul, simply can't make the sale to a party base moved to the right somewhere in the general vicinity of Attila the Hun.  All this, of course, has come after semi-final rounds during which we were introduced to the strange campaigns of Rick Perry, Herman Cain, Michelle Bachmann, and poor Jon Huntsman, he of the nice-guy-what-am-I-doing- here? persona.  Never in the past 100 years of the election process has the American public been confronted by such a collection of boring possibilities.  Never has the other party been given such a leg up while 20 debates put audiences to sleep.

Palin's remarkable selection as John McCain's running mate is the focal point of "Game Change."  The film is based upon the best-seller by John Heilemann and Mark Halperin.  Palin, as played by Julianne Moore, initially is drawn as a sympathetic character decidedly over-matched as McCain's advisers determine she is a logical choice as the Arizona Senator's running mate.  Moore's portrayal of Palin invites comparisons to the wickedly funny Tina Fey impressions on "Saturday Night Live."  As good as Fey's you-betcha takes were of Palin, Moore's provide much greater insight as we experience her strengths (connecting with crowds) to her weaknesses (foreign affairs about which she knows next to nothing).  It is through Moore 's nuanced performance that we see the many Palins: fragile, sullen, magnetic, and vain.  The pit bull mom may not have much upstairs but she appears to have a vast collection of hockey jerseys.

Woody Harrelson, as campaign strategist Steve Schmidt, gives another outstanding performance as he moves from enthusiasm for Palin to a realization that five days were simply not enough time to vet the Alaska governor.  Ed Harris is splendid while offering a compassionate portrayal of McCain.  Harris and Harrelson, both compiling impressive bodies of work, have become two of our very best film actors.

What is particularly intriguing about "Game Change" are the sympathetic roles played by the advisers who, much like race horse bettors given a sure thing in a four-horse race, are aghast as their filly stumbles out of the gate and at all the turns.  Often with media backgrounds, advisers in a political story are people in the shadows, rarely gaining audience rapport or even interest.  Senior adviser Nicolle Wallace, played by Sarah Pauley, bears the brunt of Palin mistakes and malice; Schmidt's "explanation to Palin about the why of not allowing her to give a concession speech is a classic.

Something quite different in Palinology may be observed in "The Undefeated," like "Game Change," inspired by a book.  Going Rogue, "written" by the then jobless governor having fled Juneau, was Palin's explanation of how things happened.  The bad show business people, led by Bill Maher and Matt Damon, are introduced.  The best line is that of ex-New York mayor Ed Koch who, in describing Palin as "plucky, perky," then adds, "and she scares the hell out of me."

First viewed last July, the documentary comes off as an infomercial rather inexpertly cut on somebody's dinner table.  The guilty are director/writer Stephen K. Bannon and the late Andrew Breitbart whose producer credits are augmented by appearance snippets enabling the audience to better understand Palin's brilliance.  He is joined by conservative talk show host Mark Levin and others as the banal product unwinds providing explanation of the box office failure following theatrical release.  It is currently playing on the ReelzChannel as what can only be regarded as a curiosity piece.

One of the reasons for it being a curiosity is its frantic pace and helter-skelter use of very low grade digital video of a lesser quality than YouTube.  Be assured that when the bad guys are offered up as depraved contrasts to the self-appointed mama grizzly, you can count on either stock footage of good old boys in a smoke-filled room or an incessantly brooding film score.  The feel of much of the material is that it is a collection of out takes clipped from promotional film shot for "Sarah Palin's Alaska" whose run on The Learning Channel mercifully has been completed.  There are always re-runs for the Palin-addicted.

Another of the oddities of Bannon's love letter to Palin is the paltry amount of time spent on the presidential election although her considerable triumph, an acceptance speech at the 2008 Republican National Convention, gets a lot and it's Sarah at her best, by golly.  John McCain is barely recognized.  Hardly a master of subtlety, Bannon tells us that government is wasteful, then gives us three shots of money swirling down a toilet.

We never see Palin inThe Rogue: Searching for Sarah Palin, Joe McGinniss's wickedly amusing and sometimes frightening six months spent living next door to the remarkable woman who threatened to become a heartbeat from the Presidency.  McGinniss is not new to Alaska having researched the critically acclaimed Going to Extremes  there in 1977.  McGinniss does make it clear that, in his opinion, the Palinized Wasilla and much of Alaska is full of people thoroughly fed up with Palin.

In an unusual bit of good fortune, McGinniss, having determined that Alaska's most famous resident was worth a book, was offered a rental next door to Palin.  The mere beating of such odds strongly suggests Palin has a lot of enemies in Alaska in general and Wasilla in particular.  In investigative journalist fashion much more Confidential  than New Yorker, McGinniss gives us Sarah: having a fling with an NBA basketball player; doing drugs back when with First Dude Todd; coming up with easily doubted stories about the birth of son Trig suggesting she is not his mother; and as being committed to religious control of government in spite of not being sufficiently devout.  Oh, yes, the Palin family in all its dysfunctional glory is on board and, as described by McGinniss, not pretty.

She may be guilty of all his charges but McGinniss weakens his case with a disconcerting bitchy quality to his reportage and there are far too many stories told by "a friend," "one resident," and "a former resident."

On the other hand, if only one-quarter of McGinniss's stories can weather a scrutiny closer than the author's he said, she said conclusions, then Sarah Palin is, indeed, one of our major oddities worthy of the Koch quote about scaring the hell out of us.

