Sidebars

Death on the Diamond....By Bob Sanders

This is the time of year when snow tends to stop snowing, buds continue budding and major league baseball teams break camp to begin playing 162 games at least three weeks before they should.  Such is box office greed and why should baseball be any different in these times of abject avarice?

Baseball was a very special thing as I grew up in suburban Cleveland.  In reflecting upon my youth, I find it significant that my parents largely managed to hide The Depression from my brother John and me.  Fortunately, we had no need for bicycles and other things today’s kids take for granted.  There was never any anticipation of driving our folk’s car.  They didn’t have one.

Peer pressure did not exist.  Our lives, focused on sports, were simplistic by current standards.  We lived half-rural, half city.  We grew our own vegetables, made great use of a neighborhood library and took street cars to Cleveland theaters like The Palace and Loew’s State where stage shows and movies alternated for 12 hours.  While particularly interested in the big bands (Duke Ellington, Artie Shaw, Tommy Dorsey and Jimmy Lunceford were my favorites), I enthused over vaudeville acts--some of them particularly amazing to a teen.  Willie, West & McGinty were a sort of Three Stooges of home construction whose finely tuned antics featured building materials swung or heaved about causing near-misses.  Another wonder was Clayton “Peg Leg” Bates, a black dancer with a wooden leg.  How he was able to dance with such remarkable facility was astonishing.  Thanks to YouTube, his artistry lives on.

Allowances didn’t exist so I came up with money-making gigs.  I was a Cleveland Plain Dealer paper boy and created a money-maker involving the next door Church of Christ, Scientist.  Part   of our horseshoe-shaped driveway ran parallel to the church so short of parking space that members of the congregation used both sides of the drive.  Since it was our property, I began charging them a quarter and it added up to a nice Sunday take plus once-a-month Wednesday meetings.  Thank you, Mary Baker Eddy.

The most expensive thing I ever wanted was a Joe Vosmik glove.  The cost was $2.95 and many of my peers had one.  Before I got the Joe Vosmik (born in Cleveland, he was an outfielder for the Indians and later the Boston Red Sox), I leaned to play the game with a glove worn in the big leagues.  That glove bore little resemblance to today’s sophisticated gear.  Black and small with very little padding, it was made by the Rawlings Sporting Goods Co., no autograph graced its leather, and it lacked the kind of webbing which makes successful so many of today’s nonchalant stabs at the ball.  A single leather lace tightly joined thumb and forefinger three times.  Fly balls were caught with two hands.  Major league nonchalant stabs at the ball were something less than de rigueur and Willie Mays’ basket catch would not be seen until 1951.

I got the glove in 1932 when I was six years old.  It was given me by a neighbor, Xen Scott, a former coach and sports writer who played a prominent role in one of baseball’s most unique and under-reported stories involving the sport’s second major league death on the diamond.  Eleven years earlier, catcher Mike “Doc” Powers of the Philadelphia Athletics crashed into a wall while chasing a foul ball and died two weeks later.

In 1920, the country was not yet aware that the preceding World Series had been tossed by the Chicago White Sox, but there were rumors.  On August 16, with the Cleveland Indians very much in the American League pennant race, shortstop Ray Chapman was hit on the head by Carl Mays of the New York Yankees decades before the batting helmet.  A submarine pitcher with a rising fast ball, Mays pitched five seasons of 20 or more victories (he won 26 games in 1920 and 27 the following year) and shared unusual commonalities with the man whose death he caused.  Both were born in 1891 in western Kentucky in adjoining counties.  Mays called Liberty home while Chapman grew up in Beaver Dam, less than 100 miles away.

Chapman was an outstanding bunter whom baseball analyst Bill James feels was “probably destined for the Hall of Fame had he lived.”  Another expert opinion, authored by Cleveland pitcher George Uhle, suggested that Chapman, who tended to crowd the plate, had a bunt in mind when Mays’ slightly inside pitch struck him on the temple.  He took two steps toward first, collapsed, and died 12 hours later never regaining consciousness.

Except for a brief reference to Chapman’s death, there is nothing more of the tragedy in Ken Burns’ slightly flawed but fascinating book, Baseball, later a fine PBS series.  Much of the Chapman story was told me by my parents.

