Baseball '09, Volume IX: Remote From Hawaii Edition

The last live game I attended, back in June, I accidentally noted that Barry Zito was throwing a no-hitter through six innings, which of course ruined the whole thing. Tim Lincecum has come close in a couple of starts this year, including a no-hit-through-seven-innings effort on Thursday, July 9th.

There is something magical about no-hitters. That notion of mastery, defense over offense, one pitcher with help from the defense doing exactly what they are supposed to do for nine innings and 27 batters, which is a lot harder than it sounds like it should be, because the offense is always trying to do what they are supposed to do, i.e., preventing the pitcher from succeeding at what he is trying to do. Usually when two opposing forces meet, there is a little bit of give and take, a little bit of destructive interference going both directions.

I've never considered the possibility of a Giants no-hitter. It has never happened while I have been alive. It seems like one of those magical realms that I'm too pessimistic to believe the Giants can reach.

Then Saturday night, we turned on the TV in our hotel in Waikoloa, and Jonathan Sanchez, relegated from the starting rotation three weeks ago because of pitching struggles, only starting due to an injury to Randy Johnson, pitching in front of his father, had thrown a no-hitter.

I love this game. This season, irrationally perhaps, is really getting me excited. The Giants are now being mentioned as wild-card contenders, against all expectations. This no-hitter, the first of the year, in which Sanchez walked no one and overcame a Juan Uribe error that was the only blemish in an otherwise-perfect game, seems to bring a little bit of charm and fantasy into the air.

The season is now half over. Where do we go from here?

Of course, after that bit of perfection, the pessimist in me doesn't want to think of there being nowhere to go but down.

Hawaii Blue, Part Two: Rescuing a Plastic Camera

In old Hawaiian culture, there were certain laws, or kapu, that governed the functioning of society, the violation of which was a capital offense. Condemned Hawaiians had one chance: escape to a place of refuge, such as Pu'uhonua o Honaunau, south of Kona. If they made it, they could be absolved and re-enter society. Imagine that sort of dash for survival, pursued by the people who, stories hold it, beat Captain James Cook to death in the water of Kealakakua Bay.

So to be fair, the culture we overthrew at the behest of sugar farmers wasn't entirely pacific in any sense but the geographical.

The picture above is this place of refuge, lovely white sand, coconut trees, thick walls of a royal residence, remnants of a fish pond, a cove where green sea turtles--honu--will swim or crawl ashore: we did see a fast sideways ripple in the water, and then a small black head poking up curiously.

Here is a view from the sanctuary out into the bay:



Speaking of creatures in the water, not to mention a fear of death, there is a small outcrop of lava rock just around a curve of the shore from the sanctuary, just out of frame in this picture. This outcrop is called "Two Step" for a launching point for divers and snorklers, so called for one particular point where the rocks have been worn into two shelves on different levels that make a gradual transition into the depths.

Here there be fish. And big waves. And rocks. And here I would snorkel for the first time. Did I mention the big waves and the big rocks?

I am not a strong swimmer: if I were to participate in a triathlon--assuming I completed it, and you know what they say about assuming--it would look similar to the Evolution of Man, as in the length of time required for completion.

I was pretty calm about it, right up until we started walking over the hot black rock toward the water, at which point, I probably got a good understanding of what those condemned Hawaiians must have been feeling before they reached the sanctuary themselves. The waves looked much bigger. I remembered just how deep the water actually was out there--over my head in every sense. To the left, a fierce gush of water swept in and out of a stony gap, and I could just see myself haplessly flapping my way in that very wrong direction. When it comes to doing physical activity, if there is a chance to do the right thing or to do a very wrong thing, with me, it is a bit of a toss-up which path I'll choose.

Oh, also, I was responsible for holding on to the disposable underwater camera, simply because I had a pocket in my swimsuit. I just knew I was going to lose it.

So I let Marina go in first, and then I let a few other people go in first, while I paid thorough attention to getting my rented snorkel-mask untwisted. I couldn't well snorkel with a twisted band of plastic on my head.

