The Mermaid Parade

On Saturday I went to see the Brooklyn Cyclones, the single A short season team of the NY Mets at Keyspan Park in Coney Island.  It also happened to be the first weekend after the summer solstice which made it “Mermaid Parade” day.  Now, for those of you not familiar with what this is, “the Mermaid Parade pays homage to Coney Island's forgotten Mardi Gras which lasted from 1903 to 1954, and draws from a host of other sources resulting in a wonderful and wacky event”  (http://www.coneyisland.com/mermaid.shtml).  If you’ve ever seen this thing, you shudder to think what those other sources might be and possibly may agree that some things are better forgotten.  Need more info?  “The Mermaid Parade is an art parade, not a showcase for naked girls”  See, how that works is that the girls put ,ah, SHELLS and, ahm, small pieces of , ah, THINGS to cover the, ah, PARTS that would, ahm, CONTRIBUTE TO NAKIDITY!.  Yeah.  So, that way, it’s an ART PARADE!  Even Republicans would agree with that, right?  And because it’s an ART PARADE, it’s O.K. to bring kids.  Of all ages.  And if you want the party to continue, you can go to the Mermaid’s Ball which had live entertainment including such renowned acts as Bambi the Mermaid, Bunny Love, Jo Boobs, Little Brooklyn, Tigger, Dottie Lux and others.  Because, it’s an ART BALL.  To go with the ART PARADE!  What it breaks down to is this:  On this one day of the year, the lines for Nathan’s hot dogs are truly ridiculous, you don’t have to pay to see the freak show, and if you’re a twelve year old boy, you think you’ve died and gone to erotic heaven.(SPIDERMAN SPIDERMAN SPIDERMAN).  It’s a day when auxiliary policemen can strut their stuff (“You can’t cross the street here.  Only from the other side”  “Why not” “I don’t know.  I don’t make the rules.”) and no one can get to the bathrooms.  (“I gotta get to the bathroom”  “Then you have to find the end of the parade and cross there”  “Where’s that?”  “I don’t know.  I don’t make the rules”).  But the weather was glorious.

Before the Game

I was with my son John and we decided that the boardwalk and sidewalk were too crowded (“Please move up closer to the buildings.  I have to keep a lane open”  “Where do you want us to go?”  “I don’t know.  I don’t make the rules”) so we decided to go over to Keyspan a little early and eat over at the ballpark.  As we approached the stadium, we hear a band playing really loudly in front of Peggy O’Neils.  John started to comment on the age of the guitar player but then we come around the front of the platform and see the lead singer.  This is a guy with a sleeveless shirt, a beer belly and flabby arms.  It’s really hard to project edgy when you look like you should be sitting in a recliner holding a remote control and a Bud with a bowl of Cheetos.  And a folk/rock version of “You Really Got Me” by the Kinks doesn’t cut it.  But their album will be out in September.  If only we could remember the name of the band.

We walk in the Park and they are giving out piggy banks to the kids.  I remind them that I am with my son but the girl at the gate says “but he’s taller than you are”.  Evidently, Brooklyn has a height requirement.  So we don’t get the crappy giveaway (actually, I saw some kid with it and it was really cool.  A big baseball with a slot in it and the words “Brooklyn Cyclones” on the side.  Damn those restrictions!) but we decide to go and get some food and watch a little of the pregame warmups.  We cruise the concourse and pass most of the stands because I’ve been there before and I know where the outside grille is so that even if we can’t get to Nathans for a tube steak, we can have a burger from the barbie, and I know it’s going to be good because we’re early and they’re just starting to cook them.  So, you’re probably asking yourself, how do you mess up barbeque on a propane grille?  I’m no expert but I’m guessing that starting to cook without the burners on is the first step.  And I’ll bet that the frozen patties melted in the sun which is why they had that glazed dead meat look to them when the barbequer took them off the grille.  We decided not to eat there.  We grabbed some food from the concession stand and sat down.  The loudspeakers were blasting some bad rap during the warmups and John commented that classic rock might be more appropriate given the setting and I couldn’t agree more (“Dust in the Wind,  All we are…”  Hey!  There was a continuous breeze blowing off the ocean).  For those of you who have never been to Keystone, it is next to the boardwalk at Coney Island, right on the ocean.  If you look to left field, you can see the amusement park with the famous Cyclone wooden roller coaster (both a New York and National landmark) so it’s really nice in a Brooklyn kind of way.  The crowd was coming in and King Henry (think of Ralph Kramden and Bobby Bacala’s love child) was greeting people at the top of the stairs in a loud voice, there was a brass and horn section playing classic ragtime (no rythym section, just the horns in a musical scratch the blackboard with your fingernails kind of way), and maybe every third guy coming in was wearing a wife beater t-shirt with a Cyclone’s baseball hat.  Just a normal day at the ballpark in Brooklyn.  We spent the rest of the pregame watching the starting pitcher warming up in the bullpen.  The pitching coach was out there eating a bag of peanuts, talking to the pitcher in English and the catcher in Spanish.  Communication is the key to all things.

