Losing in the Rain

I've had better ideas than heading to San Francisco on BART during an impending rainstorm, hoping to see the Giants play the Phillies in the last National League Championship Series game played in the City this season.

Karen assured me that she and the girls had no desire, in this weather, to head across San Francisco bay – without tickets - to maybe possibly see a ball game.  But that I should go, because, well, hope springs eternal, right?  I mean, I've headed to games before with my friend Andy when neither of us had a ticket – there are always scalpers.  Always.  No problem.

Of course, those games didn't have the potential to send the Orange and Black to the World Series.

Did I mention hope springs eternal?

I shouldn't even try, if I could be honest with myself for just one second.  But that's hard, the honest thing.  Like baseball fans and players, I'm ridiculously superstitious.  Take Leo, Leo who's been wearing the same Ludicra tshirt to work because the Giants have been winning since it's been on.  And so, if I were honest, I shouldn't be making this trek because my forays to postseason games have garnered awful reviews.  Karen and I went in '97, saw that stupid 3-0 loss to the Marlins.  But we did run into my Godfather and his beautiful wife Diane.  That was the best part of that night.

Torture in 2002.  We saw a World Series game, the one game the Giants lost at home.  10-4.  Stupid rally monkey.

2003, another loss to the Marlins, 3-1.

I shouldn't take my bad juju to San Francisco tonight.

The first sign of ill occurred when I spoke with "Ray" this morning.  To read his backstory, kindly visit http://drinkswithnick.blogspot.com/2010/09/his-clothes-are-loud-ray-davies.html
I asked "Ray" how he felt about the Giants' chances, and after he collected his change from Leo - Leo wearing Ludicra - "Ray" tucked his newly-bought papers under his arm, and only then did he look at me and say, all confident, I'm getting on a plane to Philly tomorrow morning at 6 a.m.  I'm getting on that plane because God hates me and because God hates you.

What "Ray" is saying is this:  I cover the Giants for Comcast.  If the Giants win tonight, no Philly trip.  But the Giants will lose tonight.  Guaranteed.  Hence, I'll be taking a trip to Philly, to continue covering these Mad Men.

"Ray," I said.  C'mon, they've got some magic going on across the bay, don't they?

God hates me, he said, and I'll be getting on a plane at an ungodly hour tomorrow.

If one were a tad bit prone to reading too much into the words of others, one might think that "Ray" was confidently predicting that the Giants would be putting their fans through torture this evening.

The next sign that things weren't going to go my way occurred when I overheard a conversation on the Fruitvale BART platform, a conversation between the four fans, all decked out in Giants regalia:  one with Timmy hair, another clowning in a Panda hat, all with tshirts sporting SF.

The guy in the Panda hat didn't have a ticket and his three friends spent the fourteen minutes we had to wait for a train taunting him, with the three waving their precious tickets at the Panda.  The gist of their taunts was that there was no way Panda was going to see the inside of AT&T Park, not on that night.

And since omens of ill travel in packs of three, the third ill omen showed itself when I got off MUNI at the corner of Third and 24 Willie Mays Plaza.  The crush of people surrounding the Park?  San Francisco will of course never get close to the numbers in New York, but tonight, you'd think the entire population was here, crowds a hundred deep and a hundred wide trying to get in, crowds overwhelming King Street, crowds overflowing from MoMo's there at Second.

Way too many in this host holding up one finger, all plaintive requests for a ticket, for entry into the biggest game the Giants have played in seven years.  Where had they (we) all come from?  If the Giants won tonight, they'd be going to the World Series for only the fourth time since they moved to the City by the Bay – fifty-two years ago.  What were these people thinking?  That woman over there, her hair dyed orange, holding a sign that read I NEED ONE TICKET CHEAP.  Or that other sign, held close to that guy's chest, that guy wearing Elvis shades – Dreams Can Come True, Give this Fan a Free Ticket!  And when I look at him, he peeks at me over his shades, he laughs and says, Hey, it's worth a shot, right?

So many people surging through that misty San Francisco night.  But everyone's trying to buy, not sell.

Lefty O'Doul's been good to me before, so I head to that bridge.  There's a promenade just before O'Doul, and I take a quick walk that way, looking for sellers.  The stadium's right next to me, a huge banner of Timmy hanging from its wall overhead.  The bay's on the other side, full of kayaks and rafts and boats – and a red car.  The car is English and small, and it putters around the kayakers.  Someone spent time and money converting that car into a boat, and the two guys tucked inside look like they're having fun.

I'm not having fun.

I head back for the bridge, and halfway across, a roar lifts from the confines of the park, deep-throated and long.  Tim Lincecum has retired the second batter in the top of the first, the game now well under way.

If I squint I can make out the big screen of the scoreboard, can see the next batter's stats as he heads to the plate. Giants fans thunder their approval.

ticketless.  The air's getting brisk, the mist is thickening, and here I am, pressing my forehead against a cold windowpane, looking in at a party I'm trying to crash.

After I cross O'Doul, I find a freaking homeless encampment at China Basin Park.  It's just a little spit of a park overlooking the channel that separates us from the ballgame.  The sweet stench of pot is heavy here.  Bunch of people on the thin stretch of grass, cold like me, one girl on a guitar singing White Rabbit, and she's trying to get Grace-Slick loud, and so as she hits When-logic-and-proportion-have-fallen-sloppy-dead, her voice is getting louder, sure, but she's not singing any more, she's just getting loud, and when Keep Your Head comes around, she's hitting those words the same way she's hitting the strings on her guitar, and the strings are going to bust Keep Your Head and her voice is going to crack Keep Your Head and the drunk guy on the slope of grass, the drunk guy Keep Your Head who's whirling whirling, he's going to face-plant soon.

