O Albert! My Albert! Your time with the team is done;
Cards Nation will weather your defection, the prize we sought not won;
The park is near, the cries I hear, the people all disgusted,
Disappointed in The Machine, El Hombre we must miss:
But O heart! heart! heart!
bleeding drops of Cardinals red,
While the on-deck circle is bare,
5 no more is said.
O Albert! My Albert! rise up and hear the jeers;
Rise up, for you the banner's flung, Stan's harmonica goes still;
For you, bouquets and ribboned wreathes, for you the stands a-crowding;
For you they'll call, the swaying masses; their eager faces spurning;
Here Albert! dear hitter!
This cap fits not your head
A bad dream: the on-deck circle is bare, 5 no more is said.
My Albert does not answer, his lips are pursed and still;
My Hombre does not feel my wrath, he has no pulse nor will;
Clydesdales are stabled safe and sound, 11th victory lap long done;
To Junior League your fearful trip, no pennant win will come;
Exult, Anaheim! And ring the Angel's bells!
But I with mournful dread,
Look at the on-deck circle,
Where 5 no more is said.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
A drying well for ink-stained wretches like myself, OR, the "Buy a Darn Newspaper Before it's Too Late" Project
Time marches ever onward, but in what direction? Onward to this Brave New World, where bits and bytes equal cash and cachet, and the physical realm has been replaced by the digital cloud?
Is it news anymore that media outlets are shedding jobs? Like the annual stagnation of the Chicago Cubs, the erosion of jobs in journalism continues unabated, the technological waves lashing and lapping at an ever-dwindling shore.
Like the drowning man watching a rope of salvation recede into the horizon, I've watched from afar with the sense of resigned detachment, that some day the same fate would afflict me.
So far, it has not, and for that I am thankful. But as I read the latest story of a media empire crumbling into decay (www.stltoday.com/business/local/article_344cb82c-ce99-11e0-8ca1-0019bb30f31a.html), I can't help but wonder when this will befall all of us veritable ink-stained wretches.
How long before the "hard copy" versions of newspapers are chopped for good? Reasons given will be many, with many calling it one of environmental friendliness, others leveling honestly that it is not all about going green, rather saving green.
That fateful hour approaches more quickly every day, with each Kindle and iPad shipped to stores, and as each App is downloaded.
So, do yourself a favor, and find an outlet for a newspaper, a gas station, perhaps (those still exist, don't they, since they haven't figured out a way to download fuel, well, unless you count electricity). Anyway, tomorrow, or this weekend, or before it's too late, go to a gas station and buy a newspaper. Plunk down one of those worthless dead presidents (sorry George, we really do love yah!) and buy a transportable snapshot of the world.
Feel the pulpy texture in your hands. Wash off the ink that accumulates from lingering on the Op-Ed page as you contemplate ideas put forth in a column by someone who ticks you off.
Clip a coupon or advertisement to serve as a visual reminder of the people who really support their local newspaper, the moms and pops (and the big guys) who pour their hard-earned $$$s into trying to reach an erudite, educated local customer.
Read all about your most recent local community meeting, be it a city council or school board, and learn what happened without having to go to the time and trouble of actually, you know, showing up for it. After all, a reporter was sent there to cover the gathering -- surely it's worth $1 just for the privilege of skipping it.
Perhaps you will be distracted by a fly while thinking about that opinion column. Go ahead and fold the newspaper while the fly dive-bombs your head.
Can your Kindle do that?
Take a swing and smack the fly.
Is there an App for that?
That is just one of the many tangential benefits to newspaper ownership. Everyone should have the pleasure of experiencing these sorts of thrills, so today, by the power vested in myself (D.C., I believe), I have declared Thursday, Sept. 1, National Buy a Darn Newspaper Before It's Too Late Day. Will you participate?
Set aside the screen for a second (OK, after you've finished reading this; you're almost through!), and consider this:
There surely are psychiatric studies underway or that have already been published exploring the ever-widening digital gap between whatever generation the current one is being called and those of us who of an age, ahem, where we can no longer be trusted.
Would you deprive a young child the joy of killing flies with yesterday's sports scores and a half-filled out crossword puzzle? Would you rip from the hands of a wee lad the one tool of violence he or she can legally possess?
And, if nothing else, think about America's animal community: birds and fish everywhere are counting on you.
So, on Sept. 1, buy a newspaper. You'll be glad you did.
Is it news anymore that media outlets are shedding jobs? Like the annual stagnation of the Chicago Cubs, the erosion of jobs in journalism continues unabated, the technological waves lashing and lapping at an ever-dwindling shore.