THE GAME

We made our way to our seats and found a couple of people from the office there.  The reason we were at this game is that it was our annual summer department outing to see the Cyclones.  This is our fourth year and I definitely always look forward to it.  We were expecting over twenty folks but at the beginning of the game there were only about eight of us.  Must be a traffic problem (Mermaid Parade?) and the stadium was filling up slower than usual.  They announce the ceremonial first pitch, several times, (so we’re not sure which one was the actual FIRST pitch) and then the national anthem, to be sung by a young woman in tribute to her father.  Even though we didn’t know why, it seemed like a nice gesture.  The boy scout color guard came marching on the field (because it was boy scout day at the ballpark.  Right after the Mermaid Parade.) and they marched to the front of the pitching mound facing the crowd.  That’s when about 50 other people came from out of the stands, walked to the infield and stood facing the flag in center field.  We didn’t know where to look!  The young songstress stepped to the mike and began.  “Ohh say can you see, By the dawns early light …”  Smooth opening.  So far so good.  “Twas so proudly we hailed, at the twilights last gleaming”   Starting to quiver on the upper notes, but what the heck, it’s for her dad.  And it went on like that for the first part of the song.  I wasn’t sure she was going to be able to hit the high notes but I knew I was pulling for her.  She finished up the rest of the beginning of the song in the same fashion and then, it happened.  On the line “And the rockets red glare” she dropped down four octaves so that in the blink of an eye, our budding mezzo soprano became a Budweiser frog, in a completely different key. And I wasn’t the only one who noticed.  But it was for her dad, and we were in Brooklyn, on the beach, with the Boy Scouts and the Mermaids and DAMN.  She got a standing ovation!  Ok, we were already up, but it was a moment!

The game starts and we realize that there is a cheering section for the opposing pitcher that had come down from Hudson Valley with matching t-shirts and hats.  John suggested that maybe they were the pitchers roommates and that he finally got them to come to a game (“C’mon dudes.  It’s on the beach and I’ll buy the beer”).  Between us and them was a couple of rows of little smart aleks, half in Yankee shirts, dissing our buddy The Tank (“I don't want to be old like you" when I catch a foul ball), and generally working on growing up Brooklyn.  Both the out-of-towners and the little brats had a freakoid who looked like he now lived in the gym after he got out of prison, so nobody was pushing too hard.  On the field, Hudson Valley gets off to an early 1-0 lead and the roommates are losing their minds.  Meanwhile, more of the people from the office arrive including the big boss, Director Steve, wearing a hat that looks like a Bensonhurst version of the one on the cover of Frank’s “Songs for Swinging Lovers”.  Sweeet!  The Cyclones get out of the inning and the madness begins.  Minor league baseball in Brooklyn is different.  They stop playing the game and loud stuff starts happening.  From tossing water balloons, to throwing beanbags through holes, to dancing on the dugout, the whole idea is to keep everyone engaged and give away stuff.  Several times they come out and throw T-shirts to the crowd.  I’m usually never near any of these things but this time one went flying over our heads, bounced off a guy with crutches, and popped back into the arms of one of the women in our group  We had a t-shirt winner.  I think we were all proud of that.  The game goes on and the Cyclones start chipping away at the roommate.  The cheering section is quiet.  But now the score is tied, then the Renegades go back on top, but here come the Cyclones. And so it goes till around the sixth inning.  And then it’s time for the Nathan’s Hot Dog Race. 

The Nathan’s Hot Dog Race is where they show a film of 3 guys dressed in hot dog suits running down Surf Ave from Nathan’s to the corner of the ballpark where the left field gate flies open and Live, and in Person, the 3 dogs come running in, bumble their way down the line, and someone wins.  Big Whoop!  Except this year.  When the tubers were somewhere between first and home, a drunk comes barreling out of the stands and slides into home plate.  Safe!  He’s announced as the winner by King Henry, everyone cheers,  and the cops lead him away.  (“I don’t know.  I don’t make the rules”).  Also, right around this time, we’ve become aware of the fact that a couple of rows down from us, a group has started putting on hazmat suits.  And because we’re in Brooklyn, nobody notices or cares.

The Cyclones finally break open the game in the eighth inning and now all they have to do is get through the ninth and the game will be over.  Easier said than done.  The relief specialist comes in and he must have watched the “Bad News Bears” before the game because two guys are immediately on base.  The crowd is getting restless but we have a four run lead.  Now the outfielders start dropping fly balls but miraculously, no one scores.  Finally,  someone finally catches one and the game is over.  As we start to leave the park, the announcer comes and tells us “If you’re going on the Belt Parkway, go to Nathans and have a hot dog.  It’s backed waaaay up”.  Priceless.

At the end of the day, I was at a baseball game with my son and some friends, enjoying a hot dog and having a great time .  And I gotta say, it just doesn’t get any better than that.  We’re going back to Steve and Lori’s for a little after game get together, and just for a moment, life is perfect.  And we’ll be coming back again next year to do it again.

Written by Medford Bob and Posted by The Tank.

Medford Bob Says

Saturday, June 30, 2007 2:55:39 PM (Eastern Standard Time, UTC-05:00)
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  I just spent the weekend in Pittsburgh, the newest stop on my baseball stadium tour. I was excited because I had never been to PNC Park and the Pirates were playing some pretty decent ball lately, and I was going to visit my friends Jeff and Diane and their daughter Nell who was home for Fathers Day. 