I nearly chickened out, but that would be kind of lame for a romantic vacation in Hawaii, so I eventually lowered myself into the gentle sloshing of the water on the lower shelf, fit the flippers onto my feet, feeling how tight they were, sealed the mask over my eyes and nose, noted the Darth Vader-esque sensation of breathing through the mouthpiece and snorkel, and then before I could think any more about it, launched forward into the cool water.

As I paddled my way through the rising and falling waves to where Marina was treading water, salt water filled my mouth. I spit it out, cleansed the snorkel, and kept going. I repeated the salt water process, then kept going. I plunged my head into the water and looked down . . .

And wow.

Yellow tangs were the most prominent, but there were sundry other tropical fish, the most beautiful of which were Moorish Idols, with long white pennants streaming behind them. Sea urchins clinging to many rocks. Coral in magnificent colors and shapes.

And that was when I realized that I was floating on top of the water, easily buoyed up by the salt water, staring down through clear water at this world below. It didn't strike me here, but later in the trip, snorkeling at Kealakakula Bay near the Captain Cook Monument, I had this weird sense of the surreal, having to remind myself these were real live fish there, not a screen saver on a computer. It was also at Kealakakula that I floated above the edge of a coral shelf, and found myself staring down a long slope into empty blue far below, where light could not reach. That was amazing.

Snorkeling was something I never thought I could do, and then all of a sudden, here I was doing it. I've loved the ocean since I was a kid, but I have always been a little frightened of it, even as I've been drawn to it; when I was in Wales, I would spend hours at the shore, idly daydreaming about walking out into the water and continuing to walk indefinitely.

As time went along, I was able to relax and drift; we took pictures with the camera underwater, saw amazing fish and splashed around in a free world. The fish were not bothered by the presence of snorklers at Two Step; they carried on their business as if we were not there.

That was when I realized the camera was not in my pocket anymore.

I looked around, couldn't see it under water, not that there would be much I could do if it was gone. Then I surfaced, and there it was, floating two feet away from me, a Kodak kayak, apparently. Just like me, it floated much more easily than I had expected.

We snorkeled for an hour, I would say, and then dried off on the rocks, sitting and looking out at the waves, listening to a woman nearby saying how she had seen a giant "Aloha" spelled out in concrete bricks on a sandy space 'way over there,' and that a sea turtle had been hanging out in that vicinity. The first day of snorkeling was such a success that we came back the next day, and I swam directly to the irregularly shaped patch of light blue water where "Aloha" was to be found. No turtle, though.

We snorkeled throughout the week, at various locations around the island. We saw puffer fish, an eel, a crown-of-thorns starfish, a barracuda--must have been young, about a yard and a half in length, and typically of barracudas in the area, not aggressive unless provoked--and the reef triggerfish, the state fish of Hawaii, among with many other fish I have not yet been able to identify. It was seriously as good an experience as everyone told me it would be.

I would take the plunge again in a heartbeat.

Hawaii Blue: Part One, Arrival And Orange Juice

The last ten days, Marina and I were circumnavigating the Big Island of Hawaii, conquering my fear of the dark ocean, snorkeling with yellow tangs, eels, and barracudas; overlooking a strange and alien plane, the caldera at the peak of Kilauea, with steam hissing from myriad vents around the vast crater, the source of sulfuric vapors or 'vog', volcanic smog; crossing a lava field on a dark and rainy night to view the vents at Kalapana--site of a town destroyed by lava as recently as 1990.

I could write about any of those things to kick off my description of the trip, but instead, I'm going to write about orange juice.

The pace of my life leading up to vacation was a frenzy of wrapping up work, preparing for the trip, wondering what big changes would happen when. So to find a moment on the plane of pure, speculative peace and contentment was wonderful. It was a bit surprising that it came with a Minute Maid label, but such is life. There we were, 300 of us packed into a metal tube being propelled tens of thousands of feet above the vast blue and wind-capped surface of the Pacific Ocean, empty and rippled and unending, heading to Hawaii, the land where Captain Cook died and King Kamehameha invited his chief rival to a sacrificial ceremony dedicating a new holy site, not specifying for just what role his rival was RSVPing, the land where American sugar growers decided that Hawaiian sovereignty was bad for business, and I was savoring the cold sweetness of the orange juice, sloshing it around in my mouth, holding onto each sip for a few seconds longer than necessary.