Like the drowning man watching a rope of salvation recede into the horizon, I've watched from afar with the sense of resigned detachment, that some day the same fate would afflict me.
So far, it has not, and for that I am thankful. But as I read the latest story of a media empire crumbling into decay (www.stltoday.com/business/local/article_344cb82c-ce99-11e0-8ca1-0019bb30f31a.html), I can't help but wonder when this will befall all of us veritable ink-stained wretches.
How long before the "hard copy" versions of newspapers are chopped for good? Reasons given will be many, with many calling it one of environmental friendliness, others leveling honestly that it is not all about going green, rather saving green.
That fateful hour approaches more quickly every day, with each Kindle and iPad shipped to stores, and as each App is downloaded.
So, do yourself a favor, and find an outlet for a newspaper, a gas station, perhaps (those still exist, don't they, since they haven't figured out a way to download fuel, well, unless you count electricity). Anyway, tomorrow, or this weekend, or before it's too late, go to a gas station and buy a newspaper. Plunk down one of those worthless dead presidents (sorry George, we really do love yah!) and buy a transportable snapshot of the world.
Feel the pulpy texture in your hands. Wash off the ink that accumulates from lingering on the Op-Ed page as you contemplate ideas put forth in a column by someone who ticks you off.
Clip a coupon or advertisement to serve as a visual reminder of the people who really support their local newspaper, the moms and pops (and the big guys) who pour their hard-earned $$$s into trying to reach an erudite, educated local customer.
Read all about your most recent local community meeting, be it a city council or school board, and learn what happened without having to go to the time and trouble of actually, you know, showing up for it. After all, a reporter was sent there to cover the gathering -- surely it's worth $1 just for the privilege of skipping it.
Perhaps you will be distracted by a fly while thinking about that opinion column. Go ahead and fold the newspaper while the fly dive-bombs your head.
Can your Kindle do that?
Take a swing and smack the fly.
Is there an App for that?
That is just one of the many tangential benefits to newspaper ownership. Everyone should have the pleasure of experiencing these sorts of thrills, so today, by the power vested in myself (D.C., I believe), I have declared Thursday, Sept. 1, National Buy a Darn Newspaper Before It's Too Late Day. Will you participate?
Set aside the screen for a second (OK, after you've finished reading this; you're almost through!), and consider this:
There surely are psychiatric studies underway or that have already been published exploring the ever-widening digital gap between whatever generation the current one is being called and those of us who of an age, ahem, where we can no longer be trusted.
Would you deprive a young child the joy of killing flies with yesterday's sports scores and a half-filled out crossword puzzle? Would you rip from the hands of a wee lad the one tool of violence he or she can legally possess?
And, if nothing else, think about America's animal community: birds and fish everywhere are counting on you.
So, on Sept. 1, buy a newspaper. You'll be glad you did.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
A new bridge to the "island"
There's a new bridge to "the island," so today on a trip home, I had to try it out.
"The island" isn't really an island at all. It is the area of land across a small creek from my parent's house, with a much larger creek interrupting the "island" from the large hill beyond it. Trees created the rest of the border defining the land we called "the island," separating it from a large swath of field.
The island, creeks and hills around are where I spent many hours of my childhood, climbing up in a tree house made by my brother, riding bikes, building forts, and clambering through the water, looking for signs of life in the tiny pools of water cut off from the rest of the stream.
During the summer, I'd tend to a tiny garden in the adjacent field, or pick raspberries along the edge of that field, or play baseball with my brother. I'd also blaze trails through the weeds with my mini-bike, carving an outline of the field at 35 miles per hour. In the fall, walnut and hickory trees provided a bounty if I chose to harvest what was there for the taking, racing with the squirrels to pick the crop before they could carry it away. It was a place to get lost, to separate from the world, so in that sense, it truly was an island, an oasis.
During my recent visit, the island resembled little of the place I knew in my memories, the paths to the creek taken over by Mother Nature as she reclaims what has always been hers. The tree house has been long gone, a casualty to 15 years of rot that necessitated its removal, lest it entice a new generation of explorer who would find an unstable, unsafe hideaway.
The biggest change, of course, happened more than a decade ago, when the owners of much of that adjoining land -- which contained the field, the hill and much of the large creek -- sold the land to a developer to make homes.
The field where I once harvested peppers and tomatoes and green beans hasn't been broken by till since the Clinton administration. Four-foot tall grasses provide cover for insects and rodents, and this late spring play host to the chorus of periodical cicadas that has emerged for its massive birth ritual.