McGinniss strikes just the right note with his last two paragraphs: What should never have been more than a freaky sideshow performed on a carnival midway was transformed by John McCain's desperation into what many still seem to see as the greatest show on earth.

Actually, it's long past time to strike the tent.

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Golf's Sometimes Bunker Mentality....by Bob Sanders

This is the time of year when golfers and those who follow the game on television begin thinking of The Masters, that grand competition set against dogwood and azalea on the best maintained course in the world.  If, by chance, you are planning on attending for the first time, be aware that the egg salad sandwich with pimento cheese is still $1.25 and security people will give you the goofy eye should you step somewhere you shouldn't.  The people who run The Masters are concentrated traditionalists in an ever-changing sport.

That tradition has included not keeping records for caddying in the tournament begun in 1934.  A game of record second only to baseball, golf has acquired all manner of information about the winners.  You could try to look up who carried bags but it's not in the books.  Only the winners are.

While many professional tour caddies today pay taxes as lower class members of the One Percent Club or are close to qualification, it wasn't always that way--particularly in those days when golf professionals were not allowed to enter country clubs by the front door, when black caddies carried the bags of the pros at The Masters, and when first place in the fournament produced a check for $500.  That's what Sam Snead won the first two times out playing Bobby Jones' creation, now a thoroughly revered site.  Snead's winnings today might buy a rather limited round of drinks for semi-intimates--a thought rarely, if ever, contemplated by the tight-fisted Slammer.

In spite of its lofty status in golf, The Masters took for many years a minimalist role in the sport's continuing evolvement.  Not inclined to participate in social engineering, the tournament refused to invite black players finally relenting in 1975 when Lee Elder became the first African-American to play for the green jacket.  That was three years after Elder requested consideration.

Only the course's black caddies carried bags of the pros until 1983.  The pros, eventually playing for prize money that even the NBA's vastly over-paid would find interesting, demanded that their personal caddies tote their sticks.  It made a certain amount of sense; the pro's caddy had intimate knowledge of the strengths and weaknesses of his employer's game.  On the other hand, there is nothing quite like local knowledge and The Masters caddies had that in what we used to call spades.  A breakthrough year was 1970 when Gary Player's caddy received a death threat by an anti-partied demonstrator.  To the rescue came Carl Jackson, then a Masters caddy who volunteered to replace the threatened bag totter.  Jackson was so good with advice about the subtleties of August's greens that Player won.  This April, for the 51st time, Jackson will tote a bag at what many consider the biggest of the majors, another of those records not in the books.  For those who wonder just how much a caddy can mean to a player, be sure to check out the degree of involvement Jim Mackey has in boss Phil Mickelson's game.

While the most notable aspect of Masters' management over much of the event's history has been an attitude resembling that of pre-Civil War plantation owners, it was golf commentator Gary McCord who once explored the organization's lack of humor.  Bringing attention to the slick greens at August, the quick-witted former journeyman golfer suggested that the putting surfaces were so slippery that groundskeepers must have used "bikini wax" on them.  The imperiousness of the anger vented by the defenders of the golfing shrine toward the CBS employee was and remains severe.  Eighteen years later, McCord continues to be barred from The Masters which gave him an identification enabling him to charge upwards of $30,000 for personal appearances.

As the only sport in which players call penalties on themselves, golf has prided itself as the most honest of all.  While amateurs have been known to improve lies, whack unlimited Mulligans, and exhibit highly creative writing skills on score cards, the sport's professionals have remained remarkably un-tainted.  There have been notable exceptions but they tend to involve interpretations of rules.  One of the more recent embarrassments involved Tiger Woods whose cheating off the golf course a few years back was the stuff of Twitter and Facebook.  A sudden alliance of Woods' fans provided aid and comfort on the par 5 13th hole of the 1999 Phoenix Open, now aptly named The Waste Management Open.  Having pulled a drive into an untenable position beside a boulder roughly the weight of a particularly large NFL lineman, Tiger asked for relief and oh, what a relief it was.

Six Friends of Tiger, having heard the magic words "relief" and "loose impediment," completely ignored the spirit of the rule and rolled the boulder to a position that enabled the smiling Woods (he offered encouragement) to par the hole and, eventually finish third.  Today, the boulder bears a plaque telling of the momentous occasion believed by many Tiger fans as approaching Biblical proportions.

The tournament's rules persons, having given Woods a highly questionable favorable ruling, then were relieved of their explanatory duties by the PGA which, aware of Tiger's impact on TV ratings, conducted what can only be called a campaign of explanation highlighted by inclusion in a rule book by Arnold Palmer.  Yes, the boulder was a loose impediment.

The only woman professional golfer to be found guilty of cheating was Jane Blalock whose LPGA pals took exception in the mid 70s to her inclination to place a marked ball closer to the hole.  Regarded as a hippie by the 29 players who signed papers to dismiss her from the tour for one year, Blalock, one of the tour's more unpopular players, was also noted for drawing peace symbols of little artistic merit on her golf bag.  She confronted her suspension with a winning law suit. The charge against Blalock eventually was identified as being in violation of antitrust laws.

For those with a penchant for a look inside the ropes, there's a golf blog (Waggle Room) written by an LPGA caddie who in 2010 commented about the ethics of Korean lady players.  Detailed in the blog is a situation in which two of the Koreans misplayed each other's ball on the last hole of a round, then signed cards ignoring the indiscretion.  