It tasted like the best fruit juice I had ever had.

Approaching Honolulu Airport on Oahu, I saw an island of low-lying land suddenly interrupted by tall green mountains jutting abruptly as if from nowhere. The picture at the top is looking through a terminal window there. I saw the water transition from royal blue through cerulean to aquamarine before breaking on rocks in white intensity.

Flying on from Honolulu to Kona on the Big Island on a small inter-island plane reached by walking across a tarmac like a K-Mart parking lot, I was surprised to see on the other intervening islands a lot of brown and red, dryer than my notion of the islands. Each notion, each image, seemed to stick in my memory like that taste of juice. Which makes sense, because on such long flights--five hours for the first leg--you can only read for so long, and then you have no choice but to focus on the details to stave off boredom-induced insanity, although the latter would be a better option than watching some film starring Zac Efron.

On the descent into Kona, I saw the surf breaking on white sand beaches with rustic shacks, a genuine hint of blue paradise in all the travel-agent-brochure glory, and I could see the shadows that hinted of coral reefs and coral heads, and I wondered what was under the water. And then just like that, we were surrounded by fossilized lava, like another planet, chunks and spidery threads of dead lava bordering the runway in Kona, an airport made up of several small, connected huts with faux-thatched roofs.

Marina had arrived the day before, and picked me up in a rental car. We drove south along Ali'i Road (The Road of Kings, or something like that), admiring the profusion of tropical flowers, bougainvilleas, hibiscus, and their ilk, and I had a sincere, non-cliche, jaw dropping moment as we passed a small cove of white sand, black rock, palm trees and crashing, ethereal surf. The first four nights of my stay in Hawaii would be at Ka'awa Loa Plantation, the coastal view from which can be seen here:



Greg and Michael, the friendly couple who own and run this guest house, offered refreshments on the lanai, or deck.

And this is where my prior ranking of fruit juices was totally turned upside down by a mango juice to convert atheists, served with a pineapple upside-down cake to corrupt popes. You can see just how relaxed I was already by the purple of the prose I came up with.

This marked the closing hours of the first day in Hawaii, and we sat on the deck and looked out over the water. Given how appreciative I had been that the various aircrafts had stayed out of all that water, it might be kind of ironic that the next morning, we would be hurling ourselves into the teeth of that same ocean. But that's what we call a cliffhanger, or a tease.

Baseball '08, Volume VIII: Father's Day Edition

Ball one, the first pitch of the game, and the world collapses in ruin, 42,000 fans raining down hatred and despair on the shoulders of Barry Zito, the $126 million dollar man, who at times has given the impression that he thinks he is being paid per run and walk surrendered.

For the non-baseball fans out there, he isn't.

It has reached the point, fairly or unfairly--okay, mostly unfairly--that Zito's every pitch is scrutinized, every ball considered proof of his failure as a pitcher. Each pitch that isn't a perfect strike draws the ire of the fans wearing the Zito Sucks pins.

When he walks the first two Rangers batters he faced on Sunday afternoon, the crowd lets out a collective groan around us, figuring that there's the ball game right there. It felt like he was pitching too fast, like he wasn't settling down between pitches, but just going right into the next pitch wide of the mark.

It's a beautiful day, other than the pitching. I had walked from the Ferry Building along the Embarcadero to the ballpark, enjoying the fresh air and the views of the bay, on my way to meet Vaughn.

Then all of a sudden, I realize it is through six innings, and Barry Zito has yet to give up a hit, and the Giants lead 2-0 when Aaron Rowand tripled and scored on a wild throw from Elvis Andrus, the Rangers young prodigy of a shortstop, that let both Rowand and Renteria score. "Holy shit," I say to Vaughn. We discuss the protocol, and come to the consensus that the superstition is just that team itself can't mention the no-hit possibility to the pitcher, for fear of jinxing it. Fans can talk about it all they want. At the end of the sixth inning, Zito makes a nice fielding play to preserve his no-hitter, and he walked off the field to the roaring approval of his loyal fans.

Then in the 7th, Andruw Jones hits a two run home run to ruin everything.

