a reading from the book of armaments …

today, at the end of church, the cantor said, “and now let us all celebrate by singing hymn #666, ‘change our hearts’ – hymn # 6-6-6.”

is that bad?

 

go big blue!

may this football season be more rewarding than baseball season.

 

won’t forget

when it happened, i wrote about it. unfortunately, the hc newspaper editors gave the opinion piece the title of a 98 degrees song. but it still fits what i feel.

but the best expression about what happened came from someone who wrote a science fiction song in 1976 that happened to come true. this recording from the concert for new york city makes me cry every time. the words are sadly prophetic, but as billy says, “unlike the end of this song, we ain’t going anywhere.”

i’ve seen the lights go out on broadway
i saw the empire state laid low
and life went on beyond the palisades
they all bought cadillacs
and left there long ago

we held a concert out in brooklyn
to watch the island bridges blow
they turned our power down
and drove us underground
but we went right on with the show

i’ve seen the lights go out on broadway
i saw the ruins at my feet
you know we almost didn’t notice it
we’d see it all the time on 42nd street

they burned the churches up in harlem
like in that spanish civil war
the flames were everywhere
but no one really cared
it always burned up there before

i’ve seen the lights go down on broadway
i watched the mighty skyline fall
the boats were waiting at the battery
the union went on strike
they never sailed at all

they sent a carrier out from norfolk
and picked the yankees up for free
they said that queens could stay
they blew the bronx away
and sank manhattan out at sea

you know those lights were bright on broadway
but that was so many years ago
before we all lived here in florida
before the mafia took over mexico
there are not many who remember
they say a handful still survive
to tell the world about
the way the lights went out
and keep the memory alive

~ billy joel

 

the injury report

vic’s blue-and-orange pride has been assigned to the 15-day disabled list, retroactive to the day the mets stopped covering up santana’s prolonged elbow problems. or the unassisted-triple-play day. or the day david wright got beaned. or the day louis fell down the dugout steps. or the day louis dropped the pop-up.

when asked about the possibility of vic’s pride returning on its first day of eligibility, mets manager jerry manuel said, “i’m not optimistic” and then proceeded to make a joke and laugh at it.

in indecipherable remarks given over a conference call, general manager omar minaya emphasized that it was not *broken* pride, merely *strained* pride, and then lashed out at sny commentator ron darling for possessing more pitching knowledge than mets pitching coach dan warthen.

minaya went on to say that he could not recall any events that could have contributed to the straining of vic’s pride, overlooking the fact that half of the mets’ current roster belongs in the minor leagues and the other half belongs in a retirement community.

minaya said the disabled-list assignment was merely a precautionary measure. “i am confident that her pride will recover completely once she sees tim redding’s next start or sees anderson hernandez bat cleanup,” he said. “she will absolutely be back this season.”

update: medical professionals who prefer treating injuries to elaborate injury cover-ups acknowledge that vic’s pride will undergo season-ending surgery. they project a full recovery by spring training, but lord knows they’ve been wrong before.

 

cd day

today is cd day.

i haven’t been this excited about a tuesday in years – my music idol, imogen heap, finally released the album i’ve been counting down to … and ingrid michaelson (the only musician who could ever pull off radiohead on a ukulele, and, therefore, another music hero) chose the same day to drop her all-new album (“be okay” was really a rarity/b-side/live effort). lest the lack of exclamation marks deceive you, rest assured that august 25 has been a day scorched in my brain for quite some time.

as i was working out my plan to grab these new albums today (never mind the fact that i pre-ordered imogen’s deluxe album on itunes weeks ago), i found myself thinking about what cd day used to mean. see, i made this pact with my shopaholic self about two years ago. i promised that i’d stop buying cds just to buy them – i wanted to stop collecting music and start savoring it.

because somewhere around the time the police nabbed napster, all my college friends started swapping cds like crazy – we’d sit there burning the entire modest mouse discography or transferring a party’s worth of 80s tunes onto each others’ computers just so we had it all. i used to know the track listing to every single album i owned. i used to know the *lyrics* to every song i owned. now? forget it. somewhere along the line, the catalogue became more important than the music inside it.