With the advent of doping in sports has come the poster juicer of a sport heretofore left out of things.  The highly unlikely Douglas Barron, whose best finish has been a tie for third in the 2005 Byron Nelson Championship, was given a 12-months banishment in 2009.  The people who run golf and who are highly sensitive aboult those who fail to regard the sport as being mentionable in the same breath with  football, baseball and basketball, were hoping for a Davis Love III, Justin Leonard, or the they-should-be-so-luck, Rory Sabbatini.

Barron, whose "steroid" plight began with a needfor testosterone replacement (Testopel), has a body reminiscent of Craig "The Walrus" Stadler on a five pizza day.  Not exactly the Alex Rodriguez of his sport, Barron required 238 PGA Tour starts to get that tie for the bronze.

The golfer no one had ever heard of sat out most of the 2010 season, then had his ban lifted by the PGA in September of that year.  Having investigated the very lengthy World Anti-Doping Agency drug list, the PGA granted the golfer a Therapeutic Use Exemption (TUE) for testosterone replacement therapy.  Oh, the ignominy of it all in a port desperate for attention searching for bona fides.  The only winners appear to be the people who write about golf who no longer have to Google the name Doug Barron.

Oh, yes.  I'm delighted to report that Barron has acquired a sponsor--the highly logical Slate Pharmaceuticals, Inc. that markets Testopel.  The logo possibilities are extensive.

The subject of Pro Tour cheating was introduced by Golf magazine in January when 50 PGA Tour caddies were questioned about the pros--particularly if any had observed cheating.  Fifty-four percent answered "yes" while 44 percent said "no."  The rest would not comment.  At first glance, this seemed a condemnation of Pro Tour Players.

But, wait.  Maybe the 27 caddies were talking about players other than those for whom they carry bags; further, maybe many or all of those offering condemnation have in mind two or three golfers observed over 10 or 20 years of caddying and it's the same two or three being referenced.  Maybe, their indiscretions fall into the Blalock Syndrome suggesting they are psychologically unable to resist something like replacing a marked ball closer to the hole.

Good golfing news has arrived in the form of New Rules for 2012-2015 and it's tempting to take a Bill Maher approach to new rules.  The most significant change evolving from a collaboration between the Royal & Ancient (R&A) and the United States Golf Association (USGA) is helpful to those who might be victimized by wind.  As devotees may recall, it was Rory McIlroy who was penalized in the British Open when his ball was moved on the 7th green by the wind after he had addressed it.  Since wind, in a particularly strenuous case, also can be caused by flatulence, it is believed that golf's rule makers likely will continue to kick that one down the fairway.

While on the subject of the human body that continues to grow exponentially, it's worth mention that golf's rules people, once again, have ignored the belly putter.  However, it was exciting to learn that the Gecko Euro Pro Tour, a mini event in Spain, has banned the club in all future events although major tours continue a hesitant approval.  Two belly putter victories last year by Webb Simpson plus Keegan Bradley's win at the PGA (a major's first) have made the instrument one of much discussion.

The belly putter and its taller first cousin, The Broomstick, are essentially cheating devices of remarkable timing as we pursue our propensity for obesity.  The belly putter is decidedly more effective when the club's owner is of ample girth thus affording a greater fulcrum for the stick and subsequent delivery of the putt.

Of course, the very essence of golf, promulgated by equipment manufacturers, is to lower scores and we've seen a remarkable 30-year re-design of equipment to the point where pros who drive 250 yards have little chance.  Distance is too much of what it's all about thus enabling stars to carry three wedges.  Persimmon woods (how I miss that sweet resonant click) are a thing of the past and tees from which balls used to be driven are now called "tee boxes," an all too descriptive public course phrase now adopted in what be part of that public relations program mentioned earlier and designed to popularize the game, excuse me, sport.

Let me know if you've noticed any boxes at The Masters, Pebble Beach, or Pine Valley, will you?  Tee boxes are what they used to have at Dyker Beach in Brooklyn where a homeless guy lived in a patch beyond the second hole.  There was never a rumble with the guy mostly because he was armed.  The 14th fairway used to feature immigrants who picnicked and played volleyball on weekends.  They had little appreciation of golf.  That's where you find tee boxes.

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Significant Saps of the Year....by Bob Sanders

 

There can be little denial that this corner's Significant Saps of 2011 are a unique and highly impressive collection of lamebrains as this country continues its steep dumbing down slide.  This year's grand grouping admittedly is weighted by crazed politicians attempting to gain the Republican Party nomination for the Presidency.  Better days are ahead when the GOP ninnies are filtered down to a not so precious few shortly into the new year giving hope for a much more balanced assemblage of the bizarre next year.  Let us count the ways in which they have distinguished themselves while entertaining us this year.  

Worth noting is Sarah Palin's largely subdued performance while failing to achieve the kind of sap stardom of past years.  Palin is to be commended for staying away from commentary about such subjects as Russia, turkeys and death panels while concentrating on self-promotion, something for which she has enormous energy as she sells books and does phoners with Bill O'Reilly and Sean Hannity.  Alas, there was no further enrichment of Webster's dictionary by her, a somewhat disappointing development.