At the time of Chapman’s death, Xen Scott was the University of Alabama football coach.  In the days when big leaguers rarely attended college, Joe Sewell was a three-sport Crimson Tide athlete enthusiastically recommended by Scott to the Cleveland Indians.  Sewell did not impress the Indians at spring training in 1920 and he was assigned to the New Orleans farm club.  When Chapman died, his immediate replacement, Harry Lunte, played until Labor Day when he was injured.  Suddenly, Sewell had moved up two notches to become a major league starter under rather extraordinary circumstances.  The Indians sized up Scott as a father figure for Sewell and helped get him a job as a horse racing writer for the Cleveland Leader, now the Plain Dealer.       

Wonder of wonders, the Indians, sparked by the rookie Sewell, won the American League pennant and went on to beat the Brooklyn Dodgers for the team’s first World Series Championship in a competition highlighted by two records: the only unassisted triple play ever made in the rich history of post-season play and what was then the first bases-loaded home run.  The triple play was accomplished by second baseman Bill Wambsganss (Wamby in most box scores) and outfielder Elmer Smith hit the homer.

Joe Sewell, smallish--150 pounds, 5’7”--was a remarkable player.  Moved to third base early in his career, he had a lifetime batting average of .312.  An outstanding glove man and contact hitter, his batting eye was such that he averaged but eight strikeouts per season and gained the reputation of “toughest man to fan” in the game’s history.  A lot of Sewell’s fame came after being traded to the Babe Ruth/Lou Gehrig New York Yankees where he played from 1929-33.

Gloves and bats lasted a long time then.  Bats were thick resembling Coca-Cola bottles much more than today’s lightweight models pre-disposed to splinter.  Sewell was an oddity using but one bat, “Black Betsy,” in 14 major league seasons.  So close was Sewell to “Black Betsy” that he took the bat with him at all times including restaurants and theaters.  Not only did Sewell strike out seldom (once every 63 at bats) but he probably went through his entire career with, probably two or three gloves. 

Late in the 1933 season, the Yankees were in town for the last Cleveland series of the American League pennant race and some of the ballplayers agreed to personal appearances at the Masonic Temple next door to where I lived.  It was Sewell’s farewell tour and my parents encouraged me to seek him out.  I did, taking my glove along.

“Where did you get that glove?” questioned the astonished Sewell when I approached him at the end of the evening’s festivities.

“Mr. Scott,” I replied.

“Where is he? asked Sewell.

“Down the street,” I said.

“Let’s go see him,” suggested the future Hall of Famer.

Scott had some years before left the employ of the newspaper and lost touch with Sewell after the Yankees acquired him.  I soon had re-united two long-lost friends who played roles in a rare piece of baseball history.  I didn’t realize what I had done at age seven, but I carry with me such good feelings when I recall that moment.

The Sewell glove and my baseball cards eventually went the way of so many possessions that became cherished with the passage of time after gathering dust, then disappearing but leaving behind vivid memories.  I still wonder when it was that the great ballplayer had used the glove in his pursuit of the glories of the game.

Judging from the look on his face when I showed him what had become my glove, I like to think it was Sewell’s first in the major leagues, perhaps the one bought or given him in Titus, used at the University of Alabama and taken with him on the train from New Orleans to Cleveland where he helped the Indians win their first World Series.

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Future Press: Bush Leagues....by Bob Sanders

Future Press     George W. Bush

During these concerted attempts to provide the reader with perspective, it has become increasingly apparent to this writer that there are among us those who achieve such prominence that our curiosity about them lingers--sometimes becoming intense thus demanding conjecture about their futures.  While Future Press is  blessed neither with the insight of Nostradamus nor Johnny Carson’s Karnak, it does offer an opportunity to see into an admittedly murky future by way of gut instinct and a little imagination.                                                                                                                                                                 Bob Sanders                           

The Associated Press                                     

By Doug Duffus          

HOUSTON - March 25, 2012 - George W. Bush’s latest controversial decision as Commissioner of Baseball has met with resounding disapproval.  Having moved the Baseball Hall of Fame earlier this year from upstate New York to a site adjoining his Dallas one book library, the former U.S. President acquired a setback when his proposed major rule change for the sport was met with marked disapproval after yesterday’s trial run during the Dallas Haliburtons-Chicago Cubs exhibition game.

Called Runner’s Option, the Bush rule, if accepted by Chief of Umpires Lewis ”Scooter” Libby, baseball owners, the players association and the U.S. Supreme Court, would enable a runner, who reaches third, the option of scoring by means of current opportunities thus registering one run or retreating to second base and beyond.  Should subsequent hitters advance such a runner to home plate from second or first, score keepers then would post two runs.  A special Loopholes Committee, headed by former Presidential aide Karl Rove, is investigating yesterday’s unfortunate collision of two base runners, going in opposite directions near second base.   Haliburtons’ trainer “Tape” Mercurochrome pronounced the injuries as “moderate.”  The Loopholes Committee also is expected to deal with the challenging question of what to do about runners arriving concurrently at the same base.