Keep Your Head, and she's just screaming the words, so there I stand, with no ticket, imagining the ghost of Grace flipping me off.

I'm cold, have I said that?  And no, I don't want the soggy churro this other woman offers me.  How about a ticket? I say, and the churro lady laughs and takes her wares off towards the drunks on the hill.

There's a big parking lot right here at Third, and a guy comes out of it, walking likes he owns all of our fates, and he sees me looking at him and asks if he can hook me up.

I'm trying to put my camera under my jacket, it's getting a little wet now, and I ask the guy what he's got.

He flashes four tickets at me, 117 Lower Box, he says, right behind homeplate.  Take all the pictures you want from there.

I hold one of the tickets in my hand.  It looks real, but what do I know?  It's also got a face-value of $160.  What are you asking? I say.

And the guy, he's got his Giants cap turned halfway-wrong around his head, he looks up at me and says, For you, Boss, a thousand bucks.

Another roar from the crowd inside AT&T – from all the people having fun inside.  All the people who have tickets.

That sound good to you, Boss, the guy says as he snatches the ticket from my hand.

I want to reach out, grab the bill of his hat, and yank it frontways.  But there's a big guy behind my little guy, just shadowing him, and the big guy's staring me down, sizing me up for a loser without the cash for one of his tickets.

Roar goes the crowd.

I head back to 24 Willie Mays Plaza.  Cross the street, head up King.  Long line of folks waiting to get into Pete's Tavern.  There's a guy working the line.  His seats are cheap, only 500 per.  Nosebleed, though.

More pot smoke.

I get to MoMo's, a crush of people there watching the big screens they have setup outside.  There's a big olive-shaped heart statue on their patio, and I wish I had a martini big enough to drop it into. 

Roar goes the crowd.

I head up King, along the Embarcadero, the bay quiet and dark out to my left.  All the way to Delancey Street – and not a hint of tickets.

I walk back, all the way down to King, up to Third, past the promenade again, across O'Doul, smelling pot, hearing roars – though the roars have diminished, replaced with groans.  I do that walk across O'Doul, up to King, up to MoMo's and back again.  Where have all the tickets gone?  Who has picked them, every one?

TickTock.

Such a flood, so many people – a guy in a business suit with an orange tie yelling into his Blackberry, cool cat in a mink coat, waving a broom, a girl with long lashes, pretty in the rain, it's raining now – all of them holding up one finger.  Just one ticket, please.

Elvis still holding his sign - Give this Fan a Free Ticket! - How's that working out for you? I say.

He's got nothing for me.

Back to the corner of Third, outside Louisiana Fried Chicken.  There's a guy there with Standing Room Only tickets.  Two young women are working him hard.  $200 dollars he keeps telling them.  It's raining, they say.  $200 each, he says.  They're losing, they pout.  $200, he says.  Did I mention we dance, the tall, leggy brunette says.  Good on you, he says.  Professionally, the little blonde says, and she bats her lashes.  $200, he says again.  We're not paying $200, the brunette says.  Then you'll be standing out here in the rain with everyone else, he says.

The blonde traces a line down the front of his ratty, Guess jean-jacket, and sidles a little bit close.  Am I going to have to take you around the corner? she says.  Unruffled to the end, he just steps back, looks out at the biggest mob to be in one place in San Francisco since the first time the 49ers had a victory parade down Market Street.  And just what corner, he says, would that be?  And he heads off into the dark.

I'm kind of laughing at the irony of these professional dancers trying to haggle with this kind-of-sloppy white guy, kind-of-sloppy in his tattered jean jacket.  Usually, I'm thinking, kind-of-sloppy white guys are haggling with them as they dance professionally somewhere with a pole on the stage.

TickTock.

I buy a dog from a vendor, sleepy guy with a girlfriend sitting under his umbrella, the girlfriend trying to keep her joint dry.  What is up with all the pot?  Oh, right.  Let Timmy Smoke and all that (one Giants' star is a bit of a pothead, so all this ganja must be some token of solidarity.  Or something.)

Later, TickTock, later.

It's the seventh inning now, and I'm thinking it's time to go.  The Hi Dive probably has a seat available, that bar underneath the Bay Bridge, and it's got good juju attached to it – that's where we all went after hearing my friend Nami read from her amazing novel, Miles From Nowhere.  Which is kind of how I'm feeling now.

I think they had good scotch.  Oban?  Maybe they had Oban.

I take a last look in at the screen inside the Chicken joint there at Third, and that's when I see an associate of the Guess jean-guy with folks pressing around him.  He's holding three SRO tickets.  He catches my eye, holds up one finger.  Hundred bucks.

Is it worth a hundred bucks to be part of the party?  To possibly see the Giants clinch?

That's when I get a text from my friend Harry.  One word from him, from inside the party where he and Natasha are:

Torture.

So I fork over the cash, hustle across Third, pay my respects to the statue of Willie,

both of us cold and wet.

Right after I enter AT&T I see Fred, Fred from Alameda.  San Francisco's a world class city, but small.  You always run into people you know.  But Fred's headed the other way and he can't hear me over the crowd.  Maybe I can catch Randy.  He's got great seats – third base side.  I just have to find the souvenir stand that's next to the stairs down to him.  I always forget, is he in 125?  126?  But I do remember the stand.  I just have to get past Cerberus guarding the entrance down to him.