It was, however, a past year's blunder that came back to haunt Palin when Rep. Gabriella Giffords was shot in Tucson.  It was on a SarahPAC map that Palin had placed a target over Giffords' congressional district, an act that many blamed for the shooting that took six lives.  Palin, therefore, is a member tried and true of this year's team.  Charlie Sheen is not.  He's simply a creep.

If Palin is a turkey, then former Rep. Anthony Weiner is, well, a weiner.  As we learn to live with and understand the quick communications that dominate our lives, we continue to make mistakes and Weiner made a big one when he sent a crotch shot to a young admirer out there in Twitterland.  First Weiner claimed his twitter account was hacked, then resigned when the photo suddenly appeared on the web.

So much has been written about and captured on TV about the GOP contenders that words seem inadequate to describe each candidate's faltering attempts to connect with a confused public.  Of the candidates, only Jon Huntsman, Rick Santorum and Michelle Bachmann have stayed on message.  What has been reduced to a seven-ring circus defies analysis as attack ads mount in intensity with Newt Gingrich's "high road" showing signs of abandonment.  Newtie's in trouble (it couldn't happen to a nicer guy) with an inclination to augment answers to questions.  Such add ons can be devastating as he smugly proves what we already know: he's the best debater of the bunch.  One is reminded of the Hitler story in which The Fuhrer is deep in a Berlin bunker being bombed by both Russian and U.S. armies.  In a particularly impressive rage, Hitler shouts: "O.K.  No more Mr. Nice Guy."  As this is written, Newtie has begun to fight back.

The social conservatives can't handle Romney's Mormon faith nor does Newtie's marital baggage inspire hosannas.  Ron Paul, who may very well win Iowa, is over the cliff on half the debatable subjects while the rest have simply not gained reasonable traction.  Rick Perry does a great impression of George W. Bush while Huntsman's great hope is New Hampshire which he needs to win.  As a Jewish friend once observed: "It's such a puzzlement."

The biggest GOP laughs were provided by Herman Cain whose salesmanship on behalf of pizza and restaurants proved to be poor preparation for the rough and tumble of politics.  Offering public pronouncements of little sense, Cain provided memorable moments heavy on the kind of jive associated with The Kingfish of "Amos & Andy" fame.  Cain's campaign disintegrated when a number of women stepped forward to reveal the pizza man had fast hands in the back seats of cars; one revealed an affair of 13 years.

Also prominent in the Sex Sweepstakes was Arnold Schwarzenneger whose marriage to Maria Shriver was terminated with the discovery of a love child conceived with a housekeeper of some 20 years.  Now 14, the former governor's son began getting strange looks from Arnold and Maria's friends who decided he looks more like the ex-body builder than the other four kids.

We finally got rid of Nevada Senator John Ensign in April and it took a while.  It was in 2009 that Ensign, who had called on President Clinton to resign because of adulterous conduct with Monica Lewinsky, admitted doing the same thing with the wife of an employee.  Ensign's parents paid off the mistress with a total of $96,000 in eight tidy payments of $12,000, a figure that complied with tax rules governing gifts.  Followers of the current GOP Presidential nominating process probably were spared an even great degree of TV attack ads when Ensign's infidelity was revealed.  Amid much speculation that he would run, a June Iowa trip was planned, then called off.  Some "kids" move in with their parents, other maneuver them into mistress payoffs.

Speaking of politicians, another former Illinois governor made it to prison this year.  In a move both criminal and highly gutsy, Rod Blagojovich attempted to sell Barack Obama's old Senate seat.  Amid seriously bad hair displays, Blago, as we have come to know him, was recently sentenced to 14 years on felony corruption charges.  Those knowledgeable about the sentencing of Illinois governors for criminality believe Blago should not have attempted to become a public personality of wide recognition while a judge determined how much time he should serve.  By appearing on such shows as Donald Trump's "Celebrity Apprentice," displaying a propensity for endless TV interviews, and achieving stardom on a TV commercial for Wonderful Pistachios, Blago gained notoriety just this side of the Kardashians that may have added a year or two to his sentence.

Speaking of Trump, there is plenty of evidence suggesting that The Donald needs a new gig as he seeks whatever it is he is seeking.  Further public recognition is what it appears to be mostly about; rumors, largely floated by him, continue to suggest he wants to be President.  There was a period during the year when Trump seemingly was determined to be a king maker over food.  The Trump Primary first found The Donald meeting over pizza with a self-invited Palin.  Other candidates sought Trump's imprimatur with Paul and Huntsman declining.  Disappointed with the many TV debates, The Donald decided to hold his own, then had to back off when all but Gingrich declined.  

Far from the political arena except for Iowa caucusers (that one's a Palin leftover) was Jesse Dimmick of Shawnee County, Kansas who made the mistake of kidnapping newlyweds a couple of years ago.  Dimmick was a murder fugitive at the time with the cops in pursuit when he burst into the home of Jared and Lindsey Rowley.

That was shortly after the cops chased the stolen van Dimmick was driving onto the front yard of the Rowleys, married some seven days.  A confrontation followed, a cop shot Dimmick in the back and the fugitive was sentenced to 10 years and 11 months.  The past two years in the pokey gave Dimmick time to thnk about life's vagaries and what happened when he broke into a home.  Late in October, Dimmick filed a lawsuit of $235,000 against the Rowleys for his pain and suffering.