so i made a pact with my inner music hoarder to stop scooping up every mp3 in sight or buying every album on sale for $9.99 and start listening for real again. because when i think of pop music, when i think of connecting with music, there’s one memory that kicks it all off.

my fourth-grade self is striding through the parking lot behind quimby street holding the first cd i ever bought myself. it was my third cd total, coming just on the heels of elton john’s greatest hits – but this was the first album i ever placed on a counter and paid for with my own money. i remember picking at the shrink wrap, opening the cover, finding the booklet inside. magic. dying to rush into the house and spin it on my new cd player. mariah carey and i have been connected ever since.

i can see myself so distinctly, sprawled out on the floor of my old room (the one my parents so easily tricked me into thinking was better than my older – and significantly bigger – one, after franny outgrew his crib and needed to move with jimmy into a bigger room) with the liner notes from “music box” spread in front of me. i just listened. and the only words i read were the ones mariah had released with her songs. what else was there to think about?

i want to listen to music like that again. just laying there, content to spend 41 minutes and 54 seconds absorbing the music and following along with the clues the singer left us.

i don’t take that time now. now i hear my music while i’m catching up on email or working my way down route 22 or straightening papers – the music’s there, but my mind isn’t. is it because i don’t have the luxury of time, or because i’m filling it with something else? i still want to know my music inside and out, but sometimes i think i’m cramming songs and lyrics like i’m cramming for a test. music is always playing, but i’m rarely savoring the discovery.

but today, i’m keeping all that in mind. i’ve unwrapped that shrink wrap and given the liner notes a first glance. i’ve taken two albums for a spin, and i can already tell that they’re going to rocket up my list of favorites. i don’t know quite when my schedule is going to allow it, but i’m going to set aside a guilt-free hour and just listen. it’s cd day, and i’m not going to shortchange imogen or ingrid or the fourth-grader laying on a blue carpet with her boombox thinking that a cd might very well be the best invention ever.

 

please forgive the disappearing act. it’s not intentional, and it’s not permanent.

i’ve had a bunch of thoughts for blog entries, but i guess i was looking for something terribly exciting to write about next … since i’ve remembered life doesn’t always work that way, we’ll return shortly to your sporadically scheduled posts.

thanks for stopping by -

 

what vic and alyssa milano have in common

so i get back from camping (more on that later) to find out that the Mets have actually won two games, and today they go ahead and do the right thing by firing hothead shirtless bully vp tony bernazard. but they can’t even do that with class – omar has to throw longtime beat writer adam rubin under the bus for reasons i can’t even begin to imagine. but i am too amazed by the ineptitude of the front office that i don’t even want to comment right now, so more on that later.

instead, i choose to remind myself (and you) why i love the game of baseball. so that brings us to alyssa milano.

the following is a reprint of a “vic’s picks” (that’s my occasionally self-indulgent music column) that appeared in the westfield leader on april 16. you can see it with my picture on top here, or you can just keep reading for full text, minus capital letters:

q: what do vic’s picks and alyssa milano have in common?
a: baseball.

what do baseball and a music column have in common? admittedly, not much…but then again, picks is rarely your average music column.

next week, we’ll return to your sporadically scheduled music reviewing. but spring is here, no matter what the thermometer says, and spring brings opening day, which unfailingly brings a new crop of baseball books. yup, today we’re going literary, and that brings us back to this column’s titular question.

vic’s picks never really thought she and alyssa milano would have much in common, but it seems the intoxicating nature of america’s pastime spreads far and wide. fans have probably noticed the actress’s clothing line of women’s baseball fashions in stadium stores. women who like to rock their team colors without having to wear boxy shirts no doubt are grateful for her enterprise. but when this diehard Mets fan heard that milano would be joining tbs’s postseason baseball-reporting roster, she was rather suspicious. an actress makes a clothing line and gets clubhouse access? does she even understand the sanctity of the game?