THE FLIGHT TO PITTSBURGH

      I was leaving from LaGuardia on a Saturday afternoon which is NEVER a good idea.  Generally, if you don’t get there before six in the morning, your flight is delayed at least 40 minutes.  Anyone who’s been there can confirm this.  Well, much to my delight, there was no real crowd at UselessAir, no problem getting through security, and no announced delay in taking off.  While I was waiting for the plane, the gate attendant starts announcing that the flight was “overbooked” and they were looking for a few “volunteers” to give up their seats in exchange for a roundtrip ticket to be “used within a year and is transferable to family and friends”.  That’s what they told me on ValuJet right before they changed the name to Air Tran.  Fool me once I say.  I watched and there was only one taker.  This was not going well for the gate crew.  After a few minutes, in a somewhat firmer voice, “Ted” asked again for volunteers to give up their seats, especially if “Pittsburgh was your final destination as there were people who had to make connecting flights.”  He was staring straight at me.  But I wasn’t buying.  Call me crazy, but I don’t remember being asked to cover the mistakes of this Chapter 11 abomination of an airline.  So, I ignored him and his repeated attempts to bully me into taking a later flight.  Finally, some other folks decided a free trip was worth the inconvenience and took the deal.  I was safe. 

      They announced that the plane was almost ready to board, and that if you had any carry-on luggage, “I implore you, PLEASE, take a gate check ticket now so you don’t slow down the boarding.”  Begging from the podium.  That’s new.  So we all take a yellow ticket, tie it to our suitcases and head down the jet way.  At the end of the ramp we are greeted by a roll-up stairway that was pushed to the opening that we had to walk down to the tarmac and cross over to the airplane, which had its own built-in stairway in the door.  I asked one of the workers why we couldn’t use the stairway built into the jet way, and she told me, quite seriously, that “this stairway is reserved for airport workers only.”  Right.  Anyway, this particular puddle jumper was operated by Air Wisconsin.  And who knew there was one?  Visions of Packer highlights and cheddar bricks danced through my head.  So I Quasimodo my way down to my seat to be greeted by a young lady reading “Appointment with Dr. Death,” the story of Jack Kevorkian.  But I don’t care, because we’re getting out of La Guardia.  Sure enough we’re in the air in ten minutes and I’m going to get there on time.  SWEET!  The flight goes smoothly enough, Dr. Death curls into a small ball and remains motionless, and about ten minutes before touchdown, the pilot comes on and tells the flight attendant to prepare for landing.  I beat the LaGuardia curse!  Or did I?  Five minutes later I hear on the loudspeaker, “Ah, this is the flight deck.  We’re going to be delayed for a bit because they just closed down Pittsburgh airport for the Air Show.  They estimate it will be about 40 minutes before they reopen for commercial flights.  Sorry for the inconvenience folks.  The good news is that those of you who are trying to make connecting flights will have no problem ‘cause they can’t fly in or out either.  We’ll keep you updated as we get more information.”  Wait a minute.  Did this just pop up?  Surely they can’t be doing a guerilla Air Show in this toothpaste-in-quart-bag-and-take-off-your-shoes post-9/11 world.  This isn’t the ‘60s where you would jump out of a Volkswagen bus in the middle of a demonstration and start doing street theater through bullhorns.  I must be missing something.  I call the cabin cheese head over and ask her “Didn’t you guys know about this?”  She says, “Yeah, they told us. But they decided to send us anyway.”  Figuring, what, our Chevy Aveo airplane can make up time in the air and sneak in before show time?  Or that the supersonic jets in formation would ignore us as too puny for their attention?  Or was this just their way of being able to report that the flight was “on time”?  All I know is that I should have taken the free ticket.  Landing 45 minutes late (but not because of LaGuardia) I’m met at the airport by Jeff and Diane. 

      I’ve known them since college.  Jeff is still quirky (when I first met him he was wild about cowboy clothes and never went anywhere without his boots and cowboy hat) and is a true renaissance man.  Diane has grown from being a J.A.P. to a J.A.M. (fill in your own blanks) and is as delightful today as the day I met her (“Do you know you can now get cancer of the scalp?”).  They are the kind of friends that it doesn’t matter how much time has elapsed, it seems like you were just talking yesterday.  Nell is a wonderful blend of them both (poor dear) and they have another daughter, Rachel, who lives in France and is married to the French guy who Jeff describes as the, ah, FRENCH GUY (gonna try to keep this one PG).  I apologize to them for being late but they tell me “No problem.  We watched the Air Show”.  I was glad to be of service.  We jump in their car and head back to their house to drop off my luggage before we head to the ballpark.  On the way we pass the “Wal-Mart site.” 

THE WAL-MART SITE

      The Wal-Mart site is one of those American stories that just needs to be retold.  We were passing through one of the little small towns that surround Pittsburgh (and this one was REALLY SMALL) and to the left was a hill and a road which led up to an abandoned old hospital.  The land had been sitting empty for years.  Recently, along comes Wal-Mart who sees the spot, knows an opportunity when it see one, and starts to negotiate (bribe?) the town fathers to purchase the land to build a Super Wal-Mart (you know, the ones with the groceries in them).  Of course, the town residents are immediately up in arms and form a committee and hire a lawyer to stop what they believe will be the downfall of their way of life.  (Let’s go to Wal-Mart and buy everything we don’t want BUT don’t put it in our backyard! )  In other words, a typical Wal-Mart opening.  Now I believe that this has happened so often to this mega conglomerate that litigating these annoying lawsuits has been incorporated into the cost of doing business.  Remember, this is the company that recently proudly announced how their $4 generic prescription plan was helping to drive down the cost of medical care in this country.  (Oh, and the fact that their employees are uninsured helps too.)  Anyway, somebody forgot, or ignored, this irritating little engineering study which stated that trying to level this particular hill would have catastrophic results.  Seems it was unstable.  But in the grand tradition of “who are you going to believe, me or your lying eyes,” construction began.  For a very short time.  Before the hill came crashing down, burying the existing highway.  Not all of the hill of course.  Plenty more for another landslide.  Just enough to finally stop a Wal-Mart from locusting into town.  Course the headline in the next day’s newspaper screamed “WE TOLD YOU SO.”  And just like that, the little man won.  Course there was still the cleanup, and the lawsuits, and the finger pointing.  But it just goes to show what a great country this is.