Then, there's the story about the drunken Santa Claus at the recent Mavericks-Heat game in Dallas.  Santa, gin and tonic in hand, was confrontational with Heat star LeBron James, maybe the most disliked NBA player--particularly in Cleveland where he once played. 

"What do you want from Santa?" questioned jolly Santa as James got set at the foul line. 

"How about a ring?" added Santa in reference to James's having been preeminent as the Heat folded in the finals against the Mavericks.  James made the free throw and scored 37 points as the Heat won.

While the dunce cap in business hss been worn by many--Coca Cola, Ford's Edsel and Enron come to mind--Netflix achieved high honors this year for losing what probably will total two million subscribers.  With the motion picture industry in the doldrums largely due to ticket prices running from $8 to $13 a ticket, Netflix CEO Reed Hastings thought it might be a good time to raise prices.  What ensued was a disastrous financial drama that included a stock tumble from $304 to a recent $71.  The preparing of loyal customers for a price change was not considered and the price hike was as sudden as a roadside bomb.  There was no PR campaign explaining a marketing strategy down the road and Netflix pulled the business blunder of the year.  It was the kind of decision suggesting Reed's qualification for politics.

What Jon Corzine did this year may very well have been both stupid and criminal.  While most of us can revisit poor financial decisions by examining our checkbooks, Corzine managed to lose $1.2 billion and he made it look easy.  A former U.S. Senator, ex-Governor of New Jersey, and former head honcho of Goldman Sachs of Too Big to Fail fame, Corzine proved a remarkably poor gambler when he bet $11.5 billion on a horse named European Debt.  Now gone are bankrupt company MF Global, the billion dollars and change and a reputation that was looking a bit tarnished before he decided Wall Street offers more excitement than Las Vegas.  Oh, yes.  The money of customers and former workers as yet to be found.  How do you jmisplace that kind of money?

One might be inclined to feel sorry for Rupert Murdoch if it weren't for the man's dreadful record as a media impresario and social climber whose leech-like use of people like former British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher reflects how he gains power in the UK.  Murdoch's media empire hacked the telephones of celebrities, the royal family and public citizens with the past year the worst yet for the Australian.  His hacking included the phone of a child murder victim.  The investigation of Murdoch is taking place in the UK and in this country (his U.S. holdings include Fox News) with the FBI heavily involved.

By all means, let's not forget Kim Jong-Il who had the decency to take leave of us as starving North Koreans shed tears.  Maybe the tears were real.  After all, the supreme leader was a fashion icon of enormous impact, he invented the hamburger and, yes, shot a round of golf 38 strokes under par while making, you're going to have a hard time with this, 11 holes-in-one.  You could, as Casey Stengel once put it, look it up.  Better yet, check out the bodyguards who were present and attested to Kimmy's feat (there were no pars on his card) and bear in mind it was his first round of golf.  Measuring 7,700 yards, the Pyongyang Golf Course is not some tricked up, short track whose 19th hole that momentous day likely served the divine one his Cognac obsession, Hennessy, whose homeland cost of $630 a bottle amounts to just $270 less than a North Korean family's average annual income.  Hennessy, the corporation is in deep mourning since Kimmy used to spend around $800,000 a year on his favorite booze making him Hennessy's biggest customer.

While Christmas gives us the kind of bemusement that comes with those (hopefully) one-page literary round-ups of familial triumph sandwiched by a card of holiday tidings, the subject of accompanying pictures of poor taste are recalled.  Going away winner this time around is Jorge Santini, mayor of San Juan, who reminds us that politicians are at least a little goofy just about everywhere.  Jorge really outdid all others picture-wise when he posed his family huddling around not a manger scene but one depicting a taxidermied killing.  As a leopard sinks its teeth into a fear-stricken antelope, a little girl smiles sassily.  That's not all.  The caption suggests "the hunt scene was chosen to embody the mayor's holiday spirits over a few other creepy options--including an unconvincing penguin figure staring into a young man's ear in a frosty wonderland a giant bird swooping over the Mayor's head as a black bear poses nearby."  Perhaps something got lost in the translation.

Understandably, political rivals have made their own interpretations suggesting the picture is an understated warning to Santini's opponents in an upcoming election.  This, as we know, wouldn't be the first time a politician has used family as an election furtherance.  The mayor, meanwhile, insists the picture was a promotion for the San Juan Wildlife Museum.

Finally, there's a community of saps who live in State College, Pennsylvania.  We know not how many they number but for a minimum of 10 years (we're not yet sure how long this outrage went on), the townsfolk managed to know nothing about child molester Jerry Sandusky.  The disgusting story tells us a lot about the power of a university (or a corporation) in a small, relatively isolated town and how people, somehow, can become incapable of doing the right thing.

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Island Life....by Bob Sanders

 

Neither Jan nor I had ever lived in a small town before so I guess the odds were against us when we moved triday Harbor, Washington.  That was in January, 1990 and whatever odds were in play must have been elevated by our having moved from Chicago.

Our discovery of Friday Harbor was one of those fluky things that can work dramatic effect upon lives.  Retired and on a rather lengthy tour of this country's national parks, we had taken a Vancouver Island detour, spent a couple of days in Victoria, then set out for Orcas Island, one of 172 archipelagos that are the San Juan Islands.  Stopping off for lunch at Friday Harbor's picture perfect waterfront, we fell in love with the place, never continued on to Orcas Island, and wound up buying a home some five miles from town.