But in the bottom of the 7th, Aaron Rowand makes a key baserunning effort, going from first to third on a single by Renteria to shallow right, and eventually scores on Randy Winn's single.

Baseball is often decided by small details. Rowand hustled all the way to third base. Ian Kinsler of the Rangers made a poor baserunning decision and got doubled off first on a flyout. Elvis Andrus couldn't decide where to throw on Randy Winn's bloop hit in the third, resulting in both runners being safe, and both would eventually score.

It's also decided by players like Zito finding a groove, battling through the first two walks, and pitching a great game to secure a 3-2 win. Great way to spend a Father's Day!

More Than Meets The Eye? Barely.

I'm going to assume that with Transformers 2: Even More Robotic Action--not the real title--premiering tomorrow, it is fairly safe to write about Michael Bay's first movie without spoiling too much, but just in case, you have been warned.

Where did the impulse to watch the movie come from? Presumably from my childhood, when I was absolutely fascinated with the Transformers, and to a lesser extent, the cheap knock-offs known as the GoBots. Cars and trains getting into accidents? Uncool. Cars and trains transforming into giant robots with guns and blowing everything up? Cool.

Maybe it was Sutro Tower In San Francisco, which totally looks like it ought to be a Transformer.

Or maybe it was the summer blockbuster fever combined with the San Francisco atmosphere that makes watching movies a good thing to do on foggy, wet Sunday afternoons. Revenge of the Fallen trailers are everywhere, and I think I want to watch it, just because. It's one of those 'just because' movies, like X-Men Origins: Wolverine as opposed to Star Trek. But this is another instance like Harry Potter; if you want to watch or read a sequel, you have to read what came before--it's like the 11th Commandment, or something like that.

So I rented Transformers the other night to take advantage of a special promotion where we have a week of unlimited movie rentals for a relatively small price. For a movie like this, it is the perfect scenario.

It was definitely entertaining enough, with some hints of mythology and lots of special effects. Childhood toys brought to life and fighting each other and blowing things up. Would have been worth seeing in the theater. But there were problems, too, which I think, to the discerning eye, will establish why the movie didn't win an Oscar (as far as I know):

1) Where the hell was Megatron? When I was a kid, it was Optimus Prime versus Megatron. In this movie, Megatron spends the first 75% of the movie as a giant ice cube, only to come out in time for the big showdown, a 'machina ex machina' as it were; the story should have been about the Decepticons versus the Autobots, not a whiny teenager in love with Megan Fox. It's supposed to be fiction, after all;

2) Not enough screen time for Tom Lenk--Andrew from Buffy The Vampire Slayer. He was an analyst brought in by the military to figure out the source of a cyber attack. I was thrilled to see him for a few minutes, and then he disappeared. This was part of a larger problem, where there were simply way too many characters introduced and then left to dry like a towel on a clothesline, with no real depth--Lenk, Josh Duhamel, that one guy, Jon Voight, that girl analyst, Bernie Mac; it just got too distracting trying to keep up with them all.

A part of that might be my problem, because I kept getting distracted and looking away from time to time, so maybe I missed some character development, but I think that my distraction, like a backhanded compliment, would be a backhanded excuse for this character clutter;

which leads us to 3) it was way too hard to tell which Transformer was doing what to whom and when during the battle scenes. Totally lost track of them, and it wasn't until I read the Wikipedia article later that I realized that Starscream got away. Sequel, anyone?

The Transformers never really came to life, not much. Their personalities seemed like cliched action one-liners grafted on to hunks of metal and guns.

Maybe, though, I'm just being bitter because it was live-action, not the cartoon that I remember from when I was five or six. Maybe I should have rented the cartoon movie too.

Maybe I'll rent that one tomorrow, because the Transformers ARE a lot of fun.

Baseball '09, Volume Whatever: Three Days of the Horsehide, Part II

TUESDAY, JUNE 9TH: Giants versus Diamondbacks. KNBR AM Radio.

"Oh no, here we go again," is a phrase I've said too often over the years when following the Giants, partly because I'm a melodramatic pessimist when it comes to sports, but also because the Giants, time and time again, have "oh no, there they've gone again."

