TWO FOR TUESDAY - RADIO

Sitting here thinking that, well, it's Tuesday, what am I supposed to be doing?  Then it hit me, like a shoe smacked upside my head.  It's Tuesday - I should have put up a Two for Tuesday post on my blog called Bonehead.  Oops.

You see I actually got a job a few weeks ago, and I've been, well, busy.  Seriously, it's been great - I'm actually back in real radio - at a real radio station, doing real radio things.  I gave it a shot doing my own thing and that was fun - but while my own thing certainly afforded me great freedom and lots of time to work on the old blog thing here - it also afforded me less burgers and beers.  So I went back to radio.

But I did make a promise to keep up with my blog and my community service requirements due to that nasty incident back on '04.

Look - not all of my posts are going to be winners.  Some are gonna downright suck - but I will try to be consistent in posting so that I appear current (even though my haircut is not).

So - here's a simple theme for this weeks Tuesday thought - radio.  Duh.  Did you ever notice just how many songs there have been that have radio in the title?  Dozens, hundreds, thousands probably.  Ever wonder why?  Simple - to get a leg up on getting airplay on the....you guessed it....radio!  If there's a song that talks about radio it just sounds a little catchier when you're listening to it on the radio.  So it's bound to stand out just enough top garner a few extra spins and hopefully drive a few more sales for the almighty record company gods - who are currently in the process of trying to piss on the hands that feed them by charging radio operators a "royalty" tax on top of the thousands that are already poured into the coffers of the major licensing agencies by the radio stations that are playing the music that drives the sales of the singles and albums that help keep even the most talent starved artists, and their record company flunkies in cocaine and designer vodka.

Don't get me started - I really don't have the time right now - so here are two great songs that have something to do with radio.

I promised Don a posting including the great Elvis Costello - so I'm more than happy to oblige - I love the early Elvis, but pretty much anything he's touched has showcased his great talent.

Then speaking about great - the ultimate genius who even in death never has gotten the recognition I think he deserved - here's Mohammed's Radio from 1975.  Any chance I can find to include something from Warren Zevon I'm usually going to take...

 There's plenty to choose from for Thursday - see you then!

 

OLDER

 

Just this past Saturday – Bonehead aged even more – right before your eyes.  Can’t say I feel much more than a day over 47, but let’s face it…the passing of the years have not been kind to old Bone.  I’m all drawn and pale and have killed off more brain cells than I probably had to begin with. 

So today I thought I’d stretch these whittled old bones and type out some of the more common phrases that I’ll have to get used to uttering now that I’m older than fuck.

Here’s a few random quotes I’ll soon perfectly work into my daily banter with my box of broken dreams… 

I just finished a Geritol Smoothie and registered online for my AARP Card! 

Time for Welk.

I can’t miss my stories.

Have you seen my sans-a-belt slacks? 

Get off my lawn!!

 

He looked so natural.

Judge Judy is over – time for supper.

That Julie Andrews kid still can sing! 

I should have tried this creamed corn shit years ago! 

That’s right; I want two bath-tubs installed on the deck…what’s the big deal? 

Remember; don’t drink from the glass on the nightstand.

Have you seen my new Buick? 

Yup – it’s an RV! 

Wait, I have a hard candy in here somewhere… 

What?

Would you make me a cup of tea, I’m chilly. 

 

Back in my day, when you went to the movies you’d see Michael Keaton could actually get work. 

Pull My Finger 

Hi, Wilford Brimley told me to call… 

Sure, let me just throw on my dungarees and tennis shoes… 

Shut the damn door 

It’s time for my pill 

It was the style at the time 

It’s Old Spice fuckface, not old people smell...

You going to Sears? Pick me up some new slippers…

Ok, you probably get the point, I’m not getting any younger and I need to be in tune with the rest of my generation and be prepared to converse in their world.  I need to make some changes and start acting my advanced age.

Those parties that extended well past late night with some of the world’s most influential individuals.  Those drug-fueled rages against the machine. Those crazy days and nights spent hang-gliding with Bob Barker.  Those spontaneous decisions made while blind drunk on demon rum.  Those horrific looking pair of shoes worn without even caring what anyone else thought of them.

All of these things all must go. 

I’m staring down the path of senior living – hiking up my pants and opting for the early bird special.  No time for these childish pursuits.  It’s time I really started to enjoy Jay Leno as an entertainer.

 

Yes.  This definitely is an option. 

Yup. 