We quickly learned that not everyone is capable of getting attuned to island life.  Many of the problems can involve attitudinal baggage newcomers might bring with them.;  In settling into a San Juan Island lifestyle, big city types often exhibit an inclination to want things done in, say, a New York way.  Apparently aware of the challenges involved in such situations, New Yorkers pretty much stayed away with the few attempting a rural life achieving collective batting averages not sufficient to play for the Yankees.

The relative isolation achieved by island life was both a blessing and an eventual curse.  As we learned, a limited clinic, while sufficient for mundane medical matters, was not enough for serious situations.  In the general scheme of things, it's one thing to be treated for lower back pain, another for serious gotchas.

Washington State Ferries, the major connector to the San Juans, offered reasonably good service to the island from Anacortes although ferry schedules remain lesser during winter months.  Although it was quite clear to islanders that the ferry system includes a logical extension of highway 20, the state government in Olympia still refuses to buy into the philosophy.  That old debil clout and what doesn't happen when you don't have it is what it's all about.  By the time we left the island more than 14 years later, I think there was an understandable sense of resignation about all matters ferry.

In our early 60s, we determined to embrace island life and quickly became involved in such entities as the San Juan Community Theater, Lions, Whale Museum, the County Fair and Pig War Barbeque.  The latter was started by the wife of the editor/publisher of the Journal of the San Juans.  Memory is a bit murky, but I seem to recall a phone call from her as a result of a feature about me in her husband's newspaper.  Included was mention of public relations triumphs in Chicago and she figured I might be of help in getting the first annual bbq event off to a reasonable start.

The Pig War is about the only war reasonable thinking persons might applaud.  It started in 1859 and lasted 12 bloodless years if you forget about the plugged pig owned by a Brit who lived on San Juan Island.  The shooter, an American, also lived on the island and refused to pay $100 costs demanded by the Brit whose pig had intruded upon the American's potato patch.  Armies faced off on the island where the Brits, with 2,140 soldiers, held a roughly 5-1 advantage.  The sides got along marvelously and the few problems were prompted by the island's enormous stock of liquor.  It was truly a tight little island with Gilbert & Sullivan operettas based upon lesser inspiration.

Jan decided our honoring of the Pig War should involve some kind of Chicago connection--perhaps a team of grill masters whose superiority would recall the notoriety of such Windy City institutions as councilmen, criminals, mayors, precinct captains and the Chicago Cubs.  Recalling Chicago's rich and sometimes inglorious history, we found ourselves confronting an island artist of our choosing who indicated she could create a sign of reasonable significance that would bring attention to our team's name: Pig Al's Trickynoses.  A bit on the serious side (we were never sure the wordplay registered), the artist questioned just what it was we had in mind.

"We'd like a personality logo.  Think of a Chicago gangster wearing a derby.  He has a very tough look and is drawn as a pig.  He's Pig Al, a take-off on Big Al Capone."  Suddenly, the woman's face lit up like the Chicago Theater's marquee.  "Got it," she said, we added a few copy lines and a week later saw proof of her creativity.  The sign was perfect.

The event attracted 22 teams that competed for awards including best ribs (it was an all-pork competition) and best sauce.  Pig Al's Trickynosis (a press release, available at the team's stall, extolled the team's virtues) were aided and abetted by the Hooker Cookers and acappella renditions of songs associated with Chicago.  Many attendees joined in while providing booze of greater intensity than beer and wine to the Hooker Cookers.  The highly attractive HCers were dressed in Chicago 20s style and a couple got more than a little tipsy during the festivities.

Communications on the island were highly interesting.  Islanders but a couple of weeks, we soon found rumor center, a mostly breakfast place called The Donut Shop.  Located on Spring Street next door to Friday Harbor's only cinema, The Donut Shop's apparent rationale for being beyond food was as a starting point for stories of heightened titillation.  Island rumors, their care and feeding, gave evidence of being in the hands of an islander of long duration who claimed he had conducted tests on the spreading of rumors.  A favorite methodology consisted of telling a soon-to-depart for Roche Harbor fellow breakfaster a flawed whopper of incomplete detail.  The amateur sociologist was a firm believer in man's ability to extemporize story components that needed bolstering and whose final form could very well impact the very substance of the original falsehood.  His "studies" often utilized a traveresing of the road from Friday Harbor to Roche Harbor (a community 12 miles away), and the story's return to The Donut Shop brought with it versions of remarkable change.  While not accomplished at a rate as fast as a speeding bullet, the tales of complex altered versions containing such diversities as a town councilman, King's groceries and a bag of cement required as few as 90 minutes to return to its place of origin.

Now living two hours from Friday Harbor, I'm certain the community's direction remains in the hands of five councilpersons and a mayor who guide the citizenry through such challenges as whether or not to post stop signs at intersections ever mindful that the island prides itself on not having a single stop light.  The petunia planters were an entirely different matter.

As we know, capricious government is everywhere and further proven by the Strange Case of The Petunia Planters.  It happened in Friday Harbor and was island comedy relief of 1995-96 while totally devoid of graft--the principal difference between Chicago government and the island.  It was the owners of the Front Street Ale House who wanted to build a deck extension hard by Spring Street, the major connecter from the ferry.  Al fresco dining was the objective but the owners were thwarted twice by councilmanic vote.  During more than two years, the deck, tables, chairs, and petunia planters were in place awaiting the gastronomically-inclined.  The town council believed the deck would force people off the sidewalk into vehicular traffic.