apparently, i wasn’t the only one to ask that question. my daily scouring of mlb sites led me to something that made me regret my skepticism. milano has a blog on mlblogs.com, and she wrote a staunch defense of her love for baseball for the benefit of doubters like me. she had me at “i hate when the count is 0-2 and the pitcher throws that ball low and away [because] the batter knows just as well as we do that it’s coming…”

but i digress.

the actress released her first (clearly baseball-themed) book just before opening day. and this now-avid milano convert devoured it in a day and a half.

as its jacket says, the book is a love letter. not to carl pavano or barry zito (though we must note that her taste in baseball boyfriends tends to involve pitchers who can’t pitch), but to the world’s greatest game.

she finds a way to reconnect her father to his brooklyn past and to tether them both to a life in los angeles. she finds a way to (unintentionally) show up male costars in the baseball-statistics-dropping department. baseball keeps her grounded in a world of actors – she has full access to the stars of the hollywood scene, yet the person she name-drops most often is 81-year-old dodgers announcer vin scully.

she finds a kind of family in the other dodgers season-ticket holders in her section – watching the kids in seats around her grow up, bonding with other diehard fans, shouting creative insults with her brother (see: calling the light-hitting, out-of-shape outfield bust andruw jones “snacks”).

i don’t think she’s harsh enough on steroid users, but she tackles the subject with a sweeping review of cheating through the ages, asserting that the “pure” era of baseball we long for never really happened.

she peppers the book with sidebars recounting wacky, sobering and mammoth games or players. she shows that she knows her stuff in a relaxed, breezy manner, making drive-by references to past greats or moments of great implosion (see: rick ankiel’s infamous wild pitching performance). it’s the kind of discourse one might spout when digging into a baseball discussion with an old friend – knowledgeable, but not trying to impress.

but the real pleasure in this book is not about the stats or the history or the dodgers; it’s about the joy and the passion with which milano discusses them. it’s the literary opportunity any true fan would die for – the chance to just pour your heart out about the game that has captured it.

it’s not cheesy, but it is a love story. “if i were a less emotional person, i wouldn’t have booed and screamed at my television every time barry bonds stepped to the plate…i wouldn’t have [seen former drug addict josh hamilton’s home run derby performance as] the most astonishing act of redemption…the most vivid example of the human spirit’s resilience and beauty,” milano writes. without that emotional investment, that human connection, baseball is just a sea of stats, and she knows it.

“how can a sport save someone?” milano asks at one point. her book shows readers a pretty good answer.

 

the amazin’ mess

what i really want is a divorce.

i know that’s the most desperate of measures, of course, but you know what they say about desperate times. and it’s not like i haven’t had time to think this through. in fact, i’m amazed it took me this long to get to this point. believe me, i know what i’m doing here. i’ve been wronged, my heart has been stomped on, and i want this cycle to end.

now, i also know i’ll never go through with it. i may demand the paperwork, tick off a list of reasons ranging from fraudulent promises to gross negligence and emotional abuse, and i’ll be right on every count. but i define myself by this relationship, and no matter what the injustice, i always, always come crawling back.

so the question, Mets, is where do we go from here?

because it’s gotten to that watch-the-tv-with-your-hands-covering-your-eyes place, the place where the minute you peek out, somebody drops an easy pop (TWO. HANDS. LOUIE.) or misses third base (why churchie, why?) or falls flat on his face in the outfield (fernando martinez – welcome to the future).

there have been some horrific games this season. i can think of three horrific games this week, and we only played four! but of all the images of this eternity of a season, i think the quintessential one came last night. fernando nieve – brought up to the bullpen to replace an injured reliever and then moved into the rotation to replace an injured starter – pitches a hitless first inning, then comes up to bat in the second. he hits the ball and, thinking he’s got a shot, busts it to the first-base bag (hey, our hitters could learn something from him!). he hits the bag, then falls to the ground. rolls around in obvious agony. sprained quad. they have to cart him off the field.

i think our disabled list actually has more players than our active roster. but i can’t blame the team for the injury. or the nine other injuries to opening-day players (i’m lowballing the figure).

no, the image of a Met being carted off the field is nothing new, but it’s only part one of this quintessential Mets ‘09 photo. the other part, the maddening i-want-a-divorce part, is the image of tim redding jogging out of the bullpen. tim redding. quintessential retread. quintessential Mets ‘09 philosophy.