Veteran baseball observers had mixed emotions about yesterday’s test.  Purists of the grand old game pointed to a need for record book asterisks so that marks such as Hack Wilson’s 191 runs- batted-in during the 1930 season would not be minimized.  Former major league pitcher Roger Clemens, possessor of two asterisks and serving five years for lying to Congress, could not be reached for comment.      

The matter of baseball’s asterisk profusion has developed into what many consider the sport’s albatross.  Should the Runner’s Option be incorporated into baseball rules, three asterisks will be required to provide further understanding of hitting statistics including both a steroid user’s runs-batted-in and the run-scoring player--regardless of the latter being pure or tainted. 

The sport’s succession of asterisks began two years ago with half asterisks assessed those suspected in the Jose Conseco Shadow Era.  Conseco, a long ball hitter who played with the Oakland A’s and the Texas Rangers, wrote a book (Juiced) in which he confessed the use of performance enhancing drugs while accusing many others of steroid culpability.  Full asterisks were later affixed to those deemed guilty while performing during the Barry Bonds Era of Designer Steroids.  Two asterisks were assessed the names of the guilty in the Alex Rodriguez Heads in the Sand Period that immediately preceded the current Full Bore Unscheduled Testing and Water Boarding Era.  Sports fans will recall claims by some proven cheaters of the Heads in the Sand Period who suggested that their biggest juice boosts came from 10 cups of coffee and not steroids.  A lawsuit by Starbucks is pending.

Baseball’s tepid public admission of the steroid problem came 13 years after responsibilities were assumed by the National Football League.  Commissioner Bush has presided over the current (three asterisks) Unscheduled Testing Era as agreed upon by former commissioner Bud Selig, the player’s union and AIG.  The highly appealing home run, all but invented by Babe Ruth and now missing, has long been baseball’s weapon of mass destruction--now in a slugging meltdown because of steroid testing revelations.  So it was that Bush set about recently not to find the diminished weapon but to resurrect its majesty. 

Commissioner Bush, appointed by Selig and a blue ribbon panel of baseball owners plus George Steinbrenner, is investigating the possibility of increasing major league home run production by reducing stadium power alley fences to 275 feet, some 100 less than major league averages.  Baseball attendance during the past three years has shrunk 58 per cent--largely because of the economy, the steroid scandals and the resultant sharply reduced number of home runs.  Of added significance and reflecting unusual times and a changing sport, the hot dog has been replaced by the burrito as America’s favorite fan food.

Commissioner Bush’s first controversial act shortly after taking office in 2010 was to declare “mission accomplished” from the Haliburton Stadium pitching mound on opening day.  It was on that historic occasion that he declared Rummy Day to be held on July 4^th in all major league ballparks to honor Donald Rumsfeld for his unusual service as Defense Secretary during the Second Iraq War.  Despite gigantic prizes, including Enzo Ferraris at each ballpark and a media blitz featuring an appearance by Bush (he stumbled while doing the cha cha with U.S. Secretary of Shopping Sarah Palin  on “Dancing With the Stars”), Rummy Day attendance was an abject failure except in Tokyo where something was lost in translation among the promoters resulting in Japanese fans being treated to a Tummy Day celebration complete with free food and all the sake they could consume.

Bush’s roller coaster ride as Baseball Commissioner took on added dimensions shortly after the Rummy debacle.  Declaring himself “the decider,” the former President has been in favor of establishing a franchise in Paris, Texas.  Interviewed by ESPN’s Chris Berman, Bush admitted that he was confused by facts attendant to his desire to establish a franchise in a small Texas town. Veteran baseball minds appear to be prevailing.  They want the franchise in the Paris of France where, according to Bush, “they speak funny.  Heh, Heh.  I say let them eat Pringles.” 

 “The French are kinda lousy ballplayers,” continued the Commissioner, “and the French people want to look at local players, not some kumbaya kids from Haiti or wherever.  Heck, the French are so out of it, they still don’t have a name for entrepreneur.”

Another of Bush’s controversial decisions involved the Texas Rangers, a team whose ownership once was 1.8% his, thanks to $600,000 loaned him by friends of his father.  That was after the junior Bush failed in the oil business.  In a strange turn of fate, the Baseball Commissioner engineered a complicated deal in which Nori al-Maliki, former Prime Minister of Iraq in search of a job following the U.S. troop withdrawal from Iraq and the country’s subsequent return to a feudal society, was made general manager of Bush’s old team.  It has been a difficult time for al-Maliki whose communications shortcomings include an inability to converse in baseballese.