THE GAME

      Finally, we are on our way to PNC Park.  Home of the Pirates.  I’m feeling good about this because I’ve never been to this stadium before, the Bucs have won the previous night, they’re playing the White Sox who are really struggling this year so there’s a possibility that they could win again, and it’s ‘60s and ‘70s bobble head night.  We drive downtown where the Allegheny and Monongahela (I can’t pronounce it either) meet and park across from where the stadium is.  It is open from the other side of the river and you can see right into it.  We cross the Roberto Clemente Bridge which is closed to vehicles during baseball games.  In the middle of the bridge is a guy standing on one of the guardrails with a saxophone playing the Mexican hat dance (“da da da da da da da -clap clap”).  I don’t know why.  And we walk right up to the centerfield entrance to the park.  The first thing that strikes me is that this looks a lot like the new Busch Stadium, which looks a lot like Citizens Bank Park in Philly, which looks a lot like Camden Yards.  There is a certain cookie-cutter aspect to the new parks. They are user friendly, have great sightlines, are open so you can still see the field even when you’re at the concessions stands. The only differences I can see are the size (they announced a sellout at PNC of 36,000) and the outfields are configured a little differently.  After walking through security (?) (“how are you tonight”) we enter the park and each get a bobble head.  Absolutely not New York where pockets would have been padded down, security wands would have been waved, and 50,000 people would definitely have not gotten possible projectiles.  Reading the bobble box I discover that this is the first in a series of “bobble head” nights at PNC. (I guess I’m not getting the set.) We stroll through the back of the bleachers, past Manny’s barbeque over to the concourse where we can find our seats.  By the look of it they’re going to be pretty good, about 15 rows down and right past first base.  And on the aisle to boot.  Very nice.  We’re a little early so we figure we can leave our stuff at the seat and go and get some food.  Plowing through what turned out to be a sellout crowd (in Pittsburgh?) I find the common denominator, a stadium hot dog.  This thing looks greasy, like it’s been fried in butter or some animal fat so I know it’s going to be good.  Foot long, smothered in fried peppers and onions, roll slightly crispy on the outside and soft in the middle.  It was darn fine.  We go back to the seats, sit down, the game is beginning and the view is excellent.  There’s a buzz from the crowd, and enough empty seats that I know I’ll have a nice view of the game.  Then, after the game starts, they came.  First, a couple with their son and they sat in the seats right in front of us, with the kid in the middle.  He was about 6’2” and had spiky hair.  Now we have obstructed view seats (like being in Fenway).  But there is still half a row empty next to them.  Next comes a couple with 2 young children who move in to the middle of the row.  Spiky and folks are up, then down, then the young mom immediately has to leave with the kids.  We’re up, then down.  Now, comes another young couple, who are friends of the family (Spiky up, Spiky down).  Two minutes later, here comes mom with the kids (Spiky up, Spiky down) and five minutes later she comes back (Spiky up, Spiky down).  A few minutes after that, another couple arrives to join the group and she is seriously pregnant.  Somewhere on the field, there is a baseball game going on, if only we could see it.  Now, preggers gets into the act (Spiky up, Spiky down) and before she comes back, mom leaves AGAIN with the kids (Spiky up, Spiky down) and then a few minutes later preggers comes back (Spiky up, Spiky down) and then another couple comes to join these folks (Spiky up, Spiky down) and just when we are getting settled, here come mom with the kids.  And now I know why they were playing the Mexican hat dance on the bridge.  There’s a rhythm to this whole thing and we actually begin to start following the game.  That’s when the white-trash-trailer-park-won-the-tickets-in-a-barroom-poker-game group next to us decide to get into the act.  They’re up, they’re down. I finally think I get it.  The team has been bad for so long that the game is just an afterthought.  Mostly, they come for the exercise. 