Hmm.  Um, it's pretty easy to sneak down to see Randy during the regular season.  During the NLCS?  Not so much.

I text Andy.  He's in Lower Box 105, row 35, seat 5.  Has been the whole game.  Bastard.  He comes up, he needs to stretch his legs SINCE HE'S BEEN SITTING IN HIS SEAT THE WHOLE GAME WHILE I ROAMED AIMLESS OUTSIDE.

He needs a drink.  They don't have agua, so he settles for a Sprite.  I get a pedestrian beer.  We bemoan the direction the game has taken since the third inning.

I wish him godspeed, let him go back to his seat.  I text Natasha.  Let her know I'm in.  She's happy, texts Awesome - we need some luck.

She doesn't know about my bad juju.

I wend through the crowd, fight for a spot on the walkway – the game down there, the bay over here. See that Red Car still puttering through the waves. I buy another beer, cause they stop selling after this inning.

Did I mention the Giants are losing to the Phillies?  Have been since the third?  An old Giants broadcaster said that he had a one minute hourglass that he brought with him to every game.  He'd flip it, and every time the sands ran out, he'd announce the score.

Clearly, I suck as an announcer.  I thought it was hard as kid, sitting in front of our tv on Sherwood Avenue, sitting there watching the game with the sound turned down, trying to announce.  I had my baseball cards spread out in front of me, stats on the back of the cards for the players on the screen.  Never enough cards, though, and by the third inning I'd have run out of things to say.  So I'll just say this:

The Giants are losing 3-2.

Sure, they scratched back a bit, but they're still looking up at that crooked number.

I make my way around the back of the park, pushing through the people.  The fans are ok tonight, but not into it as much as they were last night.  Harry will tell me later that the crowd seemed spent, that it was hard to recharge after such a smashing victory the night before.  It's like they all talked to "Ray" this morning, like they all have his dour prediction in their heads.  Sure, a few people are waving flags, the orange pompoms are shaking, but there's an undercurrent.  Unease. 

It's 8:01 when I get a text from Leo, Leo garbed with Ludicra somewhere in the Mission.  The game's not over, not just yet, but Leo's text is prophetic:

God hates Ray.

And indeed, God does hate "Ray" because the Giants will lose.  Not with a bang, but a whimper.  The final score is 4-2.  This means that "Ray" will indeed be leaving on a jet plane.  For Philly.  Tomorrow.

As we all, this multitude in orange and black, depart the park, I receive a text from Andy, wanting to know if I'm taking BART.  But then Harry and Natasha both hit me up – they drove, their car is down on Harrison, and would I like a ride?

I usually walk along the Embarcadero in the dark, past Red's, past the Hi Dive, to the Ferry Building, and then to BART.  But tonight I'll take my friends up on their offer.  We arrange to meet by the statue of Cepeda on the corner of Second and King.  Later, after we head off to Harrison, we'll pass by two guys as they put their Red Boat/Car thing onto a trailer  The same car I watched putter between kayaks.  It's got two white propellers in the back under the red of the car.

Did I mention SF was a small town at heart?

That's later.  Now I'm still in the park, heading for the ramps that'll take me down to the street, and I pass by the sign that I've passed dozens of times before, but tonight, tonight it speaks to all of us, those of us in the crowd who start chanting Saturday, Saturday, Saturday.  We believe the Giants will win on Saturday, because that's our only choice.

But the sign?  I'll sign off with the words on the sign.

Postscript:  The Giants did win on Saturday.  Natasha and Harry took pity on us for not having a tv and invited us over to watch the game.  And although it would have been nice to close the series out on Thursday, in San Francisco, Harry reminded me that it was the final-final that was important.  He quoted one of his favorite basketball players, Reggie Miller, Reggie of the Indiana Pacers.  All time three-point leader and Knicks killer, according to Harry.  Reggie Miller said, after his Pacers didn't win a series at home, but had to travel to get the job done, Mr. Miller said:

It would have been great to have closed this out in Indy, but sometimes it's more fun to go in and put your feet all over someone else's furniture.

Enough said.

New York Postcards, #1 -- The Light

There's a certain slant of light - thank you, E. Dickinson - but if we're talking about New York, not Emily's New England, that light is charged with energy different from anywhere else.

My red-eye from Oakland landed at JFK an hour before sunup.  New York wakes later than San Francisco, so the taxis were just idling for me at their dark Stand - the only time idle would enter my head over the next four days.

But the light?  That New York light?  Like an intake of breath, it fights to be let loose on the day.

The light burnishes treetops and brick building-tops in Queens as we speed along the Long Island Expressway.  That light, brightening the dark, casting the gravestones alongside the Expressway in shades of gray, light then lighter, before giving way to the fake bright fluorescent of the midtown tunnel, its tiles artificially yellow.  Speeding out of the tunnel, to the first real sight of Manhattan.  The light brighter now, of course it's brighter now.  Pricking out the buildings ahead.

Is that the top of the Empire State Building?  Catching that beautiful New York light?

The light -- the light's magic in Manhattan.  After you check your bags with the bellhop, you need to get back into that light.  The red awnings of the Cartier building, rich in the dawn -- drawn to them, then around the corner to the flags flapping on Fifth Avenue, into more light, that light making the flagpoles gleam.

A cathedral there, just there.  St. Patrick's?  Lord, is that St. Patrick's Cathedral?  Its spires soaring into the bright?