While al Maliki has faced serious problems as GM of the Rangers, his difficulties pale by comparison to those of his predecessor, former director of the Federal Emergency Management Administration Michael Brown.  The baseball Brown was the central figure in a spectacular flash flood whose details were called “irrefutable irony” by syndicated columnist George Will.  The flash flood at Blackwater Park occurred while the Rangers were in the field during the seventh inning of a game played late last year.   Brown, who directed FEMA during the 2005 Katrina storm, took more than two days to rescue his team by helicopter from a dugout roof.  It was during those two days that Bush told Brown: “Brownie, you’re doing a heck of a job, again.”  Perhaps buoyed by the Commissioner’s words of praise, Brown pointed to only 15 fatalities resulting from the flood, a sharp contrast to the 1,200 Katrina deaths.  Pundits in general were quick to point to Brown’s relatively quick flash flood response as a major factor in keeping fatalities as low as they were.      

Questioned about this season’s opening game, Commissioner Bush said he is giving thought to not throwing out the first ball but, rather, throwing out the first shoes--baseball spikes--rumored to be a forthcoming further measure of Texas justice.  He vehemently denied the shoes will be thrown at the Iraqi photographer who was imprisoned after tossing a couple of shoes at Bush shortly before the end of his Presidency.

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In Search of the Right Word....by Bob Sanders

The genius of the English language is that it is always in a state of flux much like fashion or the stock market.  Our language’s constant state of development is because English, charming and confusing, is in the hands of common people for better or for worse; further, there are more of them than, say, English teachers.

Most of  us are better at one form of expression than another.  Chances are pretty good that if you write for a living, the likelihood of being a skilled user of the spoken word is slim although there are exceptions.  One would be Jean Shepherd who talked and wrote funny; a classic example is his Christmas Story.  Both the film’s writing and narration are his and examples of his remarkable radio work (all of it adlibbed) are available via free downloads.

The luxuries of writing as opposed to speaking are profound.  Writers can sit down in front of a computer or typewriter, stare at the machine for any length of time, then, maybe begin writing.  Should the output prove wanting, then a cup of coffee or stronger may be necessary. 

Liquor more than once was a subject of discussion with Pulitzer Prize-winning editorial cartoonist John Fischetti.  Employed by Field Enterprises (its holdings included the Chicago Sun-Times & Daily News), we were convinced that the booze muse by way of a couple of martinis at lunch made us more creative during the afternoon struggle.  I’ll have more down the road about Fischetti, my all-time favorite luncheon buddy whose enormously human work appeared in the New York Herald Tribune before he moved to the Daily News and later the Sun-Times after the Daily News folded.  It was at Fischetti’s funeral that he was eulogized by TV host/journalist Bob Cromie as “probably the inventor of the long lunch.”         

Long lunches were not the forte of the enormously serious general manager of a Kansas City TV station back in the early 60s.  We weren’t pals but let’s be kind and call the fatuous GM simply by his first name.

Joe had one of those out-of-focus backgrounds for a guy hired to provide television leadership in the boonies.  Actually, it was better than most--even a bit exotic in those days.  Joe had been advance man for Irene Wicker, radio’s “Singing Lady” who somehow missed being acknowledged in Woody Allen’s wonderfully nostalgic Radio Days film.  Check it out for a look at the effect radio had on people in the 40s. 

Joe had the worst memory of anyone I’ve ever run into this side of Alzheimer’s.  People could be introduced to him countless times and he could never get their names straight.  How he maintained employment with his publishing empire owners was beyond the ken of most who knew him.  Of help, of course, was TV’s being the original cash cow in the days when the competition in typical big city situations was a couple of other stations.

Guys like Joe always seem to have a Kick-Me to push around.  For those who don’t know, cartoonist Al Capp invented the Kick-Me for “Lil’ Abner,” a long-running cartoon strip.  Weighted on the bottom, the Kick-Me always bounced back when delivered a boot or punch.  Eventually, the Kick-Me was manufactured and is now a collectable.

Joe’s Kick-Me was Mike whose Herculean last name (Strawn) suggested he might earn his keep as a private eye, professional football player or rodeo cowboy.  Wrong.  Mike was a long-suffering promotion manager of the CBS affiliate and if he wasn’t playing indentured servant to Joe’s plantation owner, he was attempting to right one of his boss’s wrongs.