      Around the sixth inning I start to get hungry again and my friends tell me that if I want a real Pittsburgh experience I have to go to Primanti’s (the T is silent).  Whatever you order, this sandwich comes with coleslaw and French fries in the sandwich.  Yup. I was eating a knish sandwich.  I wish I was at the R&D meeting for this creation. (“What are you eating?”  “A french fry sandwich.”  “Sounds gross.”  “No, it’s really good.  We should sell it.”  “ I don’t think anyone would buy it.”  “Well, how about if we put some meat in there?”  “Better, but seems like it’s still missing something”  “Lettuce, tomato?”  “Nah.  That would be too weird with the fries.”  “I know what you mean.  What else?”  Then together they exclaim “COLESLAW!”  And, an institution was born.  And, to add the coup de grace, they cut two hunks of Italian bread to hold this thing.  I’m in line, so I read the menu, all 3 items (Cheese steak, Roast Beef, and Prosciutto) and the sign which proclaims “NO SPECIAL ORDERS UNTIL AFTER THE SIXTH INNING” (I don’t even want to know).  After waiting about 20 minutes (cause this place is really popular), I order the cheese steak, which proudly boasts “voted #2 sandwich in Pittsburgh” (What’s #1?) and follow the rest of the crowd to the condiment stand because frankly, I don’t know what to do with this thing.  So I watch and learn.  Mayo and hot sauce on the sandwich and ketchup on the side.  My blood starts to thicken and my heart slows down as I bite into it.  Not bad.  Very Weird!  But not bad at all.  But now, I think of the possibilities and I start to get excited.  This means that the next time I take home a doggie bag from a restaurant, I can have a burrito sandwich with rice and beans on Italian bread with mayo and hot sauce.  I just gotta keep the ketchup on the side!

      I get back to the seats and the game is getting out of hand.  The Pirates have gone to the bullpen and the relief pitchers seem to have learned throwing to bases from the Tigers pitchers in last years World Series.  A tight game quickly becomes 6-1 but no one really cares because we’re all having a good time doing the Spiky dance, watching the racing pirogues (they run in from right field), the Sopranos takeoff with the Parrot, the Pirate and 2 of the pirogues (filling in for Meadow and AJ), not to mention voting on which rock and roll song we wanted to hear at the top of the ninth inning (Godzilla and Mothra won, and they showed the CLASSIC footage on the screen to boot).  We leave the park a little early to avoid the crowd and decide that we don’t want the fun to end, let’s go to Dairy Queen!  So we do.  One of the old fashioned, just off the highway, enough room for 3 cars and two benches Dairy Queen.  Old School!  And it tastes exactly the way it always did, although I don’t remember the butterscotch dip being quite that orange (looked like one of those spray-on tans). 

      Sunday is Fathers Day, we go out to breakfast (another story at another time -- think yeast and lots of it), then to an arts fair downtown (goes with the breakfast story), and then a plane trip back home.  All in all a fun visit.  It was great to see my friends, and I can’t wait to get back to the land of the Allegheny and Mokahekanana River.  But I think I’m going to wait until after I get the bypass.

Written by Medford Bob and posted by the Tank in NY.

Medford Bob Says

Thursday, June 21, 2007 8:57:14 AM (Eastern Standard Time, UTC-05:00)
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I was up in Ocean Park, Florida, near Jacksonville visiting my friend Robert and his family and they suggested we have dinner at a place called “Whiteys Fish Camp, Restaurant and Campground”.  Seeing as I had no clue where I was, I figured what the hell.  We drove down 17 south and there it was on the right located next to a creek.  Now Whitey is not a social commentary on who is welcome here but the nickname of the guy who founded this place back in 1961 (of course we all remember 1961 as the turning point in race relations in the South. ).  Seems he was a retired Navy guy who started this place with “a bait shack and nine bar stools”.   Even then, before GPS’s, this had to be a point of interest, a vacation destination, somewhere you just had to go.  Anyway, we pull into the parking lot and on the left is the restaurant next to the creek, on the right is a row of motor homes (why do my friends think I’m enthralled with restaurants with RV’s next door?) and in the middle of the parking lot, in what could only be called a large shack, was a hair salon.  Two chairs.  It reminded me of my uncle Carl and his wife Mabel. 

Carl and Mabel owned a house in South Boston next to the Andrew Station subway line.  About, oh, twenty five years ago, the transit authority thought they would expand the station.  Even though it was available, they didn’t use eminent domain to grab the land on the houses next to the station and instead offered what they thought was a fair market price for the homes on the street.  Now calling this a street is extremely generous.  It was more like an alley with a bunch of rundown buildings and a host of garbage cans.  Anyway, everyone on the street was extremely pleased with the offer of real cash for this small shanty town, everyone, that is except Carl and Mabel.  Maybe it was bad advice, maybe it was greed, maybe they thought this was their one shot at the brass ring I don’t know.  But while all their neighbors jumped at this more than generous offer, Carl and Mabel held out.  The transit authority offered more.  They held out more.  They were threatened with legal action.  Their legal aid lawyer started a delaying tactic.  Eminent domain was raised.  My uncle knew someone in the state house.  And so it dragged on, much to the chagrin of the MTA who had a construction deadline.  Finally, they were given what they were told was the final offer, that there would be no more negotiating, that they had the opportunity to get twice what their neighbors got.  So what did Carl and Mabel do?  They turned it down. And what did the transit authority do?  They expanded the train station, around Carl and Mabel’s house.  Where before you could glimpse their house from the front of the alley, now all you saw was a walkway and a break in the cement wall which made no sense unless you went to investigate what was there.  But, I digress. 

The first thing you notice about the place when you walk in is the stuffed fish.  Lots and Lots of stuffed fish, on the walls, from the ceiling, even in the rest room.  Now I have always found stuffed game fish to be a little strange.  If you’ve ever seen a fish in the water they don’t look like this.  Maybe it’s the shellac job that makes all the colors pop out and helps preserve the thing but I don’t know, it just looks like they picked them up in the decorating fish department at Sears.