And across the street, Atlas holding the world on his shoulders in front of Rockefeller Center.  A glossy Atlas there, St. Patrick here.

When the cornerstone was laid for St. Patrick's, it was practically in the wilderness - no idea, none, of the energy that would come and surround it.  The energy -- and the noise, from cars, whistles, shouted conversations.

Patrick calls, open my door.  His light gentler inside, cooler, and as the door closes, the New York music outside is replaced by the music inside, a mass in progress.  The nave, its columns soaring like the spires soared outside.  Not many parishioners in the pews, but so many New Yorkers rushing into the cool, the relative quiet of the cathedral.  Businessmen and businesswomen, in amazing suits, police officers, construction workers, firefighters.  All rushing in through those doors but immediately slowing, slowing and dipping their fingers in the marble font of water, doing their cross, genuflecting -- bending their right knees until they touch the ground, always the right knee.  Then standing, pausing for a moment at the start of their busy New York day, before rushing back into the light.

I stand there, gaping, then drift around the pews.  The stained-glass brilliance of the light washing over me as I pass by altar after altar -- until I come upon St. Anthony.  I pause at his altar, put flame to candle, do my cross there in front of all that flickering, and think of my dad.  More than seven months now.  How could seven months have passed?

Ambling by other altars -- and I find St. Elizabeth.  There I'll set three votives alight.  For Yia Yia, for my oldest -- and for Kristina, too.  The light I've lit reminds me of all the light outside in the Manhattan morning.

Park Avenue is a magnet, drawing you forward, forward.  Taxis honk and people swarm, the air is charged, there's so much electricity everywhere I know if I rubbed my feet on the carpet inside the Waldorf and touched Karen's shoulder we'd both explode.  And there, over that highrise, what's topping that highrise?

Walk fast, like everyone else, walk fast until -- the Chrysler Building.  Just across the street.  It's the most beautiful building you've ever seen, will ever see.  Tomorrow you'll see it from the Empire State -- actually look down on it.  But this morning all you do is look up at the perfect meld of light and building as the sun strikes the chrome of the massive gargoyles overhead, sparking off them so bright you can't stare too long into the spark.  High up high in all that light are the angry eagles jutting out from the triangular sunbursts above.

But for the first time you notice other gargoyles about halfway up, huge, chrome -- just wings, you think.  Elegant, chrome wings.  Until it dawns on you -- they're radiator caps.  You know what Art Deco radiator caps look like because in the past you've tried to buy them.

You've tried, but you can't afford them.  Who knew that radiator caps and hood ornaments had entered the realm of highly-collectible?  You just thought they looked cool.

You and a bunch of other people.

And here they are on a scale you've never imagined, catching east coast light, sharpening it, polishing it to an unthinkable sheen.

New York Light.  Looking up, you'd thought you'd seen all the lustrous light Manhattan had to offer.  But you turn around, look down 42nd Street and see the southern facade of Grand Central Station and its majestic clock-face of Tiffany glass, Tiffany just radiant in the sun.

Grand Central must be as beautiful inside as any cathedral, yes?

Yes.

Again, you're stunned by the size.  The scope.  And the people -- again, the people.  You've never looked at clothes in your life, not really.  I mean, remember what Ray said?  And he was right, wasn't he?  But here, the clothes are chic -- you never knew what that word meant.  It's like hearing people use the word awesome when they've never been inspired by awe in their lives.  The shrimp at the Red Lobster can't be awesome, ok?  Sex and the City -- not awesome, can we just agree about that?  Please don't use the word until you've been good and truly awed.

But now that you've seen chic you can use chic, and here, in New York?  You're taken by the chic clothes -- boots snaking up slim hips, almost meeting the short skirt at high-thigh; men's shoes, clunky black, starched shirts, bright white -- worn by the commuters pouring into Grand Central, arriving by foot, bus, subway and train.

The outfits, you're so taken by the outfits, the clothes, until you turn around, and there it is again, that light.  Streaming through the window, raking across the terminal--

--that light.  Shining on the motes in the concourse.

But by looking up, you've paused.

Become a boulder--

--and all these commuters the current surging past.  That's when you glance down.

Your shoes.

What's with your shoes?  You've never noticed before -- they look like grey suede, nubby and rough.  They're supposed to be black leather.  How'd they get so old and worn without you even noticing?  But you notice in New York.

You leave Grand Central and immediately see a shoe-shine shop.  A woman and two men sit there, high in their leather thrones.  You take a seat next to the man reading the Post, gleaning info on Brett Favre and the the pictures he sent to a cheerleader.

Not your mother's pictures.

The boot-black says nothing to you, but he looks at your shoes, your sad, worn shoes, and he looks up at you with an are-you-shittin-me expression.  He doesn't voice it, not like the Zippo seller in Times Square, but his look is almost louder.  You tell him -- I know, I know.  Just do your best.

And he works at it as you read the Post that the guy leaves behind.  Read about the gubernatorial race -- Cuomo vs. Paladino. Paladino leveling charges that Cuomo's sexual prowess is legendary.

Hard to find any news about the your west coast Giants.

The boot-black's been working em over, your shoes, and he still doesn't say anything, but he snaps at them with his towel and with his other hand gives your shoes a matador's flourish.  They've been transformed, black leather again - smooth and supple.  And he's still not talking, but he smiles big.

Turns out the shine cost three bucks, so you pay that, but tip the matador seven - the remainder from the sawbuck you handed down, and rush back out into the light.

In that light, your shoes shine in New York like never before

.