The Ale House appeared to finally win when a teetotaler councilman, having voted twice for the project, suddenly realized the restaurant served booze, then abstained (an interesting word under the circumstances) thus enabling the mayor to break a 2-2 tie coming down solidly on the side of petunia planters.  The mayor's role in the decision was not of great surprise since the mayor had, once again, predictably done the bidding of one of the Ale House owners.

Public outcry ensued and the council went into a monumental dither followed by something of a fulsome funk succeeded by a decision to reverse itself.  The petunias, seemingly ensconced on the deck, were doomed and I wrote a dream sequence column in the Islands Sounder featuring Mayor LaTrivia and council members Bumble, Grumble, Humble, Stumble, and Crumble.

Working with some fellow pranksters and the Ale House people, we organized services plus a petunia procssion similar to a joyous and jazzy New Orleans parade.  Extended life for the petunias was realized when the parade was concluded at a restaurant entrance on Second St. 

A suggestion to the Ale House was irresistible.  Suddenly table-less, chair-less and planter-less, why not initiate a new culinary experience: Japanese dining on floor mats and called Sushi Deck-O-Rama?

That never happened. I do recall that two of the Council members back then consistently referred to those who live in Japan as "Japs."

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Small Scale Pinch Hitting....by Bob Sanders

How one of those outrageously strange and thoroughly memorable baseball anniversaries managed to pass me by is, perhaps, another indication that advanced age is creeping up on me.  Recollections of the odd happenings of August 19, 1951 required a bit of internet jogging and I'm indebted to some of the usual providers including Wikipedia--not always the most reliable of sources.

Mention the name Eddie Gaedel to just about anyone other than a baseball fan of reasonably good memory and you'll get the groggiest of groggy looks.  Here are some hints: he was vertically challenged, played in one major league game, wore an unusual number on his back, and achieved immortality in a couple of minutes.

Gaedel knew a Chicago booking agent who had done business with Bill Veeck, owner of the Cleveland Indians from 1946-49.  Having "advanced" to ownership of the St. Louis Browns, Veeck contacted the agent with an idea for a gag to be consummated on a major league diamond.  The agent put Veeck in touch with Gaedel and the initial plans were kicked off for a midget to become a celebrity by walking in a major league game.

Veeck, sometimes called The Barnum of Baseball, was one of two wild men never understood by their fellow owners whose approach to the game and relations with their employees bore distinct similarity to plantation owners of pre-Civil War days.

The other crazy was Charles O. Finley whose insanity tended toward personal involvement such as: riding a mule around the Kansas City A's infield (later in Oakland); the hiring of a beautiful Chicago TV weather girl who, as a color commentator, knew as much about baseball as Finley did robot surgery; and the Machiavellian creation of a pennant porch built by a college of carpenters and designed to result in more A's (and opponents) home runs.  To Finley's credit, it was he who suggested that World Series games be played at night.  This development came 36 years after the Cincinnati Reds hosted the first night game in 1935.  Baseball is often slow to recognize, then seize upon good ideas.

The inspiration for Veeck's canard is a bit murky.  Frequently accused of stealing the idea from a James Thurber short, You Could Look It Up, Veeck denied the charge in his charming autobiography, Veeck As In Wreck, telling readers he stole the idea from John J. McGraw.

McGraw, an enormously successful manager of the New York Giants, was a pal of Veeck's father, then president of the Chicago Cubs when the younger Veeck became aware of a hunchback McGraw kept around his team as a good-luck charm.  Further, Veeck more than once heard McGraw, having had a drink or 10, proclaim his desire to send his gnome up to bat.

The year of the midget pinch-hitter also was the Fiftieth Anniversary of the American League, an event the cheapskate organization did little about other than provide special emblems for players' uniforms.  Anniversaries to Veeck suggested parties and he soon involved the Falstaff Brewery in celebratory cake and beer, a culinary combination totally foreign these days to Martha Stewart.  Consumption would be during a double-header between the Browns and the Detroit Tigers.  Neither team was going anywhere.  The Tigers would finish in fifth place and the Browns last as usual.

It's hard to believe, but the Browns would encounter such financial problems two years later that the team implored fans to return foul balls.  Batting and fielding practice was skipped on the season's last game and umpires allowed balls to remain in play that should have been discarded.  That game, the Browns' 100th loss of the season, not only was the last of the year but the last ever in St. Louis for the team that moved next year to Baltimore.

It was agent Marty Caine who introduced Gaedel to Veeck.  Caine knew Veeck from the days when he owned the Indians while employing all manner of box office attractions including Max Patkin, most often referenced as the Clown Prince of Baseball.  In addition to Patkin, described in his New York Timesobituary as having "a toothless face capable of contortions rivaling a knuckleball's," Veeck's attendance enhancements included exploding scoreboards and a movable fence whose flexibility of 15 feet changed from series to series depending upon home run capabilities.

Editorial accuracy demands that Veeck also be acknowledged as a solid baseball man whose appreciation of talent (and fairness) led to his 1947 signing of Larry Doby, the first black player to play in the American League, and Satchel Paige, the oldest rookie ever (42) the following year.

Gaedel, who stood 3' 7" with his socks on, was a bit dubious when Veeck approached him about his major league debut.  Veeck asked how much he knew about baseball and the answer suggested he was reasonably well-schooled in the game's basics: "Well, he said.  "I know you're supposed to hit the white ball with the bat.  And then you run somewhere."  Who could ask for anything more under the circumstances?