We walked to the host/greeter/seater station to be presented with a sign that told us to seat ourselves anywhere.  Now, there were choices.  Do we go to extremely large bar area where later that evening the poker games would begin, the screened in porch that had a hole cut in the roof to let the tree that was growing in the middle go through (I guess Florida bugs are so stupid that they can’t figure out that there’s a huge entrance for them if they would only fly up a little.  One thing I do know.  They have a death wish on a massive scale.  Every windshield has hundreds, nay, THOUSANDS of dead bugs that just crash into it and then somehow embed themselves so that ordinary windshield washer has no effect.  I’m still looking for the little suicide notes as to why they did it), or the air conditioned dining room with the really good pastel colors of all kinds with the fake palm trees and the Christmas decorations.  It was a no brainer.  I mean, who doesn’t love Christmas? 

We choose a booth and are immediately approached by twin waitresses in black t-shirts (whom we immediately name Mumbles and Ha Ha.  Do the math) who want to know what we want to drink and did we want to see a menu.  Steady now.  We order iced tea which comes in the bucket size germane to the South and is accompanied by the menu which gives the history of the place which I have already touched on, the only other thing worth mentioning is that Whitey slowly expanded the place over the years to it’s present size, (except for the beauty parlor) and that the restaurant, inadequate to handle the business that was starting to grow exponentially to the expansion, miraculously burned down in 2002 and was replaced by this behemoth less than five months later.  (I assume the renovation plans were already in place and that this was God’s way of helping the Whitester).

We look at the menu and I choose gulf shrimp and crab cakes with a remoulade sauce with rice pilaf and a fresh vegetable medley, which turns out to be amazingly good. (Fish camp kitchen’s got chops!).  In the middle of this we are approached by a very large person in an orange tank top (the state color) who informs us that she is really our waitress, that the twins, Mumbles and Ha Ha are really just trainees, and that we may see any of them at any time.  And so it begins.

Our food arrives at the table (brought by a gentleman who asks “Which of you dudes has the fish cakes.”) and as we are admiring the presentation, Mumbles stops by to see how everything is.  And then Ha Ha.  And then tank top.  And then Mumbles again, and then, well, you get the idea.  I usually have a low tolerance for this because after you’ve said it’s ok, how many times does the dish suddenly go bad?  (“The food was really good when you brought it but I just realized it’s awful now.”)  But after awhile it started to be fun.  We were doing an over and under on the time between visits and who would appear. I had Jimmy Buffet playing in my head while we waited (“Wasted away again in Margaretville.”  “How’s your food?  Cha Cha Cha, one two.).  We finish dinner, Mumbles clears the plates and Ha Ha drops the check, at which point I ask if there’s anything else they’d like to say.  They stand there for a minute and I say “anything for dessert”?  Ha doesn’t miss a beat and recites, “Chocolate cake, cheese cake, key lime pie and Yummy cake.”  I’m intrigued.  “What’s Yummy cake?”  “It’s like wedding cake”  “That’s it?”  She reaches in her apron and takes out a take out menu and starts to read, sotto voice, “white cake with a hint of amaretto, buttercream and strawberry filling..” at which point I ask for the menu so I can read this.  What I really wanted to know is if this was some leftover from a banquet gone bad.  I mean, who’s ever been to a wedding where there is cake leftover?  Sure enough, this is a menu item.  Tank top now comes flying over to find out why I’m reading a takeout menu.   “They said you guys were finished and they were dropping the check”  “We wanted to see what the dessert menu was” so she recites the same thing as the others but with a description borne from experience.  I asked if they made them there and she said no, that they have a woman who makes them for them from her home.  We order the key lime and coffee.  But I can’t get the Yummy out of my mind.  I mean, to get wedding cake you usually you have to dress up, buy a gift, and commit to at least a half of day of your time.  What an opportunity.  I call tank top over and ask for some Yummy to go.  If nothing else I figure it will be the cheapest wedding cake I’ve ever had.  And it was really good!

I gotta say the whole experience at Whiteys was really great, from the food, to the atmosphere, to our tag team of servers.  I would definitely go there again and if you’re near Orange Park, Florida, stop on by and ask for Mumbles or Ha Ha.  But try to go soon before they figure out how to run up a check.

Written by Medford Bob in Florida and posted by the Tank in NY.

Medford Bob Says

Friday, May 25, 2007 9:57:15 PM (Eastern Standard Time, UTC-05:00)
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Medford Bob's relatives are Red Sox fans.  Whenever they bring up 2004, Medford Bob reminds them that their last previous title was 1918 and sends along the cartoon below.

Posted by the Tank for Medford Bob in NY.