Karen texts you around 7:30 a.m.  Wants to know how it's going.  So you text back:

Grand Central.  The Waldorf Astoria.  Cartier.  Saks Fifth Avenue.  The Chrysler Building.  Empire State.  St. Patrick's Cathedral.  Park Ave.  I mean, I've walked by all that shit, and got the best shoe shine of my life, since landing?

Karen thinks you're a rube.  And you are.  But a rube that has seen the light.

New York Postcards, #5 -- Zippos

I've gotten a little weird about Zippo lighters.  I don't travel much, but when I do, my memento is often a Zippo.  The weird part?  Since the first Zippo was made in 1933, there's always been an indicator on the bottom of the lighter showing its year of production.  Early on, patent numbers told you the when.  Since then, it's been a confusing progression of dots, slashes, roman numerals.

I know, I know.  I shouldn't be versed in this.  It's because of my dad, but you probably knew it'd go back to my dad.  When I received one of his two Zippos, back from when he smoked - Lucky Strikes -  I wanted to know the when, and discovered the key to the when was in my hand.  His had the five barrel hinge with the 2517191 patent number.  That placed it in 1953, when my dad was still in college.

I love having that lighter.

ANYWAY.  Not only do I like to take home a Zippo from my visits, I prefer it to have been manufactured in the year I made the visit.  Again - I know, I know.  But these are the things I worry about.

So we're in Times Square, about to see West Side Story in the Palace Theater, right there on Broadway.  How cool is that?  While Karen wants to grab her seat, I need a Coke.  This is Day 2, and I've been running on fumes.  Caffeine'll help.

After standing in the cattle crossing at the McDonald's on Times Square - lord, the people.  You've been to New York.  You knew about all the people.  I thought I knew.  I didn't know.

So I down my Diet, and in between the Golden Arches and the Theater is one of those tchotchke shops.  Lotta chrome, lotta glass.  Selling cameras and postcards and snow-globes (snow-globes are on the TSA's list of prohibited items.  More on that later) and mini Lady-Liberties and, of course, a revolving case full of Zippos.

Which design, though?  The one with the Empire State Building?  The Statue?  A taxi?  So many choices.  And of course, I have to check the bottom.  The year-indicator has gotten streamlined.  Since 2000, 00 on the bottom right stands for 2000, 01 for 2001 and so on.  There's a letter on the left that corresponds to the month.  A for January, etc.

I ask to see the Zippo with the Chrysler Building.  Oh, that's a sweet building.  And the guy behind the counter - little bald guy who needs a shave - opens the case and hands it to me.  I pop it out of its holder, scritch my nail across the engraving of that ridiculously beautiful art deco stunner - did I mention that the Chrysler is a sweet skyscraper?  Maybe the sweetest of all?

I look at the base of the lighter, and if you're with me - you're with me, right? - I'm looking for 10.  What I see instead is 08.

So close and yet so far.

I'm running out of time.  The Sharks and the Jets are getting ready to rumble at eight o'clock and that's just a few minutes away, so I pop the Zippo back into its holder - don't really have time to look at any of the others - and I tell the bald guy across the counter, thanks.

He looks at me like I just pissed in the punchbowl at his mother's birthday party.  Are you shittin me? he says.

Pardon? I say right back.

You're not going to buy it? he says.

No, I say.  And now I'm thinking I should really get going.  Karen's waiting for me inside the theater.  So's Tony, so's Maria.

I got it out of the case for you, he says, and now he's kind of New York mad.  I can't quite tell how serious New Yorkers are when they get like this.  I'm trying not to go all California soft and just buy the lighter.  I want a 10, ok.  I just do.

Can I ask you a question? and now the guy is tapping the Zippo against the glass case between us.  Tapping it hard.

Sure, I say.

I just got a question for you, is all.  TapTapTap.  What the fuck?

So I explain.  About Zippo.  And their dots and dashes.  And he just looks at me as I talk.

TapTapTap.

You're telling me, he says, TapTapTap, that if I look under this Zippo right here, TapTapTap, I'm going to see 08?

On the right side, yes, I say.  I hadn't explained about the letters and their relation to the months in a year and I figured this wasn't the time to introduce that particular topic so I just stopped there, at yes.

He's fidgeting, my bald guy, TapTapTap, and he tugs his collar twice, and then without looking down he pops the Zippo out of its holder.

Did I mention the guy had a pair of glasses hanging around his neck?  By a silver chain?  He takes those glasses and perches them on the end of his nose and he brings the Zippo close.

And he holds that pose for a three-count, as other customers throng, picking up shot glasses, foam Statue-of-Liberty crowns, he stands there as customers pick up snow-globes, pick them up and shake them to make the shiny flecks swirl in the water, swirl around a tiny Empire State building with an even tinier King Kong making his way to the top. 

His shoulders slump a little as he focuses even more - then he puts the Zippo down on the glass, all quiet.

You know what? he says to me.

What?

I never knew that, he says.  You're telling me this one here - and he points to a Zippo with a Yankees logo - is going to have numbers?  Maybe 07, maybe 09?  And that'll tell me what year it was made?

Yes, I say.

I never knew that, he says again.

He puts it back in its holder with a gentleness I wouldn't have ascribed to him, and I take that as my cue to skidoo.