As Veeck worked on the little fellow's batting stance, the Browns' owner became fascinated by the nuances of pitching to a midget.  At one point, Veeck grabbed a ruler and determined Gaedel's strike zone measured 1 1/2 inches, a severe challenge to the Tiger pitcher who, when game day rolled around, turned out to be Bob Cain.

The contest's scorecard that day reflected the rarity of the moment.  Offering further proof of his unique resourcefulness, Veeck, the man who first placed names on the backs of players, put the number 1/8 on Gaedel's uniform, borrowed from the bat boy.  The wily Veeck, not wishing to tip his hand, identified the new player in the scorecard as #18.

Veeck had taken care not to magnify his deceit by offering it as a lone piece of derangement certain to offend baseball's power structure.  A between games celebration included classic cars circling the field and a band featuring Paige on the drums.  Further, Veeck's circus (he once tried to buy Ringling Bros.) included festivities at all the bases including a hand-balancing act at first base, a trampoline exhibition at second and a team of jugglers at third.  Even Patkin was there.  He pulled a woman out of the grandstand and jitterbugged with her on the pitcher's mound.  Gaedel first got into the act when, suited up, he jumped out of a birthday cake.  The crowd of 18,000 quickly put him out of mind--but not for long.  

As a pinch hitter, Gaedel had to bat for somebody who turned out to be Frank Saucier who had defended his center field position in the top of the first.  During the rest of Veeck's life, he felt badly about Saucier's involvement.  A minor league phenom labled "can't miss," Saucier was a favorite of Veeck's.

The Browns came to bat with the ballpark announcer intoning: "For the Browns, number one-eighth, Eddie Gaedel, batting for Saucier."  The crowd buzzed and confusion reigned.  Gaedel began warming up by swinging three toy bats.  Chief Umpire Ed Hurley took a look at Gaedel, blanched, then headed toward the Browns bench.

"Hey," he shouted to manager Zach Taylor, "what's going on here?"

Taylor responded bringing to the plate papers that included Gaedel's contract.  The active player list was produced proving that there was room to add a player.  Cain and his catcher, Bob Swift, huddled at the mound to discuss the imponderables of pitching to a midget.  Swift, acknowledging the significance of the moment, dropped to both knees giving his pitcher the best target possible.  Meanwhile, Gaedel had abandoned the rehearsed crouch Veeck had come up with and was aping Joe DiMaggio's classic feet spread style.  Would he attempt to hit one of Cain's pitches?

Gaedel followed Veeck'sscript and Cain failed to find the strike zone, such as it was, while laughing between attempts to find the tiny strike zone.  Gaedel walked on four pitches.  The last pitch was at least three feet over his head.  Jim Delsing then ran for the midget hitter who patted his replacement on the butt, waved to the crowd, shook hands with the first base coach and took a lot of time crossing the infield to the third base Browns dugout.  He loved his considerably less than 15 minutes later confessing he "felt like Babe Ruth."  During all of the next season, Delsing wore #18.

Veeck had a lot of fun with league president Will Harridge and others in baseball's hierarchy so offended by his hi-jinks.  Leaping upon the phrase "little people," Veeck called for further clarification about minimum heights and what the height of a player should be.  References were made to New York Yankee shortstop Phil Rizzutto ("not much over five feet tall") with the inimitable Veeck suggesting Rizzuto was either a large midget or a short major league player.  Harridge decreed Gaedel's name would be stricken from all official records, a decision of chagrin for Veeck who had promised Gaedel immortality.  Veeck countered by suggesting that if Gaedel hadn't batted, then Bob Cain would not have thrown the pitches and that Swift hadn't caught them.  Moving right along, it also meant that Delsing had come in to run for no one, meaning Saucier had been deprived of a time at bat.  Veeck's case boiled down to the integrity of the sport's records having been compromised.  Records, of course, are the holy grail of baseball.

The Saucier aspect of the midget who pinch hit story is both complex and sad.  Born in 1926, he served 38 months in the U.S. Navy during World War II, then began a spectacular minor league career in 1947 hitting .348 at Belleville in the Illinois State League before being promoted the next year to Wichita Falls where he hit an amazing .446, the best in all of baseball.  His .343 average during 1950 for the San Antonio Missions in the Texas League won the batting title and he was named Sporting News  Minor League Player of the Year.  At the threshold of success, Saucier was pulled into the Korean War, suffered an injury and attempted to resume his career after Veeck signed him while adding a substantial bonus.  That was in July, 1951.  He played mostly hurt (severe bursitis) in but 18 games getting one hit in 14 at bats for a .071 batting average.  He never returned to the majors and eventually became a successful businessman.  A graduate (with degrees in math and physics earned at Westminster College (Fulton, Missouri), he is proud of an athletic field there named after him.  The college may be recalled as the site of Sir Winston Churchill's "iron curtain" speech in 1946.

Gaedel gained re-entry into the record books and you could look it up.  He earned 100 bucks for having the shortest career in the history of major league baseball.  When he died in 1963 of a heart attack following a mugging, Gaedel got a front-page obituary in The New York Times.  The honor normally is reserved for statesmen, generals and Nobel Prize winners.  The lone baseball person to attend services was Bob Cain, the only major leaguer to pitch to a midget.

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