this team has zero depth. this team has zero prospects. our number-one blue-chip prospect is falling flat on his face in the outfield and testing how unproductive a hitter can be while on a major-league roster – well actually, he’s on the disabled list. but that’s what he was doing before he joined the walking wounded.

last night, i’m watching tv with my eyes half covered, and i don’t know which is worse – watching the ball leave tim redding’s hand on its way to being pounded by the hitter, or watching closeups of tim redding’s face, with his goatee-on-steroids. i’m going with the face. i’m used to watching the hitters pound our retread pitching staff. but redding looks like he should be wearing flannel and chopping down trees in minnesota, not putting himself in situations where i’m going to have to look at that facial monstrosity in hi-def.

i’m not too happy with jerry manuel’s playing-favorites, benching-productive-hitters managerial style, but this is omar minaya’s fault. the winter philosophy? ignore the decent free-agent pitchers, sign guys that are old enough to be the fathers of our prospects. 40-year-old rookies. washed-up pitchers that were never anything special to begin with. tim redding. tim redding lasted 1 1/3 innings against the university of michigan baseball team this spring!! seriously!! ooo, let’s put him in the rotation. good plan.

now, even a partial list of my baseball grievances would probably end up longer than my college thesis, so i’ll won’t elaborate much further. but i am not happy.

omar, our inactive fearless general manager, says we’re “holding down the fort” until our real team leaves the disabled list and joins the AAA team Mets. i want to know how much the team owners lost in the madoff scam. because that’s the only thing that could explain the utter offseason failure to build a major-league ballclub. then again, our gm can’t even build a passable minor-league system, leaving us completely unable to make any real trade right now. good work.

your inaction move, omar.

(of course, as i’m writing this tonight, the Mets are actually doing something that i believe looks like playing baseball … figures. this is how they suck me back in. ah well, there’s always a game to give away tomorrow.)

 

a bit of an intro

so i’m starting a blog.

this should scare everyone who has ever heard me talk. i ramble. a lot.

but i miss writing, and i want to get back in the game, and, most importantly, i love to tell my stories and pretend that they’re cool.

so there you go. i’m starting a blog.

you’ll notice a backlog of entries. thanks to the magic of wordpress, i’ve rescued my old, old blog from 2005 and brought those musings back. personally, i think the gap ones are the best (see: the denim journal). the “mccabes gone disney” ones crack me up too. you decide.

i kept a journal on the mcbabes’ trip to italy in november ‘08, so i’m going to be posting and backlogging them as we go along.

you’ll also notice the picture at the top of the blog. it’s shameless. but i offer two reasons for it. one, it’s supposed to be ironic. two, i can’t wait for jimmy’s critique.

 

it looks like it’s … leaning.

so there may have been this one time that i believed that plymouth rock was in pennsylvania. because that’s where the pilgrims landed. on the pennsylvania coast.

and that one time may or may not have been when i offered that information to someone while i was in college. in massachusetts. of course this is ironic because i neglected to recognize two indisputable facts:

a. as i uttered this belief, i was standing about 45 minutes away from plymouth rock. (and i now believe that massachusetts makes its relationship to the mayflower quite clear.)

2. my *entire* seventh-grade social studies class revolved around coloring maps of the united states. every map involved labeling the states. many revolved around the 12 colonies and the path of the mayflower. i’ve never seen so many maps in my life. (our teacher was busy watching jeff gordon’s racing stats and hiding playboys in his desk drawer. i hope the jeff gordon thing worked out for him … the playboy thing didn’t.

d. there is a new jersey-shaped dent in the side of pennsylvania, thus thwarting any chance the amish state had of having a coast.

i now acknowledge my geographical oversight and view it as both a humbling learning experience and a phenomenal opportunity for an ice-breaking comedic story. [note: story is only funny the first two to three times. then it loses some of its charm.]

anyways, i received both a laugh and a sense of redemption when i called amor on friday to say “hasta luego” and get some italy-traveling wisdom. as i ticked off the list of side trips we’d be making – lucca, pisa, assissi – she cut me off mid-sentence: “wait – i didn’t know you were going to france too!” … because that’s where she thought the leaning tower of pisa was.

now i don’t know if that tops the pennsylvania pilgrims, but it’s got to at least be in the running.

