Monday, July 31, 2006
A Good Day at the Ballpark is Better Than….
After Saturday's 16-hour marathon of cat herding with the Runamok campers Saturday in D.C., I took a break from camp Saturday and took in the Orioles vs. the hated Chicago White Sox in Baltimore.
I'm not installing myself as a ballpark expert because I haven't seen them all or even many of them, but I have seen a few and I may have found the best one. Fittingly, it was the first of the new retro parks of the early-90's: Baltimore's Oriole Park at Camden Yards.
Now, of that generation of parks, the only one I have to compare it to is Cleveland's Jacobs Field, which previously was the nicest one, IMHO, and Cincinnati's Great American Ballpark. All of those, along with just about any stadium since 1992 -- when Camden opened -- were designed by the Kansas City architectural firm of Hellmuth, Obata + Kassabaum. But of all their parks, Camden Yards remains the state of the art.
What makes it so good? Any number of things, including:
* The B&O Railroad Warehouse that was made a part of the development and dominates the view in right field;
* The air-conditioned club level that rings the stadium. Even the commoners sitting in the sun-baked outdoor seats can take refuge inside, where rich woodwork and stone tile floors suggest a mall or a tavern, rather than a ballpark concourse.
* The blocked-off part of Eutaw Street that runs along the front of the warehouse. Countless varieties of microbrews and food are there, as well as souvenir stands and the O's team shop.
* Boog Powell's BBQ on the right-field plaza in front of the warehouse, which serves up piles of grilled meat in platter- or sandwich-sized portions with beans and slaw. Top it all off at the condiment stand across the way, where you can smother your spread with spicy barbecue sauce or ketchup or dig into sliced onions or pearly piles of horseradish.
* Camden Cares: The Orioles really know how to take care of their fans. On a recent humid-96-degree Saturday, they had stations giving out cups of free ice and a mist station.
Monday, July 24, 2006
May All Your Dreams Die Peacefully
An old dream bit the big one today, one I didn't realize I had. Like anyone who sings in the shower or in the car along with the radio, I always assumed I could sing passably and wouldn't it be great if, one day, I had my own rock band. I'd fantasize about names for my band (Jif and the Choosy Mothers was my favorite). It's all part of my rock-n-roll fantasy to be a jukebox hero.
Well, today at camp, I was supervising a group of campers in their dorm when one of them hauls out his electric guitar, a small amp and a book called "The Greatest Rock Guitar Fake Book," from which he has learned the power chords to "Crazy Train," "Rock You Like a Hurricane" and the like. Well, he starts playing "Smoke on the Water" (duh-duh-DAH, duh-duh-da-DAH) and I walk past the room and stop. I urge a couple of the kids to sing along and they won't and the player says, "C'mon, I've got the words right here in the book." When no one jumps up, I take that as an an invitation and walk over and pick up the book.
To put it mildly, I sucked. I was beyond bad. It even shocked me how bad I was. The room cleared quicker than a fire drill before I even got through the first verse. To sing in the shower is one thing, but to actually sing with someone playing along is another matter. Old dreams die hard, but it was a peaceful death. In my next lifetime, however, I hope it will be different.
Funny moment today in writers workshop: Students did interviews of their partners as an ice-breaker. We had an odd # students, so I interviewed a kid from D.C. who goes to St. Albans. One of the questions I put on the board asked, "Something that would surprise people about me is ______________." The kid thought a long time and answered that he was on a swim team. Whoopee.
The last question was "What's the coolest thing you've seen?" He answered, "Andrews Air Force Base."
Me: "Really! Do you have relatives in the service or did you take a tour?"
"No," he said, "I've been there with my grandma."
Me: "Your grandmother. Cool. What does she do at the base?"
"Nothing. I had to go there to get on Air Force One with her to go to New York."
Me: "Wait a minute...Air Force One? Why was she on Air Force One?"
"She used to be secretary of state under President Clinton."
Pause.
Me: "Your grandmother is Madeleine Albright?"
"Yep, we see her all the time."
Yep. Apparently the kid had been on the plane with Granny Albright and met and had his picture taken with Bill Clinton in the Oval Office. The kid's brother also was there at the time and got to climb through a trap door that exists under the president's desk. Two thoughts: 1) I hope the brother was wearing protective gear when he went under there and 2) even in its inappropriateness, this was probably one of the more appropriate things to have gone on under that desk.
According to the kid, Granny is mighty pissed off about the Israeli conflict. She told him she worked hard to get things straightened out over there during her time, he said, and the Bush administration has pissed it all away (my phrasing).
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Blackhawks Down...