The one thing Joe feared more than anything was intense criticism from women--particularly those with children who might witness something untoward on his station.  One day Joe appeared at a luncheon held in a restaurant on the edge of Country Club Plaza--one of Kansas City’s upscale areas still considered a major attraction.  Among those gathered was your faithful scribe, then employed by TV Guide, plus a large collection of PTA women representing a great many of the community’s schools.  Before each of them was a massive array of papers put together by Strawn to strengthen the suggestion that Joe’s programming for children could be trusted.  A master of detail and very much of the opinion that sheer weight can often win the day, Joe had demanded and received massive proof of his station’s superiority including  impressive charts, graphs and diagrams involving every possible aspect of television that made KCMO a buy impossible for advertisers to ignore.  Joe beamed as Mike gave his usual groveling and unctuous introduction.

Joe the GM got off to predictably stumbling start, drifted into some unfathomable communications jive indicating, as best I could tell, that he was essentially up with up and down with down and then kicked into high gear.  “Ladies,” he intoned waving on high evidence of his station’s deepest held principles, “I want all of you to grab your diaphragms.”

Tiny titters were enjoined by polite giggles in turn by somewhat controlled guffaws all of which converged with wild explosions of laughter--real belly busters.  Members of the audience were repeating what had been said to those whose minds had been benumbed by the executive’s earlier attempts to communicate.

Not used to creating uproars and stunned by the audience reaction, Joe didn’t have a clue regarding what he had said.  The tsunami of hilarity had developed into such a perfect storm of uncontrolled laughter that the speaker couldn’t go on.  Finally, Mike, seated at the head table, approached his boss explaining the situation.  Things finally quieted down and the red-faced general manager continued.

During my own searches for what I hope is the right word, the memory of Joe and the greatest laugh I’ve ever witnessed often returns.  In terms of audience reaction, it was better than anything I’ve heard out of Shecky Greene, Carol Burnett or Richard Pryor. 

Some humor is simply beyond clever writing and delivery. 

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Sidebars Wunderbar Weather Blogging....by Bob Sanders

I have what minimal observation must reveal is a less-than-normal (whatever that means) relationship with the computer.  I guess it’s mostly a matter of wanting to take full advantage of my sense of wonder about it while having a severe fear of it taking advantage of me.  It’s sort of like Hugh Hefner and women.

While my reluctant embrace of the machine is what Johnny Carson would have called  “a caution,” a son of mine is another matter; his commitment is so pronounced that I told him recently I fully expect his rather spectacular departure from this world will be in his room of exotic electronic equipment where he will be swallowed headfirst by one of his machines.

With legs pointed heavenward, his last moments will be memorable as he disappears--never again to battle viruses and worms, to experience the thrill of hibernating a laptop, the spine-tingling passion inherent in downloading bad music, the fascination of pimping your flip (I’m assured there is such a procedure), the exhilaration of encryption conniptions, the smug satisfaction of VOIPing, Phishing and, maybe best of all, Skypeing.  One wonders if down the road awaits a 30,000 foot club of exclusives who do their Skypeing at that altitude.

While I am pretty good at the pursuit of information on the internet, I am also so lacking in hipness as a neophyte in the computer world that I continue to fall far behind in understanding its rich nomenclature, road marks in its intense development.  For example, I don’t know how to twitter but wonder if twits have a leg up on such adventures?  Further, I have a terrible time doing simple things like forwarding my neighborhood activist information to the local daily.  The Guide Meridian/Cordata Neighborhood Association has monthly general meetings except during summers when we give everyone a break and take advantage of Bellingham’s hard to beat weather at that time of year.  Anything short of summer is something else but we won’t go into such Chamber of Commerce downers at this time.

We ‘hamsters, as we call ourselves, are a sturdy lot.  Blue collar and all the clichés that go with the description, we are inclined to be impressed more by: a good hamburger than a filet mignon; jeans rather than something shiny from Italy; and local entertainers like the Cody Rivers Show at the Idiom Theater where 10 bucks gets you much better than the mediocrity of $60 road shows at the Mt. Baker Theater.  There is a prevailing honesty in Bellingham difficult to understand unless you live here.