Karen's in her seat, and she's got another Diet Coke waiting for me.  Broadway shows, they sell clear plastic cups with red lids, the name of the show also in red. Our girls will love these cups later, and I'm loving another Diet right now.  I'll score my Zippo after the show, at another shop down 47th.  When I see it, I'll know it's the one.  I mean, I ♥ New York?  That image we all know?  First used in 1977 when Times Square was still a pit?  Used to entice tourists to visit the city that never sleeps?

I know before I look that it'll have the 10 underneath.  I mean, it has to, right?  It'll have the 10 on the right, and an F on the left.  The F indicating that the lighter was made in June.

Indeed I do.

.

Who's on First?

I didn't plan on passing the sign, Oakland Tribune News, the sign above a newstand,

on my way to an airport bar late on a Thursday night.  There's an important game happening across the bay in San Francisco, and here I am in a crappy bar with faux slate surrounding good bottles of tequila.

But, hell, in the final-final?  My first trip to New York will trump listening to the game.

Besides, there's a telly right there, and one of the three guys taking up space on the stools sees me standing there and in a show of good baseball/bar etiquette, he grabs his satchel off one of the stools and gestures for me to take a seat. 

They don't have a lot of great whiskey - did I mention this is a crappy bar?  Crappy in the sense that all airport bars are crappy.  Anyway.  I'm drinking Maker's, over.  A double because why not?

The guys on either side are also headed to NYC, white dude and an Asian dude.  An hispanic dude next to him.  And me, a Greek dude.  Baseball, she is nothing if not a pleasant shore, comforting for any and all huddled masses.

The game goes well.  There's a freaky little Giant on the mound for the good guys, and he's breaking strikeout records all over the place,

until he strikes out the last bad guy, and so the good guys win.

That's about the time I break out my Moleskin notebook to jot some things down, and the placeholder I find inside is a ticket from our Spring Training game this year, Giants vs. Angels.  The bad guys prevailed that time.  But that was then, this is now.

At the store this morning, I was talking about taking the red-eye tonight, and a customer said, Where are you flying?  And I said, New York.  And he said, I'll see you tonight, then, because I'm on it too.

And when I see that guy tonight, after the good guys won, I realize he's a neighbor - flying with his wife and daughter.  So we make pleasantries, and then I get to board.  I'm the first one on the plane.  Which is a first in-and-of-itself.  And if I were superstitious, I would say that bodes well for the good guys and their chances in these playoffs.  And no, I can't tell you why my boarding first should have anything to do with the good guys finishing first, it just does, ok?  

So I sit there and nod to my baseball compatriots, the guys from the bar, as they file past.  And all I remember from the flight is the nerdy little guy showing me how to buckle my seat belt, and he says, It should be low and tight under your waist - then just pull the tongue to make it tighter.  And all I can think is, Are you fucking kidding me?  I can barely make the thing connect as it is - it ain't going any tighter.

In other news, my mistake, I realize now, was waiting for the lights to go down before I turned on my reading light.  I had a fabulous copy of a not-yet-released novel, The Oracle of Stamboul, that I was looking forward to, but when I turn on my light, the guy next to me kind of winces.  That's awful bright, he said.

I should have been in full New York mode and said, Too bad.  Instead, I went all California on him and just turned the light off.

So, New York.  I know there are two things I want to do.  Ellis Island.  See where it all started for my Papou George.  And I want to visit the Dakota, where Lennon lived.  I dunno, just seems appropriate.  Since he sorta wrote the soundtrack to so many lives, mine included, I'm thinking it's important to see, is all.

Start Spreading the News

 

People tend to be incredulous when they discover I've never been to New York.  Especially New Yorkers, right?  I assure them it's not some California vs. New York thing.  I haven't made the trip for the same reason I've never done pharmaceuticals for fun - I'm the teensiest bit worried I'd like it too much.

But - events have conspired such that, at the grand old age of 44, I'm leaving today and will wake up in that city that never sleeps.  To commemorate the trip, I mixed myself a Manhattan last night.  And after all, people have been asking me, Where can a guy get a drink around here?  Ain't this Drinks With Nick?  Where'd the drinks go ferkryingoutloud?

So - the Manhattan.  It's really the perfect cocktail - has more going on than a martini.  And there are variations, indeed, for the structure is there for you to play with.  I started with the strictures set out by my dad's fifty-year-old copy of the Old Mr. Boston De Luxe Official Bartender's Guide.  To whit:

1 Dash Bitters 

3/4 oz. Sweet Vermouth

1 1/2 oz Old Mr. Boston Whiskey

Stir well with cracked ice and strain into 3 oz. cocktail glass.  Serve with a cherry.

For bitters, I used Peychaud's - I like the New Orleans connection, and it's sweeter than Angostura. There's no Old Mr. Boston in the cupboard, so I used Michter's Bourbon.  The cherry, of course, is Luxardo.  We've talked of this, yes?  Really, get a jar and open heaven.

Mix one tonight - while I'm airborne trying to glean a Giants' update from a stewardess.

Now if I could just find a pair of vagabond shoes...

The Giants Win the Pennant!

On this date in 1951, at 3:58 p.m., with the Giants fighting to win the pennant – but losing by two runs in the bottom of the ninth – Russ Hodges delivered the most famous play-by-play in the history of baseball:

Brooklyn leads it 4-2.

Hartung down the line at third not taking any chances.

Lockman with not too big of a lead at second, but he'll be runnin like the wind if Thomson hits one.

Branca throws.

[audible sound, bat greeting ball]

There's a long drive.

It's gonna be, I believe…

THE GIANTS WIN THE PENNANT! THE GIANTS WIN THE PENNANT! THE GIANTS WIN THE PENNANT! THE GIANTS WIN THE PENNANT!