Kudos to the governor of Pennsylvania Avenue for cluing me in on the term "blackhawk" in reference to mothers, especially of the sports variety, who hover over their childrens' every move. Today saw an aerial assault of Somalian proportions as the young creative writers finally descended on our mountainous location.
The kids hadn't even unpacked when the drama began. One mom made a point of seeking me out after a general introductory meeting just to introduce herself and make sure I knew who her son was. Another mother tried unsuccessfully to switch roommates when the camp administrator had purposefully tried to separate the woman's daughter from her best friend because the two live 5 miles apart. Ironically, another mother bustled into her daughter's room and started rearranging her roommate's things to accommodate the daughter (who had registered as a resident camper, withdrew, then signed up again as a resident) while the kids were down the hall doing some sort of team-building activity. Awkward moment when the roommate walked in on them. On the flip side, kudos to the parents of one girl who sent their daughter ALONE on an airplane from Seattle to our secure, undisclosed location. They'll never fit in if they try to one day join the blackhawk fleet.
Funny moment this morning when a group of Japanese ESL (English as a second language) campers living elsewhere in my dorm nearly fell at my feet when I got up from this computer, allowing them to resume their role-playing computer game. Damned if I say for sure what this game is except to say that when they play it, they're hootin' and hollerin' to beat the band. Dem jenks must be sweet, yo.
Anyway, the little video crackheads practically tripped over themselves to get into position as I left the room and, in perfect English, I heard one of them say, "Mister, I love you."
Friday, July 21, 2006
Tenting Tonight...........
The next few Plague dispatches will be from Camp Runamok (not its real name), a summer retreat for young writers ages 10-14 at a ritzy private school somewhere on the Eastern seaboard. Traffic around a certain megalopolis about 3 hours from home was fucked up as usual, but I still beat the Google maps time by 60 minutes. What the hell is that pyramid on the east side of I-95 near Quantico?
The dorm where I'm staying is basically empty and quiet as hell right now, but starting on Sunday this place will be crawling with kids. The actual teaching, which I'll be doing, begins on Monday. My subject area: short fiction -- another genre for which I was prepared by 10 years of newspaper reporting.
I'm gonna try and dial up Jon Stewart on the satellite in the student lounge before heading off to bed. Planning day tomorrow, followed by another meeting and dinner at the new Irish pub in town, where I'm told they feature the Dogfish family of microbrews. YES! Exactly how Irish that makes the bar, I'm not sure.
Another beer note: If you go to a bar, say, in Ocean View, and order a pint of, say, Anchor Steam and they serve it in a pint glass with a big Guinness logo on the side, should you feel like you're doing something wrong?
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Utah Journal Pt. II
Utah is a place of great natural beauty, no doubt. So I'm definitely not talking about the women with huge implants (modestly covered with multiple layers of clothing, of course). We had brunch at Robert Redford's Sundance resort just up the road (it was fabulous) and enjoyed the scenic Wasatch mountain range, including views of the imposing Mount Timpanogos, left. I capped off my visit with a hike up the side of the famous (to me at least) Y Mountain near the Brigham Young University campus. It's the mountain you can see from the football stadium with the Y painted on the side.
Here it is from far away:
Here from up close (look close and you can see people walking on it): 
This is another of the sports pilgrimages I've made, most of which most people wouldn't give a crap about (walking the Old Course at St. Andrews in Scotland, peering inside the gate at the U.S. Tennis Center in NYC, sneaking into Cameron Indoor Stadium at Duke, sitting in the endzone at Michigan Stadium). What can I say other than it's fun to see in person places I've seen on TV a hundred times.
From a distance, the Y doesn't look like much, but up close you can see that the thing is 380 feet high, a bed of concrete over rock that has been painted white. People also were walking across the face of the Y, which I wouldn't recommend, considering I practically busted my ass climbing the last 30 steep yards of the walking trail up to the letter. Closer inspection reveals that pieces of the rock have been weathered away and the trail below the letter is littered with chunks of rock that are, um, rock colored on one side and white on the other. Question: Is it illegal to take artifacts from a state park if the artifacts have been defaced with white paint?
The Utah motto "hydrate or die" was definitely worth following. I was mighty glad to have my water bottle with me, even given the pre-dawn time frame of my hike. I hadn't hiked at altitude before and by about the second 100 yards, I was gassed. I caught up with a family visiting from Arizona, who told me that breathing hard, even on a modest uphill climb like this one, doesn't necessarily mean one is out of shape. I thought I was in pretty good condition from my running regimen, but afterwards I wasn't so sure. It took about an hour of moderately difficult hiking to get to the top of the Y, but nature has a way of repaying you for making an effort. The Utah Valley at sunrise was a sight. That's Utah Lake in the frame, not the great salty one everybody hears about.
