This was fun.

Congratulations, Leo!
Your IQ score is wicked high! (Actually there was a number.)
The test results told me, “your Intellectual Type is Visionary Philosopher.” Then they put a picture of this dude:

It continued, “This means you are highly intelligent and have a powerful mix of skills and insight that can be applied in a variety of different ways. Like Plato, your exceptional math and verbal skills make you very adept at explaining things to others — and at anticipating and predicting patterns. And that’s just some of what we know about you from your IQ results.” Then they wanted to sell me the rest, but that was enough. I’d say it’s very accurate…

This week PBS has been showing Ken Burns’ Baseball. The documentary is presented in nine “innings,” encompassing over 100 years of baseball history. Today I caught part of the 6th and 7th innings, covering the 40’s and 50’s. The 6th inning opens with the incredible season of 1941 when “Joltin” Joe DiMaggio hit in 56 straight games and Ted Williams hit .406. The film explores the game with vintage photos, old footage and interviews with players and fans.

The 7th inning presents the historic cross-town rivalry between the Brooklyn Dodgers and the New York Giants. In 1951, after the Giants erased a 13 game deficit by winning 37 of their last 45, the teams were tied and a three-game playoff would decide the National League pennant. The teams went the distance and entering the 9th of game 3 at the Polo Grounds, the Giants trailed 4-1. By the time Bobby Thompson came to the plate, it was 4-2 with 2 runners on and one out. Dodger reliever Ralph Branca got ahead on a first pitch fastball. Narrator John Chancellor then said, “Branca’s next pitch was a fastball too.”

By the time the decade ended, the clubs would continue their rivalry in California.

Speaking of rivalries, the Red Sox begin defending their world championship tonight in the Bronx. Let’s hope they’re still playing each other again in mid-October.

“Dad, why is it fifteenkey?” The simple answer is that it’s from an Uncle Tupelo song called “Fifteen Keys” from the bands last full-length recording, 1993’s Anodyne.

Anodyne was the first “alt-country” record dropped on me ten years ago by pal Jeff. As I write this, it’s chilling to think it may be ten years to the day or pretty damn close. What Jeff didn’t know is that he was handing me a life-preserver that helped save me for the next few years while adrift on a furious sea of inner-conflict and guilt. Anodyne, defined by Wikipedia as a painkiller, echoes those themes, as during the time of the recording the band was also coming apart at the uh, seams. (Note: That is so bad I refuse to edit it.)

The words of the songs in Anodyne are an enduring part of me now, and still often an effective prescription. So, Megan, that’s why it’s fifteenkey. I love you. Dad.

In addition to ten year old pictures and very liberal use of the term “curvy,” Internet dating is complicated by time and distance. Not enough and too much. Just tonight I received an email from a woman. Actually, it was a “courtesy reply,” which means you can blow someone off without actually writing a reply. This one read, “Thanks, but we live too far away from one another.”

I’m thinking I need a “teleporter” like on Star Trek. “Hey, Scotty, beam me over to “45butlook30’s” house, willya?”

Actually, in June of 2002, a team at the Australian National University managed to send a message using the same principles as the Star Trek teleporter. Now granted, I’m a little bigger than a message, but technology moves fast. They used a process called quantum entanglement, which coincidentally is just what I’m looking for.

Like any technology, this one would need a disaster recovery plan. I’ve been on several dates where I’ve wanted to be able to quickly extricate myself from the situation. This would work. I’d simply disappear. No uncomfortable chit-chat. No tab. Nothing but a sound.

Todays sunshine, warmth and disappearing snow brought me back to a happy time.

Appearing with a wanting smile and two mitts, both mine, the question was, “Dad, can I pitch some to you?” It seemed curious timing, as that morning I had begun my annual spring ritual of jogging to lose my “winter coat.” As a result, my aching legs had very little interest in the squatting position. “Yeah, sure,” I responded, and out to the street we went. The sun was bright and higher in the sky than it had been for all of that long winter when snowfall set all time records. On this day, small rivers, trickles of melting snow glistening in the sunlight, ran swift, carrying away the remains of unending winter storms. “Okay, just work on your control first,” I suggested, as the first offering sailed over my head on its way down the hill. My heavy, lifeless legs resisted the chase, but eventually carried me to the now wet, sandy ball. “Sorry Dad” was barely audible from up the street. “It’s alright,” I assured as I trudged up the hill and back into a squat. “WHAP,” the ball smacked firmly into my glove for a strike. “SKIT-WHAP,” the ball skipped low and slapped firmly into my thigh for a ball. “Sorry, Dad” again came lowly from up the street. The catch continued for awhile; the kid working on the mechanics of pitching, the old man working on leaden legs and the positive aspects of pain. Then the hurler’s throwing hand stayed in the glove too long before the ball arrived. Suddenly, the little face contorted as if every finger had been crushed. Limping toward me, I wondered why a limp was accompanying an injured finger… Anyway, after hearing just how bad it hurt and wiping away a few tears, it was back to business. To help ease the pain I advised, “It’s a good idea to wait until you catch the ball before you put the other hand in there.” The look returned indicated no amusement. The session continued. Finally, an errant pitch rolled into some bushes on the other side of the street. As I leaned down to retrive the ball, the wonderful scent of green filled my senses. The vision of fishing that ball from the bushes and smelling the season of spring brought me back years to those early spring games of catch as a youngster. Back to a time when playing catch was all that mattered. As I walked back and tossed the ball to a beautiful young lady named Jessica, I realized that at times, it’s still all that matters.