Medford Bob Says | MLB

Thursday, May 03, 2007 10:47:47 PM (Eastern Standard Time, UTC-05:00)
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Medford Bob files the following report from his Oklahoma road trip:

REPORTING FROM OKLAHOMA
 
Tonight we went to Prague, Oklahoma to have dinner at a charming little place called the “Catfish Roundup”.  Right away I knew we were in for a treat as it was situated next to this really nice trailer park right behind where the big rigs were parked.  I knew it would be classy because the trailer people had their own commodes, both ladies and men, on the outside of the building.  We went inside and naturally, there was a large fish tank with the aforementioned delicacies swimming about.  I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a live catfish but think of it as a New York subway rat with no feet that swims.  Mighty fine eating ahead I’m thinking.  I gotta confess that I feel about catfish the way I feel about venison.  All my life I’ve heard “ it’s really delicious if it’s cooked right”.  The answer on venison is, “I don’t care how you cook it, I hate it”.  Tonight, we were dining at the catfish Four Seasons.  Anyway, we go into the dining room and right away I notice it is decorated with the really good cheap paneling which served as a backdrop for all the mounted fish hanging on the walls.  The maitre d was a young man who was dressed in an Okie hip hop interpretation of the uniform of the establishment.  We still don’t know how he kept his pants up and I didn’t understand a word he said.  We follow him over the uniformly stained indoor outdoor to our booth with the silk flowers and Formica tabletop.  I sit down and look around the room and realize there may not be a full set of teeth collectively among the diners.  Almost directly across from me is a tableful of truckers, one of whom had the most beet red face I’ve ever seen, and just kept staring at me.  I wasn’t sure if he wanted to plug me or plug me!  Either way I don’t think it would have mattered to him.  Almost immediately we are approached by a young lady offering the house amuse bouche, apple fritters!  What a delightful and whimsical interpretation.  It made my heart stand still!  Literally.  Our waitress, Amanda, comes over, hands us the menu, and asks if we’d like to order.  Call me old fashioned but I still have this crazy idea I’d like to see the choices before I commit.  While we are deciding, the roll girl walks by, sees we have no food yet, and decides that we don’t need bread.  What a health nut!  Amanda comes back and Alma and I decide, what the heck, we’ll have the catfish.  I mean, when in Rome right?  Let me digress by saying that this place was recommended by Alma’s daughter Rox who “loved the batter around the fish because it had such a great flavor”.  Rox lives in Montana, and when I asked her to describe a four star restaurant there she said “there isn’t any”.  Anyway, the catfish dinner came with potatoes, coleslaw and something called hush puppies.  Now, being from the Northeast, I thought a Hush Puppie was a soft suede shoe.  And I wasn’t far off because while the outside of this thing was crispy (as was everything else except the cole slaw), the inside can only be described this way-  “ if tofu were sand….”   The catfish was as OK as a bottom feeder fried in hot grease can be.  And Rox, the “great flavor in the batter” is called pepper.  But at least we got our rolls.  After we asked for them.  And they were hot and good.  But let me not be unkind.  I think the food and the atmosphere blended harmoniously and I would recommend the “Catfish Outhouse” to anyone traveling on route 40 near Prague Oklahoma.  Just stay away from the truckers.

Posted by the Tank for Medford Bob in Oklahoma.

Medford Bob Says

Wednesday, April 25, 2007 6:31:33 PM (Eastern Standard Time, UTC-05:00)
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Guest blogger Medford Bob went to the movies recently.  Without further ado, Medford Bob Says

Nipples and Sixpacks

Medford Bob Says | Movies

Friday, April 06, 2007 9:39:50 AM (Eastern Standard Time, UTC-05:00)
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So, I'm sitting in my local Ruby Tuesday's at the bar having a burger and watching football.  Texas is playing Iowa and the game is pretty good.  We're in the fourth quarter and the Longhorns are down 21-20 when they march down the field and score a touchdown to take a 26-21 lead.  They miss the two point conversion and kick off to Iowa.  The Hawkeyes (heavy underdogs) get the ball back in decent position and start to march back the other way.  Suddenly, I'm staring at a flag draped coffin.  I've heard of sudden death but this is ridiculous.  I ask the bartender what's going on and she says the manager says we have to watch 15 minutes of President Ford's funeral and then they'll turn on the Giants game.  Now if they turned down the music and turned up the sound on the TV it might have made some sense but staring at a flag draped coffin while Judas Priest was blasting "Breakin' the Law" over the sound system tipped my weird meter.  Check please!

Anyway, college football is over for the year.  Finally.  Can't say I was surprised that Florida won the title game.   Especially after watching So. Cal take Michigan apart in the Rose bowl.  Started me to thinking that maybe the Big Ten wasn't all that.  And the bowl games sorta proved that.  Conference record was 2-5.  Hardly the dominant conference they claimed to be.  And really, after Boise State and Oklahoma, was there any point in playing anymore games?  Ever?  Talk about old school.    Game was seriously off the hook.  It was like watching "Citizen Kane" and everything after that was "Snakes on a Plane".

The votes are in.  Ripkin and Gwynn are in the Hall of Fame.  They deserved it.  McGwire is not.  There was a poll on Yahoo which asked if Mac deserved to be left out because he was a cheater and 61% said yes.  But cheated on what?  We knew he took andro (it wasn't banned then) and suspected steroids (also not banned then) so what the hell was he cheating about?  Stupid, maybe.  Bad judgment?  Time will tell.  But this smacks of the PC police imposing their opinion based on supposition and innuendo.  Maybe we should look at Babe Ruth again for being an alcoholic AND a SMOKER!!!  Mickey Mantle did a LOT of speed.  Casey Stengel was a thief.  Throw the bums out I say.  But wait, what did Big Mac really do?  Oh, yeah, hit 583 home runs and pulled baseball out of a death roll instigated by greed and selfishness.  He didn't lie to Congress.  And even if he did, who cares?  It creates personal problems for himself but has NOTHING to do with his baseball stats.  Should he be an ambassador for the game and a roll model for kids?  Two words.  Ty Cobb!!!  And that racist redneck is in.  Simple fact of life.  You can't break a rule if the rule isn't there.  And, at the time, these weren't.  Sportswriters forget their real job is to look at the baseball record, judge it against others and make a decision based on that.   Where has he been the last two years?  Out of baseball and living his life.  Not the first guy to disappear.  Remember Ted Williams?  Great hitter, turd of a human being.  Totally dropped out after his playing days.  First ballot Hall of Famer.  What about Pete Rose you say?  I guess you didn't pay attention.  Pete broke the rules.  McGwire didn't.  Does he deserve to get in?  I say yes.