In the second inning of the Giants-Diamondbacks game, after Juan Uribe--nephew of 80's Giants stalwart Jose Uribe--knocked a home run--and is there any radio call more exciting than a home run, specifically for your team?--Matt Cain promptly surrendered two runs on a homer and a collection of hits. Matt Cain is more than able as a pitcher, but has suffered for years with no run support; he had been off to a great start this year, finally getting some help, and entering this game, he was 7-1. It would be a little ironic if the wheels finally came off his control when there was offense behind him.

I shut off the radio and went to do laundry.

When I came back, though I turned the radio back on. Not necessarily because I'm getting better about quitting when my team is struggling, but because I'm addicted to this stuff.

The Giants were down 4-2. Cain had surrendered another homer. Bleh.

But then in the 5th, the Giants scored three runs, highlighted by an error on Justin Upton and a home run by Pablo Sandoval. And then, oddly for the Giants, they decided that scoring multiple runs was so much fun that they might as well do it again in the 6th, this time with the aid of a couple of wild pitches from Arizona's pitcher. All of a sudden, it was 8-4 Giants, and my evening suddenly felt a lot more relaxing. Rhythms of baseball on the radio shift when your team is winning big.

At the start of the year, I saw a lot of miscues and mistakes on the part of the Giants; it was refreshing to see those from the beneficiary's standpoint. The Giants added one more insurance run in the ninth, again thanks in part to a defensive lapse, but otherwise, that's how the score stood, a one-sided victory on the radio becoming a soothing bedtime story.

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 10TH: Oakland versus Minnesota, Oakland-Alameda Coliseum.

After work, Vaughn and I met at Powell Street BART Station, tocatch a Fremont-bound train to the East Bay. When I went to the Oakland-Boston game in April, the train was stuffed full of commuters and fans, almost painfully so. This time was much more peaceful.

The train is mostly underground, of course, but for the trip to the Coliseum it is above ground for the West Oakland Station and between Lake Merritt and the Coliseum stop, taking in the Fruitvale stop where Oscar Grant was shot and killed by a BART police officer. Fruitvale offers a panorama of a flat section of the city, somewhat decrepit, and worse by reputation, fairly or not. West Oakland offers a view of the shipyards and the freeways, parking lots for semi-trucks, and a distant view of downtown offices. But that is the sort of industrial view I have assembled of Oakland, and that impression lends itself as well to the Coliseum, for better or for worse.

The crowd flowed down from the platform, through the exit gates, and towards the elevated walkway that would carry us over to the stadium itself. A jazz musician in a green coat and sunglasses was playing a lively version of Take Me Out To The Ballgame, and then it modulated into something vaguely different. It took me a moment to place that he was playing Somewhere Over The Rainbow.

Crossing the bridge, which is a giant concrete slab bordered by high chain-link fences that bend in at the top, always makes me think of prison. Some guys are standing in the flood of people, asking "Anyone selling tickets? Tickets? Anyone selling?" Five yards farther on we pass some different guys asking, "Anyone need a ticket?" We think about pointing out that they should talk to that first group of guys.

Sights and sounds from the game, in list format:

1) Never pitch to Joe Mauer. Just don't do it. He's batting over .400, singled in the first after two outs--only to be thrown out at third advancing on Morneau's follow up single, thanks to a great play by Rajai Davis, who is blossoming in the East Bay. So when he came up with a runner on third and first base open, two outs in the top of the fourth, and works the count to three balls and one strike, I think, Don't give him anything to hit. Just walk him. Then again, they don't pay me to make these decisions. Dallas Braden pitched to Joe Mauer, who rapped it smoothly to center field.

2) Double plays are heartbreakers. After giving up two runs in the top of the fourth inning, Oakland rallied with back-to-back singles from Davis and Jack Hannahan, Davis hustling all the way to third. But then Orlando grounded into a double play that wiped out Hannahan. Davis scored, but that double play killed the rally, and that is emotionally deflating.

3) Matt Holliday and Kurt Suzuki whacked back to back doubles, and Rajai Davis added an RBI single, and the A's were back in the game . . .

