Gratuitous Dread Presence

Fishing with Pat

My wife changed jobs in 2009. In her old position, she readily worked 7pm-3am Monday-Friday in exchange for having weekends off. This worked out okay except on holidays—the schedule would never deviate. In her new position, however, she can be home for most major holidays.

So, after putting the baby to bed and opening the first bottle of champagne, my wife switched over to the current incantation of the Dick Clark special. I actually read an interview with Mr. Clark a few days ago which was kind of refreshing … I knew he had issues, but reading him was much clearer. Of course, then the only problem is that Old Dick Clark in writing says the same things he would on television.

When he came on, the closed captioning feature we have on our set came in handy. I’m guessing there was a script involved.

But the highpoint was my observation that Dick seemed like another celebrity who’s really out of it: Pat Robertson. He’s like some huge chainsaw sculpture in the middle of the 700 Club. His cohost and reporters all do their best to put out a quality journalistic piece, but then wait patiently while Pat rambles on some kind of current events tangent. I guess this is where the whole ducks thing came from. (An example of this can be found here: Warning NSFW)

“What do you mean?” My wife asked.

“Oh, they’ll finish a report on Palestine, and then Pat will say ‘The problem they have over there is that they don’t eat enough Chilean Sea Bass. It’s really important they do so, and that they cook it in olive oil, not butter, because that’s more healthy for their hearts.’”

As a result, we began discussing Chilean Sea Bass. My wife didn’t believe that they used to be called Patagonian Toothfish, but a quick internet search revealed it to be true. She also seemed amazed that the average fish was 20 years old, and thought that anything that old would be gamey.  I have no idea if the last item is correct, and don’t really plan to find out.

We then began to wonder where Patagonian came from … and found it’s a region in Argentina. Argentina doesn’t even have a Pacific presence, and Patagonia is an interior region. So I’m calling bullshit on this whole ‘Chilean Sea Bass’ name game.

I’ve also decided that 2010 is going to be the year of the fish.

Hurls before swine

So last night, I found myself shivering. Tucking under the blankets further, I was surprised to find that I was a bit nautious. Sure enough, after one dry run, I ended up sharing the contents of my stomach with my toilet. I was really glad that I had spent some time cleaning a few days ago.

After returning to bed, I gave my wife a rundown of my symptoms …. And it seems like I have caught a case of H1N1. A few minutes later, we heard my son get up. Because the dog was in the way, he ended up horking over the dog as opposed to the toilet.

So we’re both sick now. Actually, it’s not as bad as the flu I had last year. That one had this way of making you feel better, only to make you pay for it when you exerted yourself later in the afternoon. I ended up missing several days of work. As I am just a temp, it meant days without income for me.

Of course, the temp agency sent me a guideline for calling in sick a few weeks ago. It talked about the importance of not infecting other coworkers, and also reiterated that I was to call in to both my assignment supervisor and the temp agency if I was going to be out sick.

One of my coworkers, who was a regular employee, was complaining about people who were ‘thoughtless’ because they reported to work ill. I had to explain to her that it often wasn’t a matter of choice—and that for many of us, a missed day of work meant no money. She was still a bit defensive about it, even when I pointed out that not working for several days meant that some temps wouldn’t be able to pay rent.

I read in a article a few weeks ago that something like 55 percent of America’s workforce did not have any paid time off for illness. This fact was cited as a possible reason that the H1N1 flu was going to spread so quickly. I think they’re right. Society puts too many demands upon us, and it’s hard to even take a few days for recuperation.

If I don’t feel well on Monday, I won’t be going to work. I’m fortunate enough to be able to still pay my bills, even if I do miss a couple of days of work. I am glad, though, that I’m sick on a weekend, and not a weekday.

Maine picture of the day--Monday

Guess it's time to head home.

Maine picture of the day--Sunday

Marrec Camp at Great Pond

Maine picture of the day--Saturday

Chute Island Boathose

Maine picture of the day--Friday

North Bay, Great Pond

Maine picture of the day--Thursday

West side of Chute Island, Great Pond

Maine picture of the day--Wednesday

Golden Pond Lane, Rome

Maine picture of the day--Tuesday

Francesca Buxton at Jamaca Point, Great Pond

Home Runs

I stand at home plate, ready to swing. The pitcher studies me closely, his eyes picking out where he wants the ball to go. He pitches, and as the ball comes in, I start my swing. My arms stretch out, and whack: the ball sales over the center fielder's head. As the fielder chases down the ball, I quickly race around the bases. By the time I reach home, I'm out of breath.

'Home run' is one of those wonderful English phrases that has a meaning much greater then the sum of the words. As an event in a sport, it's significance is grater. In football, one has touchdowns, and you can't get more then 1 in a single play. Soccer and hockey all focus on scoring a goal, also just one point. Basketball has the term 'slam dunk', which comes close to the meaning of home run, but has subtle differences in the context of meaning. A slam dunk is something you do in your opponent's face, but still is just (usually) one field goal.

A home run, however, has the ability to score up to four runs in a single play. In professional baseball, when a player hits the ball over the fence, he's able to casually trot around the bases. It's a big moment, and always helpful to the team. In the recreational leagues I've played in, how far you hit the ball is a lot more important—there are no fences. A fast fielder with a good arm can easily cut you down at the plate if you trotted around the bases.

And I'm one of those players who hits home runs. I currently play 16 inch softball in an extremely informal league. I've played there for over 20 years now. I had to quit early this year, and barely played a half season—and this year is the first for me in this league where I haven't hit multiple home runs. Makes me feel a bit old.

It wasn't this season, though, when I realized that I took hitting home runs for granted. I played baseball for years, and other then a year or so in little league, I was able to regularly clobber the ball. At Vershire, I was one of the students that had brought a glove, and spent the springtime playing games in the field next to the dump. In college, I played in college in intramurals, and even took a class for softball.

But most of my home runs came after I joined the Screwballs. During my first game, when I felt like I was being auditioned, I concentrated on getting hits. I did swing away once, but wasn't able to get it far enough. It didn't matter—I went on to hit 6 or so home runs that season, the most on our team that year.

I can't tell you how I hit a home run. I really don't remember. As the pitch comes in, there's a moment where it seems that I lose sight of the ball. It doesn't matter, I've started my swing, and I just know that the ball will be in the right place. I complete my swing and start running. I usually steal a glance on my way to first to see how far the ball's gone, but it's hard to look closely and run.

Over the years, my ability to hit home runs in the league has been dampened by my reputation. When I approach the plate, the outfielders back up a respectable distance. It's kind of satisfying to watch them treat me so, it's even more satisfying when I still hit it over their heads. One team in particular that has suffered many times has a center fielder who is able to make spectacular catches over his shoulder. He's caught me this way once this season, and twice last season.

One of my favorite home runs came in a championship game. It was top of the last inning, and our team was down by one run. I managed to hit a solo home run to right field, which gave us the only run that inning. Unfortunately, my pitching wasn't as good, and we lost the game—but my homer kept us in a bit longer.

The problem, though, in life, is that the home runs we all hit aren't so easily defined. It's not a simple crack of the bat, and a casual trot while lapping up applause from the assembled crowd. Home runs come in many different forms, and often you don't even know that it's happened until you realize that there are spectators, and they're cheering. Or sometimes you are the only spectator.