Nearly fifty years later, the San Francisco Giants opened the most beautiful ballpark in the major leagues at 24 Willie Mays Plaza.  Before the year began, my Godfather put together a group of fans to purchase season tickets.  Four seats, near the end of the third base line, just inside the foul pole.  From that vantage, we watched a lot of Barry Bonds in his prime, witnessed lots of fabulous baseball.

Just great, great seats.

That year – 2000 – was a rollercoaster.  The Giants christened their new ballpark by getting swept by the dreaded Dodgers.  But then they began steaming ahead.  In the middle of that summer, my Godfather called.  He had a conflict with one of his games – a Thursday night at the end of September.  The 21^st.  Nicky, he said, is there a chance we could switch tickets?  You guys go then, and we'll take one of your games in June?  You never know, my Nono Bill joked, they could clinch that night.

So Karen and I went, and it was electric – because the Giants had exactly that – the opportunity to clinch the West.  My godfather was dying, couldn’t believe how prophetic he had been – but he made good on the switch, so Karen and I were there, not Bill and Diane.  Before the game, Ellis Burks had received the Willie Mac Award – presented each year to the most inspirational Giant.  He accepted his plaque as Who Let the Dogs Out thundered through the park.  Burks would add to his great year by hitting a two-run homer to tie the game early.

Later in the game, with the Giants behind 6-4, Karen looked at the scoreboard and shook her head.  Are they going to lose? she said.  I was feeling awfully cocky that night, and just said, No.  No way.  Relax.  They’ll do it tonight.

Still later, there stood Ellis Burks, again at the plate, and he singled in the eighth inning, part of the rally that would see the Giants take the lead for good.  Take the lead, and the West.

When Robb Nen recorded the final out, pandemonium ensued.

Cheers, screams, more Dogs were Let Out – and lots of champagne spurted over many heads.  Amidst the spray of Cordon Rouge that doused the Giants clubhouse–

–as we outside screamed our throats hoarse, Barry Bonds yelled, We’ve had sellouts all year.  Let’s give the people out there some love.

When the players flooded back onto the field, things got even louder than they were – hard though that is to imagine because it was already plenty loud.  Burks broke from the pack and pulled a Cal Ripken, taking a victory lap, giving and receiving high-fives as he went.

Because our seats were right there, Karen and I huddled next to the field, waiting.  Burks slaps me a high-hard one, and I yell, Ellis.

And he goes, Yeah?

And I go, You rock.

And he goes, Yeah.  I do.  And he’s just smiling large the whole time.

He takes a few quick steps, slapping more hands, but then he stops and looks back at me.

But you know what? he says.

What? I say right back.

Tonight, so do y’all – and then Burks continued on his victory-lap way.

That was a fantastic night for the 40,930 fans who saw the game unfold.  Great memories for us, just like the great memories that were made a few hours ago as the Giants again took the West.

Go Giants.

They Ban Books, Don't They?

*taptaptap*

Is this on?

*tappitytap*

Check. One two three. Check.

Can you hear me? You can?  Ok, good.  Good.



Brothers and Sisters! Sisters and Brothers!  It’s been long since I last spoke to you, too long. But I am here today to spread the Word, the good Word. Can I get an Amen?

*Amen.*

I said, can I get an Amen?


*AMEN!*

Better, that’s better. Remember – you gotta be loud if you wanna do good.

I am here today to speak to you of a slithering evil. A serpent hidden in the grass. Yes, hidden. For just as the serpent hid in the garden, just as Satan deceived Eve by posing as something he was not – for would not Eve have run from Satan if he had shown himself in his full, repellent glory?

*Eve would have run, Brother!*

As would any of us, Sister King.  As would any of us.  Now, today's evil is not named Satan – we shall leave him for another time.  Today's evil is . . . Censorship.

*But Brother Nick?  This is the Land of the Free.  We've fought, and continue to fight, wars at home and abroad to maintain our Freedoms.  We don't censor.*

I hear you, Brother Kahane, I hear you. ‘Twould be nice to believe that the home of the brave was not run by cowards – but there they are. Cowards kowtowing to the liars, deceivers, and those of little minds.

But why speak of Censorship now? Banned Books Week, of course (it ends today). As you know, when Brother Nick is not preaching, he's selling books. To commemorate Banned Books Week, Brother Nick received a Manifesto by esteemed author Ellen Hopkins. You can read it here:

Ellen Hopkins/anti-censorship Manifesto

The Manifesto, all prettified, begged to be displayed. Which we did at ye olde bookshoppe. We surrounded the Manifesto with books – after wrapping the books in brown covers, their titles crudely written in black, the black scrawled across all that brown. We’d hoped the effect – all those books under wraps – would be arresting.  We hoped people would stop and stare. And they did, Brothers and Sisters, they did!

Of Mice and Men.  Lolita.  In the Night Kitchen.

Why are these books all wrapped up? they’d ask. And we’d tell them, Brothers and Sisters, we’d tell these innocent customers the truth.  Ask them to read the Hopkins Manifesto.  Some would scoff. Or stutter. Others got real quiet real fast.

The Bluest Eye.  Fahrenheit 451.  Harry Potter.

You mean, they would say, these books have been banned, like, elsewhere, right? And there, Brothers and Sisters, is when we would pause. Maybe sigh. Then gaze down at the books in their plain brown wrappers.

The Kite Runner.  Junie B. Jones.  A Wrinkle in Time.