4) and then the bullpen came in and promptly went to hell, Michael Wuertz giving up a home run to the first batter and then closer Andrew Bailey conceding a triple and two wild pitches among a barrage of Minnesota offense in the ninth that broke Oakland's spirit . . .

5) but at least the hot chocolate was excellent this time, none of that cup of watery tripe I had last time, that felt like half of it must have spilled before I ever bought it.

And of course, the giant pretzel was sensational as always.

Baseball '09, Volume Whatever: Three Days of the Horsehide, Part One

The season continues, another live game racked up in Oakland, TV and radio filling in the gaps in the jigsaw puzzle. The borders have been established; you know how the teams have begun, you know how'll they'll finish--not in the World Series, I can tell you that--and all that remains is to fill in the middle.

Last week was a media historian's delight, as in the span (Denard Span of the Twins"?) of three days and three games, June 8th through the 10th, I retraced the evolution of baseball as spectator sport, in reverse order, with TV on Monday, radio on Tuesday, and a live game on Wednesday.

So I'm going to randomly write about three games in a row, hoping this framework makes it all hang together brilliantly.

JUNE 8TH: Minnesota versus Oakland. Cable TV

Last summer was the first major league game Vaughn and I attended together, a massacre in Oakland. Losing a game is one thing, but your team losing to your best friend's team is just not right, especially when it was 13-3 or something like that, when your team didn't even show up. You can forgive anything except your friend's team winning, which can make for some awkward conversations.

Last Monday night, I decided to try it again.

Vaughn and I met at his apartment to watch the opener of the Oakland--Minnesota series, Vaughn mixing up Sombreros, which I had never heard of before, but which are White Russians without Vodka, which seemed very strange to me in theory, kind of like baseball without bats. Which, to be fair, has been my impression of how the Giants have played far too often over the last couple of years, so that shows what I know.

The Giants are and have always been my number one team. The black and orange of their jerseys and the posters I had as a child seemed vibrant as music. But Oakland, even if I sometimes overlook them, there is something musical about their colors as well. Their green and gold, so distinctive, seem like spring, bright and brilliant. It sometimes reminds me of the land of Oz--more on that later, just remember that I thought of that metaphor on Monday.

More than a week after the telecast, the thing I remember the most was pitcher Josh Outman's gold socks worn high. He pitched well, marred only by a wild fourth inning in which he gave up three runs.

The fate of baseball games so often hinge on the response to a big inning by one team. Minnesota's young pitcher had pitched strong ball for the first three innings, and then his team built him a solid lead. Maybe he was a little rusty after the extended inning, after sitting on the bench for a while, but he got out rhythm, walking Matt Holliday, Jason Giambi, and then hitting Aaron Cunningham in the head with a wild pitch--Cunningham was fine, though would leave the next inning. Jack Hannahan then cleared the bases with a double to center field.

The time to respond then fell to Josh Outman. The top of the fifth was frightening to behold, as the Twins' All-American boy, catcher Joe Mauer, and their All-Canadian boy, Justin Morneau, were batting second and third. Joe Mauer has one of the sweetest swings I have ever seen, and is batting well over .400, looking to pose perhaps a genuine threat to the .400 threshold for the whole season. And Justin Morneau is always dangerous. Outman lived up to his name, though, and put them down in order. Jack Cust homered in the bottom of the fifth, and that was pretty much the ball game.

That's part of the psychological complexity of baseball; the game hinged on how each team responded to its own success. The Twins gave the momentum right back; Oakland held on to it once they had it.

Nuances of momentum, clutch hits, double plays that succeed or fail, these are among the many novelesque qualities of the game.

Coming next, Tuesday, the Giants on the radio!

Baseball '09: Intermission For Reflection

So before the baseball season started, I set in motion a plan to watch one baseball game live, every month of the season, April through September, with October an afterthought, as the regular season barely touches that month and the playoffs seeming a dim possibility, not only in terms of Oakland or San Francisco's chances of qualifying, but also in terms of my chances of affording a playoff ticket.