Fourth Corner living, often chancy weather-wise, offered some unexpected snow 10 days ago.  Decidedly a surprise, the left jab of a storm had enough intensity to suggest checking in with that wonderful little Google slot that tells you just about anything you want to know about the local weather and more.  All you have to do is give the computer your zip code and voila--five days of details.  Aware that just about any five days in a row these days will offer 60 to 90 percent chance of rain or snow, ‘hamsters don’t pay a lot of attention to weather reports.  As I continued my Googling, I came upon a plaintive announcement carrying with it both urgency and challenge.  It turns out there is a close cadre of weather bloggers and Bellingham, City of Subdued Excitement, is currently without anyone willing to get involved with what is known as Wunder Blog!  The exclamation mark is not mine.

It quickly became apparent that an idea so fulsome of opportunity would make rejection of it difficult.  As readers of this space are aware, I have cast myself in the role of Bellingham protector, guardian against sprawl and a firm believer that you can’t beat laughter.  Part of my protectionist spirit was inspired nearly 20 years ago by best-selling author Ernie Gann, a San Juan Island neighbor.  Ernie would never tell nosy journalists (now, there’s a highly apt oxymoron) where he lived for fear even more people would move to the island further disrupting his tranquil life.

Buying into Gann’s philosophy of protection, it made sense 15 years later that I would do the same for Bellingham after moving here.  Among my ideas is a disinformation program that would accentuate the negative.  Because mottos are so important to cities, it has for some time been my thought that Bellingham’s unofficial one be abandoned in favor of something more dramatic like “Tony Soprano’s Kinda Town.”

Having chanced upon Wunder Blog!, I came up with further inspiration through the readings of such weather bloggers as BangorWalker, Fshfan’s Wunder Blog, HadesGodMyvern (he checks in from Western Australia) and Charlesimages.  The latter, originating in Cedar Springs, Michigan, offers stories, often not weather-related, like the time a teen-age Charles was practicing lassoing and decided to test his skills on an outhouse.  He managed to rope the air conditioned toilet, finally overturning it with a healthy tug.  The results were rather surprising: his father was in it.

BangorWalker is really into the weather.  Presumably located in Bangor, Maine, he keeps tidy records of such things as daily highs and lows, record highs and lows and record snows.  Being able to crank up the computer to reveal that Bangor’s all-time one-day record snow of 16.5 inches on February 25, 1969 should augur a sense of relief down the road when only 10 or 12 inches of the white stuff falls in a day.

Some of the weather enthusiasts aren’t nearly so caught up in the subject, but do enjoy the outdoors and/or looking at pictures, the latter a major weather blogging offering.  Take TukwilaCathy, whose most recent communiqué in late February, reported that Seattle-Tukwila was “showers,” some .34 inches of rain having fallen.  A further revelation was a high temperature of 48 that day and a low of 44.  For those with a sense of history, we were informed that the key numbers a year ago were 56 and 41 with no rain.  TukwilaCathy appears

to be rather casual in her weather blogging duties while offering a decided contrast to BangorWalker.  It may be that she has better things to do since her prior report was made on Dec. 15 of last year, a development not likely to qualify her for a web page listing as the author of a Featured Blog.

Featured Bloggers of Wunder Blog! apparently are the elite of those who pursue weather information.  One of its leaders is Dr. Jeff Masters who writes about such things as “Weather and Mortality.”  The major conclusion of a survey, recently reviewed by Masters, suggests that people living in rural areas are more likely to die from a natural disaster than those living in cities.  As conclusions go, this appears to rank right up there with fish got to swim and birds got to fly. 

Wunder Bloggers! refer to themselves as Underground Weathermen, a name whose origins give pause.  It was the radical Underground Weathermen who’s Days of Rage included one on October 8, 1969--a year and change after Chicago cops acquired some bad PR while participating in the Democratic National Convention riots.  I remember it well.  Employed by Playboy Enterprises, I had attended a party at Hugh Hefner’s residence on North State Parkway.  Upon leaving, I recall every car within sight had broken windows except mine that bore a Playboy logo.

The upshot of all this is that it appears I have the opportunity to be a weather blogger and help make America aware of all the bad weather that happens in Subdued City.  Our numbers are stunning and the release of such information, touched up a bit here and there as my imagination prompts, should help keep the horrific hordes away from our fair city.  This innate ability to create fear and loathing among potential residents carries grave responsibilities.

Those responsibilities should include attempts to get follow-up stories in the local press about some of the people who suffered various inequities during the January gullywasher that tormented Bellingham.  Of course, journalistically speaking, it appears that follow-up stories these days too often go the way of follow-up questions.

Regardless of how much interest you have in the weather, its erratic transitions and professional attempts to forecast it, I’m inclined to go along with what was George Carlin’s prediction for any given night: dark.

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