And speaking of turds, Randy Johnson was traded to Arizona.  I say "Don't let the door hit you in the ass on your way out."  Watching him pitch was like trying to get back together with an old girlfriend.  You could see why you liked her in the first place but then you are immediately reminded of why you wanted her to leave.  Made me pine for Kevin Brown sometimes. 

Kudos to the Jets for a really nice season.    And memo to the Giants: YOU ARE WHAT YOUR RECORD SAYS YOU ARE!

Tiki, we hardly knew ye!

………….Till next time.

Posted by The Tank and Written by Medford Bob.

College Football | Medford Bob Says | MLB | NFL

Thursday, January 11, 2007 9:15:04 PM (Eastern Standard Time, UTC-05:00)
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You have often heard me refer to friend and co-worker Medford Bob.  Medford Bob is one of my few friends who can give Linda a run for her money in the sarcasm department.  For as much as I enjoyed hearing and writing about "Jon Stewart throws like a girl" and other Mets issues from Linda, Medford Bob yells at me whenever Randy "Keep 'Em Close" Johnson pitches.  It gets better.  After I leave work, I get 3 a.m. calls from Robert in Tampa venting about any and all Yankee games from the past 40 years.  Like I am responsible?  I am not George Steinbrenner or Brian Cashman.  I would if I could but I can't so I won't.

You should no longer wonder why I write a great deal to keep whatever little sanity I have left.  If writing could only help my hair loss or love life… 

Enough about me for now, here's the first but hopefully not the last "Medford Bob Says…"

-------------

"Medford Bob Says..."

A few thoughts on baseball..Gil Meche?  55 million dollars?  Props to KC.  Looks like they're serious about competing with the Toledo Mud Hens this year.

Is Brian Cashman just getting better or what!  It's like he's playing moneyball with a huge budget.  I like the way he has been stockpiling young pitching while solidifying the team and not panicking by overpaying mediocre free agents.  Except for a backup catcher, this team is solid.

And any Red Sox fans that think their rotation with Deemat (is that slang for something to clean your shoes on?) will outclass the Bombers are still living in fantasyland.  Barring injury (and if the Yanks, God willing, get rid of "Keep 'em close Randy") do you really want to put your rotation against Mussina, Pettite, Wang, Igawa and probably Phillip Hughes?  Yeah I know there's been talk about getting Barry Zito but he sucks against the American League East and will probably end up with the Mets as they will bid through the roof as they need him more. (will Pedro ever pitch again?  And the only people afraid of the Mets starting rotation as it stands is, the Mets.  And speaking of the Mets, all I can say is, Moises Alou?  Let my people go!  )   J.D. Drew?  Puuleeez!  Cards traded him to Atlanta who let him go as a free agent.  Guy makes Ricky Henderson and his hammy look like a WWII Marine storming Iwo Jima.  Boston fans will LOVE him.  Like they love Coco Crisp. 

But you gotta give Theo props for the moves he has made.  Sox may have finished behind Baltimore and Toronto if he hadn't stepped up.  More than an overpriced Japanese import (let's reserve judgment on Cy Young San until the third time he goes through the league and faces major leaguers who haven't had just 2 weeks of pickup games) he's made some nice moves to solidify the team.  But they are still not good enough to overcome da Bombers. (having the Sox win ONCE in 86 years made them think they actually have a chance but it is accepted in the scientific community that if you put a monkey into a room with a watch in pieces, EVENTUALLY the monkey will put it back together)  Let’s face it.  Red Sox nation is just a third world country on cheap steroids ("doesn't everyone have an arm growing out their ear?"). 

The Cubs, the Cubs the Cubs.  It's like watching a drunken uncle who hit the lottery and has no money skills.  Ted Lilly, Jason Marquis and Wade Miller.  And pray for rain.  No really.  But only on the days they're supposed to pitch.  Soriano has become the new A-Rod?  Gonna have him bat leadoff so Juan Pierre can strike out leaving him on base.

Cardinals are right now going into the spring with Chris Carpenter and 4 guys named Moe.  But Walt Jocketty will somehow figure all this out because anyone who watches the Cards knows you don't bet against Walt.  NL central looks like the weak sister again this year.And that’s great for St. Louis.  Because they're the best fans in America.  Just ask them.  They'll tell you.  Best fans in America.  It's true.  They took a poll in the old Busch Stadium.  And St. Louis came out on top.  Go figure.

I just saw Happy Feet.  It made me………………Happy.

Till next time, this is Medford Bob Says...

Introduced and posted by The Tank and Written by Medford Bob in NY.

MLB | Medford Bob Says

Wednesday, December 27, 2006 11:48:55 PM (Eastern Standard Time, UTC-05:00)
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