Three months down, and I'm on track so far. In April I saw Oakland host Boston, in a chilly night that went to extra innings, forcing me to miss the end, which injected a sense of foreboding into this whole project of one game a month, if I couldn't even finish the first game. But then I also went to AT & T Park to see the Giants fall to the Diamondbacks on a beautiful sunny day. In May, I exploited work's free tickets to see the Giants put together a solid, satisfying-in-every-way victory over Atlanta. June I was slightly concerned about, until I bought tickets to a Giants-Rangers game for Sunday the 21st, and then Vaughn generously provided me a ticket to tonight's Oakland-Minnesota game. More on that game in a post tomorrow or Friday, concerning a trilogy of baseball experiences this week.

So, July, August, September. These stand in the way of crafting some sort of narrative by themed experience. You wouldn't think it would be too difficult, but July is looming as problematic, at least in terms of the Giants' schedule. Their first homestand of July coincides with the trip to Hawaii. They play at home again in the final week of the month, but the Friday night game is the night before Marina's birthday, and I wouldn't want to miss whatever celebration was planned. (Italics for the benefit of Marina or any of her friends who might be reading this).

This may require returning again to Oakland in July. I have my reservations about the Coliseum, and the Giants would be my first choice as a general rule, but some sacrifices are necessary for the greater good. I thought briefly about whether or not I should retroactively modify the terms of the project, as having a couple of extra games in hand might take all the pressure off; but no, there will be no backsliding. There's no backsliding in baseball.

Who am I kidding? I love watching the A's play. Baseball is baseball in any stadium. Plus, the beer and pretzels are cheaper over in the East Bay.

Interestingly, from such an apparently-trivial project, I am learning on a fundamental level how much I enjoy writing about sports. Most people can write more profoundly than I can on politics or religion, though I enjoy writing about those as well. Most people can write at least as well I can on relationships and introspection. And whil I wouldn't claim any superiority in my sports writing, I feel a pure satisfaction from writing about sports that I don't always feel about my other writing. Sports excite me, plain and simple, and provide a suitable framework.

One thing I'm considering is whether to create a separate blog, just for sports, just to create something more focused, because isn't that the path to finding a voice?

The Girl In The Fishtank, And Other Awkward Moments: A Concert Review

1931, San Francisco at the end of the Prohibition Era. Agostino Giuntoli looks around, and decides what the city needs is a naked woman on top of a muscular fish. Thus was born Bimbo's 365 Club, complete with white porcelain statue of Dolfina.

It's nestled at the edge of North Beach, near the confluence of Chestnut and Columbus and Jones Streets, among the hills and valleys of the steep section of San Francisco. (Years ago, in Missoula, in a conversation on campus, Vaughn told a girl we knew "San Francisco was built on a hill, you know," to which she replied, in incomprehensible fashion, "YOU were built on a hill." It was bizarre, but really funny).

Bimbo's is classy, red carpeting everywhere and red curtains, 1930's ambience extending to the multiple bars throughout the establishment, solid, ornate bars backed by artwork of naked women and goldfish. Marina bought me a fedora a couple months back, and it fit in perfectly with the bartenders in black-tie formal wear.

This classiness extended all the way to the bathroom, where it became confusing instead. There was a well-liveried black man standing just inside the bathroom door, bringing to mind instantly the opening scene of Mad Men, with Don Draper talking to the waiter at the bar. It was also mildly creepy. He was just standing there, pretending to be invisible except when it was time to point out the stacks of paper towels. Although I think I heard him muttering to himself once or twice. Unless he was wearing a Bluetooth headset, of course.

Was he for real? Was this his job, or was it just a hobby? There was a small basket on the counter with a few neatly propped-up dollar bills displayed to catch the eye.

If you need further proof that a tradition can be based on no good reason whatsoever, this is it. What part of that age brought us to such decadence that we needed a Vanna White for the hand-drying paradigm?

"There are your handtowels, sir."

"Where? You mean that pile right there that I saw when I walked in?"

"Yes sir."

"Gosh, thanks! Here's a dollar for your trouble, my good man."

And then there's that whole underlying premise of servitude, which, well, is truly fucked up. Does anyone want to be reminded of slavery and racism after two beers? I just wanted to go to the bathroom, for god's sake.

He pointed out the paper towels against my will when I accidentally made eye contact. Did that entitle him to a dollar?