Plus, the July Fourth festivities continued that morning with a hot air balloon race (check out the balloons in the middle of the frame), so by the time I made my descent, they were everywhere.
As I made my way home across the BYU campus, I had the sunroof open and I heard what I thought was a REALLY loud lawn sprinkler and looked up to see the basket of one of the balloons about a hundred feet above me. Made a quick turn into a parking lot and took this shot.
Who Thought THIS was a Good Idea?
Bizarre Beer Brief of the Day: Energy Beers Boost Brewing Industry
Sunday, July 09, 2006
World Cup Wrap-Up
I interrupt my Utah travelogue for this World Cup note. Italy topped France today in the WC final on penalty kicks after 90 minutes of regulation play, two 15-minute overtimes.
PKs are a poor way to decide a world championship, by the way. The teams choose five of their best players and then they take turns peppering the other team's goalie with shots and whoever makes the most wins. All this can be complicated when your goalie -- France's keeper Fabien Barthez, for example -- goes down easier than an old French whore, left, allowing shot after shot to find the net.
In this critical phase, France was without its best player and penalty kicker, Zinedine Zidane, far left, who was sent off for headbutting an Italian player during the second overtime. Damnedest thing I've ever seen. The guy was in line for sainthood, if you listened to the announcers who called the game, the second coming of the second coming, if you will. Then, in his last World Cup game before retirement, he gets into a scrum with the Italian guy and turns around and BAM, nails the guy in the middle of the chest with his head, knocking his opponent ass-over-applecart. Folks, that's an automatic red card for a flagrant foul and just like that, France is down one player. The team seemed like it had been kicked in the noisettes from there. End of story. The cup now resides in Italy. We should all be so lucky. And if you read the Euro press on the matter, Zidane finishes his career in disgrace.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Utah Pt. I
Returned last night from Utah, celebrating the Fourth (albeit early) and visiting a couple of friends of ours.
Decided to sit out the Hampton Roads fireworks celebrations Tuesday night; we had seen two displays already, one Monday at the Orem Owlz rookie-league baseball contest with Idaho Falls (HOOT!) and a HUGE one, titled "Stadium of Fire," Saturday night at a sold-out Brigham Young University football stadium.
Let's first deal with Saturday's event as a whole. I'm told that Provo, where BYU is, is the most conservative city in the U.S., so there was plenty of flag-wavin', troop-huggin' and tissue-clutchin' going on to begin with. There were a blue million cheerleaders, a flag corps, skydivers, a choir, a flyover of F-16's and a tank that joined in the festivities by firing a shot during the national anthem. No, Lee Greenwood wasn't on the bill, but there were appearances by country singer Lee Ann Womack, American Idol winner Taylor Hicks (in his first public concert appearance) and a battle of the bands featuring Queen, Abba and Beach Boys tribute acts.
I'm not a nouveau country fan at all, so Womack did nothing for me going in and I've never seen an entire episode of American Idol, though, god help me, Hicks has been featured in this blog simply on his trademark hair color (see "Gray is the New Black" below). I was supremely stoked about the tribute bands and, surprisingly, concert organizers found a way to screw that up.
The Queen act was a sight. I had wondered which Freddy Mercury era the lead singer would go for and, yep, we got the "safe" Freddy (sans bondage gear) of the early 90s, though it appeared the corpulent chap singing Mercury's part had recently eaten a couple of the original bandmembers. The guy playing lead guitar wore a fucked up afro wig in an effort to look like Brian May. Yes, they played "Crazy Little Thing Called Love" and, no, the band did not play the gay anthem "We Are The Champions" after "We Will Rock You." Conspiracy?
The Beach Boys act was passable, though they were so bad it seemed they were imitating the incarnation of the group still plugging away on the state fair circuit. The winners should have been the Abba tribute, who had some in the crowd singing along with their version of "Dancing Queen" and other hits. Each group played two songs and, when it came time for the Beach Boys ultimate number, to my shock and horror, the other two bands joined in and hugged and swayed to "Good Vibrations." Puke. There would be no winner in this battle. It was amusing to see Fat Freddy arm-in-arm with the Abba girls. I thought art imitated life.
Spooky moment when Taylor Hicks began his three-song performance with the Doobie Brothers' "Takin' It To The Streets," confirming my suspicion that the new blue-eyed soul crooner (WHOOOOOOO! SOUL PATROL!) and former Doobie Michael McDonald are the same person. It's the hair. And the voice. Hicks' performance style mirrored Elaine Benes' dance moves: a full-body dry heave set to music. In a few years, no one will remember who the fuck Taylor Hicks is and he, too, will be playing the summer concert circuit, sodomizing 60's soul music the way McDonald does today.