* * * *

so today was our first day really venturing into italy. due to the excitement of the day, i woke up after only three choruses of “dayman” blasted helpfully by my iphone alarm.

pisa (the italian one) was first up, and i swear i’ve never seen anything like the sight that met me when i looked through the main arch of the city wall. it was also the first time we heard helga, our adorable tour guide, call the vendors “wendors,” so it was truly a special moment.

finally, mr. nolde’s history slides came to life. and the reality was just so mcuh better than i’d imagined. it’s really incredible how electrifying the past can be. i really hope i’m not gushing like this the entire week (i loathe excessive gushing), but it will be impossible for this trip to fail to meet my expectations. because this trip, this need to stand on european soil, isn’t about finding perfection. it never was. and as i stood there looking at the world’s most famous failed architectural project, i knew it.

this trip is about perspective. the architect who declined to identify himself as the mastermind behind the sinking bell tower of the onetime maritime city (i suppose he never heard of swamp castle) certainly put everything i’m accustomed to seeing in perspective. i love the u.s., but i love that there’s so much more outside of it. today, christina, mom, kara and i ate pisa pizza outside with the leaning tower of pisa as our backdrop. unreal. some people live this history every day.

* * * *

lucca was fascinating – the tour guide we hastily thought might not be as engaging as ricardo of pisa turned out to be incredible. i’ve never heard a person with such a historical and artistic and spiritual insight as if he was boring a group so many times. first we started with the city’s still-intact world war ii fortifications, which enclose the inner, completely walkable city and offer cars only three entrances. the one we saw was a sunken road that used to be surrounded by a moat – i hope it had a drawbridge! (i am such a nerd.)

lucca was such an inspired choice for a visit because, for all its history, it’s not a tourist trap. though i know my ever-clicking camera betrayed my outsider-ness, it was so illuminating to see a glimpse of typical italian life outside of the realm of tchotchkies and street wendors (intentional spelling). although, not gonna lie, i can’t wait to give amor her new leaning shotglass …

the streets have so much character – narrow, cobblestone, full of pedestrians and leisurly bikers (that must be how they keep the calories off …) and balconies with flowers and italian pride. i don’t think i’ve seen half as many american flags in the last month (election-night speeches excluded) as the number of italian flags i saw hanging off balconies and buildings today. i envy the italian’s sense of identity. they don’t forget to wear it on their sleeves.

best part of lucca: the cathedral. (one of *48* churches inside the city walls.) the exterior was romanesque, the inside was part gothic, part renaissance, part legend. i can’t believe i’m going to say that i was glad we weren’t allowed to take pictures, but i was. there was an aura in that space that was so palpable. the legend says its striking wooden cross was the very first one made – crafted by nicodemus, who, based on a premonition, sent it sailing away in an unmanned ship until it “chose” italy, where two un-driven oxen carried it to lucca, the cross’ choice for its new home. i kind of love the fact that the church won’t carbon date the cross to find out when it was made – it lets you make the choice to decide that even if the logic that dispels the legend is true, it doesn’t matter. there’s still a draw, still the sense that a higher power is present in that cathedral.

side note: the cathedral has *two* organs and *two* choirs! catholic surround sound!

accomplishment: two store owners thought i was italian today. i think they must have thought i was the strong, silent type, because the only words i could say were “quant’e?” “grazie” and “arrivaderci!”
but i was still proud.

fun/kinda gross pisa fact: the reason the baptistery has a weird dome top is because there used to be a huge hole in the dome to catch rain in the center to use for full-immersion baptisms (cue “my big fat greek wedding” kiddie-pool imagery). i guess they figured out it was unsanitary. it must have smelled lovely …

disappointment: how can a country of such beauty and culture not have a single can of dr pepper in it?!

gelato quota: met. mento gelato di lucca. delicioso.