No, we would respond. These are the books that have been challenged. These are the books that have received complaints, complaints written on parchment and delivered to civil authorities. These are the books, Brothers and Sisters, these are the books—

Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret.  The House of Spirits.  Friday Night Lights.

–these are the books under heaven that need to be removed. From libraries. From classrooms. Snatched from your hands like gold stolen from the just.

But surely, they continue – these customers who stumbled into the bookstore, seeking succor and comfort. Surely, they continue, you speak of evils from long ago? And there again, Brothers and Sisters, there again is when we look down at the books hidden in brown paper, we look down at them—

Forever.  The Giver.  The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian.

–we look down at the printed word, hidden in plain sight, and tell them the story of Stockton, Missouri.  For 'twas Stockton’s School Board that voted less than one month ago to yell ‘Get Thee Gone’ to The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian. It shall be torn asunder, they decreed. Trampled.

Ken Spurgeon, lily-livered member of the school board, was not swayed by arguments that Mr. Sherman Alexie’s book was award-winning and worthwhile. We can take the book, he said, and wrap it in those twenty awards everyone said it won and it still is wrong.

Or Rod Tucker. Let’s take Board Member Rod Tucker. Got that name? Rod Tucker. Tucker also wasn’t moved by the testimonials, by the fact that Sherman Alexie won the National Book Award for this title. The book has too much profanity to be of value, Mr. Tucker professed.

How about Mike Holzknecht? Got that name? He’s a concerned parent. Why is Mikey concerned? Why, the book describes – I shudder to write it, Brothers and Sisters, I shudder. But the book even goes so far as to describe the act of an adolescent spilling his seed upon the ground. Can you believe it?  Do you believe?

*We believe!*

Oh the shame. Poor Mikey Holzknecht is concerned for his children, frets that they would be subjected to such filth. To keep them virginal and pure, I imagine Mikey collecting his family and reading from the Good Book every night after supper.

Can I get a chapter and verse? Brothers and Sisters, can I get a chapter and verse?

*Genesis 38:6-10!*

Thank you, Sister Jenkins, thank you. Now, let me see. Genesis 38. Hmm. 6-10 you say? That would be the story of Onan, yes?

*Yes!*

Well, ok then. Onan. What does the Good Book tell us of Onan?  We are told that Onan had him a brother, Er. But Er was wicked so the Lord slew him. Thus Judah, the father of Er and Onan, worried about the long lonely nights that Er's widow would suffer, so Judah instructed Onan to go in unto his brother’s wife. So Onan did. Went on in unto his brother’s wife. But he threshed within and winnowed without – as our good Brother among the Israelites Rashi describes it – and so Onan spilled his seed upon the ground.

This of course is all described in Mikey Holzknecht’s Old Testament. As is all manner of wickedness and deceit. I wonder if Mikey has read all of the Good Book? Or if he just skims the New?  I fear if he ever does, Mikey Holzknecht will demand that the Bible be removed from his children’s classrooms, to protect them from the description of Onanism.  And whatnot.

Brothers and Sisters, I could go on. I could quote the McKullicks. Quite the pair, those two. If the husband wasn’t saying We don’t feel like it’s got proper language, not for children, then his wifey was crying how It’s sure not for kids. I sure wouldn’t want my children to read it.

And if she can stop her children from reading it, well, why not stop yours, too?

Oh, the road is long. Long and rocky.  And though your Brother Nick is weary, I could continue. Could tell you the story of my nephew. The Christmas when we purchased him the offending opus – yes, we had the temerity to buy him The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian.

Our nephew, perhaps he was not the most voracious reader. Perhaps the word had not inspired him as much as we would have hoped. But it was Christmas, and we – my wife and I – we buy books for our nieces and nephews. It is what we do. And so this book went to that nephew. And shortly thereafter, our Sister-In-Law called. Wanted to know – with a laugh in her voice – Brothers and Sisters, I do not have to say that she inquired – with laughter in her voice – whether we knew what was in the book, because the nephew had been glued to The Diary ever since he opened it.

What was in the book?  Profanity?  Yes.  The Sin of Onan?  Yes.  Did it wrangle with racism?  Indeed.

None of these matters, of course, would pique the interest of a youth of today.  Entice them to read when they are confronted, confounded, and assaulted on all sides by television, the internet, video games.

And the nephew? Our nephew?  The nephew who theretofore had not been a reader of ravenous appetite?  When next we saw him? The day after Christmas? The nephew hurtled out of his parent’s van and knocked me over with his hug. Repeating – Thank You, Thank you. That’s the best book I’ve ever read, Uncle Nick. Ever. Thank you.

And so I want to ridicule the leaders who would take the book out of my nephew’s hands. ‘Tis too easy, you say. Too easy, indeed. And after all, my nephew doesn't go to high school in Stockton, Missouri.  So why worry?

Why, indeed, worry?

As Banned Book Week ends, as I take down the Manifesto of Ms. Hopkins, let me remind you from my bully pulpit that book banning is not something that was only done in some long ago and far away. It happens now. And it shouldn't matter whether here or there.

Nor should it matter which book.  Maybe Mr. Alexie's words wouldn't touch you the way they touched our nephew.  It does not matter.  It's the taking away that matters.  The censorship.  The banning. For tomorrow, it shall be your favorite book.  Tomorrow or the day after.  I tell you this, I promise you this.  So be aware. Tell me you will be aware, Brothers and Sisters!

*We will be aware, Brother, we will be aware!*

So let it be written, so let it be done.