Nah. I was still debating this question as I left, but guilt-trips aside, I had another beer and some french fries instead. I mean, sure, if that's his job, fine, but he didn't really provide a service other than to puzzle me, and that I can get for free elsewhere. I'll declare right here and now, on behalf of frugal bathroom-goers everywhere, stepping out of the context of the club paradigm, and the upscale bathroom etiquette world, and you might as well be tipping someone for pointing out that the sky is up there.

The evening then transitioned from the stuffy world of bathroom attendants and the sense of luxury and veneer that entails to the very democratic nature of a rock concert. We watched the Brooklyn trio Au Revoir Simone, one of those hipster San Francisco concerts featuring up and coming bands that have reached that stage of having professional CDs and cult followings in big cities.

My first impression was that this was Feist in triplicate. Nothing that followed dispelled that notion, which is not a bad thing. They had that semi-angelic air of innocence, yet there was the subtle sense that these were angels who liked to have a good time over a glass of wine--they were the first band I've seen drink both water and wine on-stage--and perhaps make a cutting remark or two. There was a vaguely nerdy-yet-intellectual air to them that reminded me of most of the girls I was infatuated with in college, those nice girls who could have all been named Sarah or Sara and who wore nice sweaters, wore nice glasses, could dissect James Joyce and the questions of feminism like neurosurgeons, and who had a vaguely intimidating yet totally attractive intellectual power that seemed to be vectoring to some definite future in academia. The sort of girls I could talk to in class, but with whom I had no idea how to bring about a discussion of nude artwork involving statues of fish, for instance.

The music was fun, the band played with the buzzing energy of a hive of bees, and the hipster crowd showed signs of dancing, though I'm told that could be considered unhip. All in all, a magical evening in San Francisco. Bimbo would have been proud.

Oh, The Humanity; or, An Unexpected Link Between South Texas and PETA

Saturday mornings, over lattes and bagels and cinnamon buns and the newspaper, we like to listen to "Wait Wait, Don't Tell Me", the NPR news-quiz show which frequently reports anecdotes that highlight people being entertainingly weird, which is a nicer way of calling them bats**t crazy.

Perhaps I'm not being fair. Bats**t is not crazy, but a natural product of a normal bodily function to expel waste. It is perfectly sane compared to the following two examples I heard today:

1) In Kleburg County, Texas--of course it would be Texas--in 1997, some guy got the county to approve and the voters to pass a resolution encouraging replacing 'hello' with 'heaveno'.

I don't know if further commentary is necessary. When you look at the guy's website, he compares himself with Chaucer, Shakespeare, and Edison.

Perhaps people are just really, really bored in Texas, or maybe they are looking for a random, ridiculous hook for the tourism industry.

This actually seems to be getting a lot of coverage on the message boards. I can't help but wonder if this is some sort of hoax.

There are even people coming forward to dispute the guy's claim of coining the phrase. Apparently, if they saw a car wreck, they would want to join in the fun, just for the attention.

2) Apparently PETA has a problem with Pike's Place Fish Market's tradition of flinging fish. In protesting a demonstration to be given at a veterinarian's convention, PETA says the tradition by which workers at the market move fish from the displays to the counter is disrespectful.

PETA is defending the rights of fish . . . that are dead.

Don't get me wrong; 95% of the time I am in accord with PETA's campaigns. I was appalled as anyone by Michael Vick, and I do not want to see him reinstated to the NFL. But sometimes, I think PETA puts blinders on, and they go beyond the pale, making unfortunate claims that damage their credibility.

"Killing animals so you can toss their bodies around for amusement is just twisted," said a senior campaigner for PETA in an article in the LA Times. True, but . . . these are fish we're talking about. They were not killed just to be tossed around for amusement. They were killed to be sold at market. They were sold at market to be eaten as food. Grizzly bears do it. Wolves do it.

Is there an element of showmanship to the fish-tossing in the market? Absolutely. It's a cultural thing, too. It's something that excites people. There is an element of entertainment, yes, but PETA, please, don't be ridiculous. Pick and wage your battles a little more rationally.

Okay, so maybe it is closer to 87% of the time that I am supportive of PETA.

Oh, the humanity of it all.

It is kind of funny, though, too.