The sound of 10 million cicadas -- give or take, I stopped counting -- couldn't drown out the memory of my reaction years ago when the land was sold, and how I retaliated. Just a day before my 19th birthday, I learned that the land had been sold. I was devastated to know that it would be carved up and made into housing sites.
The creek would be bridged, altering the stream forever. Paths that provided the perfect trails for walking most of the year, or sledding in the winter, would be turned into roads. The woods were no longer ours. Never mind that they never were ours; the owners had so kindly allowed us to roam them and use the field for a garden for nearly 20 years, but the increasing age of the six sisters forced their hand. They had to sell, the sooner the better.
When the developer began his work, I looked away; I couldn't bear to see what was happening to "my" woods and "my" creek. After the first phase was complete, I couldn't help but be curious, so I wandered over. And that's when I acted out.
Fliers advertising the new sites for homes were an easy target, and in my anger, I snatched a small stack of them from the rack enclosure, intent on keeping people from moving in. It was a small -- OK, very small -- silent protest that made no perceptible difference, but I couldn't stop myself, on at least three occasions. Most times I left a few, so as not to make it obvious that all were disappearing much too quickly for explanation. They were there for taking, and that's what I did.
Time marched on, and my meager efforts at sabotage failed to affect much change. More than 10 years later, there are still just a handful of homes up on that hill. The woods and creek are irreversably changed, but that happened regardless of my silent protest.
I guess I always understood that it all (the sale, the houses) was necessary, but even today I remain ambivalent about the whole episode. But that's what I thought of today as I walked across the new bridge to the "island."
"The island" isn't really an island at all. It is the area of land across a small creek from my parent's house, with a much larger creek interrupting the "island" from the large hill beyond it. Trees created the rest of the border defining the land we called "the island," separating it from a large swath of field.
The island, creeks and hills around are where I spent many hours of my childhood, climbing up in a tree house made by my brother, riding bikes, building forts, and clambering through the water, looking for signs of life in the tiny pools of water cut off from the rest of the stream.
During the summer, I'd tend to a tiny garden in the adjacent field, or pick raspberries along the edge of that field, or play baseball with my brother. I'd also blaze trails through the weeds with my mini-bike, carving an outline of the field at 35 miles per hour. In the fall, walnut and hickory trees provided a bounty if I chose to harvest what was there for the taking, racing with the squirrels to pick the crop before they could carry it away. It was a place to get lost, to separate from the world, so in that sense, it truly was an island, an oasis.
During my recent visit, the island resembled little of the place I knew in my memories, the paths to the creek taken over by Mother Nature as she reclaims what has always been hers. The tree house has been long gone, a casualty to 15 years of rot that necessitated its removal, lest it entice a new generation of explorer who would find an unstable, unsafe hideaway.
The biggest change, of course, happened more than a decade ago, when the owners of much of that adjoining land -- which contained the field, the hill and much of the large creek -- sold the land to a developer to make homes.
The field where I once harvested peppers and tomatoes and green beans hasn't been broken by till since the Clinton administration. Four-foot tall grasses provide cover for insects and rodents, and this late spring play host to the chorus of periodical cicadas that has emerged for its massive birth ritual.
The sound of 10 million cicadas -- give or take, I stopped counting -- couldn't drown out the memory of my reaction years ago when the land was sold, and how I retaliated. Just a day before my 19th birthday, I learned that the land had been sold. I was devastated to know that it would be carved up and made into housing sites.
The creek would be bridged, altering the stream forever. Paths that provided the perfect trails for walking most of the year, or sledding in the winter, would be turned into roads. The woods were no longer ours. Never mind that they never were ours; the owners had so kindly allowed us to roam them and use the field for a garden for nearly 20 years, but the increasing age of the six sisters forced their hand. They had to sell, the sooner the better.
When the developer began his work, I looked away; I couldn't bear to see what was happening to "my" woods and "my" creek. After the first phase was complete, I couldn't help but be curious, so I wandered over. And that's when I acted out.
Fliers advertising the new sites for homes were an easy target, and in my anger, I snatched a small stack of them from the rack enclosure, intent on keeping people from moving in. It was a small -- OK, very small -- silent protest that made no perceptible difference, but I couldn't stop myself, on at least three occasions. Most times I left a few, so as not to make it obvious that all were disappearing much too quickly for explanation. They were there for taking, and that's what I did.
Time marched on, and my meager efforts at sabotage failed to affect much change. More than 10 years later, there are still just a handful of homes up on that hill. The woods and creek are irreversably changed, but that happened regardless of my silent protest.
I guess I always understood that it all (the sale, the houses) was necessary, but even today I remain ambivalent about the whole episode. But that's what I thought of today as I walked across the new bridge to the "island."
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