I do take requests, and this one is from my son, Kyle. He asked me to do a story about one of his favorite movies, Jaws. One of our favorite scenes is when Chief Brody (Roy Scheider) is scooping chum off the back of the boat. With the camera facing down toward the stern where the chief is working, he turns toward the bow of the “Orca” and shouts, “Hey, why don’t you come down here and chum some of this shit.” Suddenly, the massive Great White bursts up out of the water toward the Chief. He lurches back and is scared shitless.
In a classic understatement, he says, “We’re gonna need a bigger boat.” Thanks to Kyle for that great story idea.

While that was my sentiment earlier this week, today I’ve been thinking about the situation of Terri Schiavo apart from the maze of legal efforts and political exploitation. If she were the child who spent her first nights of life sleeping against your beating heart, could you just let her die? If she, as a toddler, ran into your arms each day you came home from work, could you just let her die? If that toddler broke down crying at hearing a song about a lion’s father dying, and blurted, “I don’t want you to die,” could you just let her die? If she sang like an angel and could elicit laughter with acting, could you just let her die? If there were even the slightest hope that someday medicine could light up her creative mind, could you just let her die? If she were your daughter, could you?

Other than watching the local sports teams occasionally, and the O’Reilly Factor more regularly, television isn’t too appealing. Exploitation and humiliation aren’t interesting to me, unless of course it’s of George Costanza, and that will hopefully be available forever in syndication. I met the short, beady-eyed actor once in an elevator at the Mandalay Bay in Las Vegas. He said he was “up for once” in the casino and went on his way. Like “the Meathead,” “Hawkeye Pierce,” and “Andy Sippowitz,” some actors achieve immortality through one character. Jason Alexander is forever “George.”

I’ve always been a fan of Denis Leary and his acerbic, biting comedy. It turns out he’s also a very good actor. In Rescue Me on FX, Leary plays Tommy Gavin, a New York City firefighter who battles inner demons that rage more furiously than the flames he’s paid to quell. Recently, I caught the last two episodes of season one late night after being woken by my own unsettled psyche. Rescue Me was on opposite much of the baseball playoffs, so unfortunately it was missed first time around. The writing is smart and sharp, and delivered at a snappy pace by a gritty cast.

In one of the most powerful TV segments I’ve ever seen, Tommy comes home to find that his wife took their kids and moved out. He completely loses it and starts destroying the house with a bat, all while “Fell On Bad Days” by Rubyhorse blares on the soundtrack. The scene fades out with Tommy standing in the middle of the destroyed living room, throwing back a bottle of vodka like it was cold water after a long firefight. The Season One DVD comes out in August.

…that’s where the answers have gone.” Those words were written and sung by Jay Farrar with his band Son Volt. At times in life, answers seem completely elusive, like true love, common courtesy and “the integrity of the game.” When it comes to matters of the heart, the search is further clouded by love or hate, fear, protective detachment, or a flesh and blood sense of responsibility. Accepting the fact there are sometimes no right answers, the decision making process is often comprised of asking and answering many questions. Am I enabling? Will he/she die if I don’t act? How will any decision affect others? If a serious negative affect(s) is possible or even probable, is it worth the risk? What else is being put at risk? What is my responsibility? How will any decision affect me? Is this just part of a “slow, sad end?”

Pain and pleasure. Shoveling snow and it’s a bright, sunny day, leaving no doubt that baseballs and golf balls will soon replace the snow filling our sky. During the evening of the storm, I snapped a few pictures, not knowing if the light would be sufficient. It was a quiet and beautiful scene. Once downloaded, I played around a bit with Microsoft Photo Editor to see if I could clean them up a bit. The color photo is raw, not altered at all, yet it seems to depict warmth on what was a cold winter night.

In contrast, this photo was “balanced” using the Autobalance feature, and then converted to monochrome. It appears cold, barren and lifeless.

We see the world through our own lenses. Even clear lenses can sometimes become foggy, unbalanced, or even splattered with rain. Experience helps us know when to clean the lens. Emotions can completely obscure the view or blur our perception to seeing things that aren’t really there. In that case, it’s good to have a friend with the patience help you see by wiping your lens clean.