Or…I could simply look back at the calendar staring me down and shout very loudly my opposition.  Time is an illusion, a man-made composition that exists only in perception and not reality.  I know that, so then of course it only goes to reason that age is simply a factor of our flawed view of an actuality.  So too then is the reality of an age – we are as old as we imagine ourselves to be.  Though on the outside, we appear to age to others (with the possible exception of Bob Costas) on the inside we are of our own age perception.

Fortunately, for you dear reader my own perception of self is timeless, so you’re stuck with me until the end of time.  If there was to be an end to something that doesn’t actually exist.

Somewhere there may be found a shred of good advice in the old adage that sometimes it’s better not to over indulge in your own birthday cake.  Perhaps someday I’ll follow that advice.  Until then, I’ll feel and act as though I was only …..

     

WHERE EVIL COOKS

There was a tragic period this past January here in Giddyland.  Seems Cablevision and Scribbs Network had a contractual dispute and on January 1st – The Food Network and HGTV were pulled from our service.  There was much bickering, mudslinging and blame tossed about as to who was at fault, but most people didn’t give a shit.  Hundreds of thousands of Long Islanders were without their favorite shows featuring other people cooking. 

The Food Network is just sort of that place we seem to land on when nothing on the other 940 channels suits our fancy.  My wife is much more into the shows than I am, often trying out the recipes, including adding all of the ingredients for a particular dish into small glass bowls before dumping them into the pot, thereby increasing the daily volume of dishes that need to be washed.  Since our deal typically is, she cooks I clean up this particular habit has a direct effect on the amount of time my clean up chores will take.

Truth is, I can just as easily sit my lazy ass on the couch and watch the programs too.  I find them somewhat relaxing actually.  Something about watching someone else cook while you simply sit back and stare that just helps melt the stresses of the day away. 

Except for one particular celebrity chef. 

Giada De Laurentiis scares the shit out of me.

Seriously.  I mean sure, she’s a beautiful woman, and she seems like she can whip up a pretty tasty meal, but the fact that she’s always smiling worries me.  Frightens me actually.  I mean, it’s nice to smile, but even the most mundane kitchen tasks make Giada stretch out a toothy grin bright enough to blind the sun.

Think I’m insane?  Take five minutes and watch one of her shows – she’s on all the time and cooking some obscure Tuscan style plate that doesn’t look at all like spaghetti and meat sauce.  Here’s a typical scenario. 

She’s in the kitchen preparing some sort of Italian chicken.  She’s got her hands shoved up the ass of the decapitated poultry and she’s scooping out the entrails into a nice ceramic bowl.  She tells a quick story of how this reminds her of caring for her sick Uncle Victrolio as a child in Rome.  Then she flashes a huge goofy grin.

Next thing you know, she’s mixing some garlic, crème fresh, sea salt and lemon wedges into the bowl of innards creating a toxic mixture that could melt the paint off a Buick.  It probably smells like Mario Batali’s ass but there’s Giada smiling like a crazy loon.  Oh, and God fuckin forbid if she actually eats something she’s just made.  Watch her toss a meat-like substance stuffed into a puff pastry into her mouth and she adds orgasmic moaning to the blazing wide smile.

Then there’s those shows where she’s feeding her friends.  They’re usually sitting around a table inexplicably placed in a mosquito infested field far out of the earshot of potential witnesses.  The group looks ready to piss their pants in fear while Giada smiles and serves them a slimy insect like delicacy and a plate of gruel with bread soaked in skunk urine.  She’s imploring them to eat and mesmerizing them with her constant flashing of those pearly whites.  There’s an abundance of wine endlessly pouring, with the occasional roofie no doubt slipped into the odd glass or two.  Her guests drink deeply from their glasses hoping that eventually the sweet grip of inebriation takes them to their personal happy place where they might escape the hold of Giada’s constant smile. 

Do I think that the Food Network has placed Giada on our TV’s in an evil plot to destroy the world as we know it?  No.

Is it possible for one person to so thoroughly enjoy each and every meal they cook, even though it often includes bastard spices like Sweet Basil and Ground Paprika?  You wouldn’t think so. 

Can Giada actually be a mutant alien sent down to over-emphasize every Italian phrase she sprinkles into her dialog? Probably not, although growing up in my Italian family most everyone tended to over-emphasize some warm and fuzzy phrases such as “che cazzo stai dicendo testa di merda?” Or, “affanculo!”

Look, there’s nothing wrong with smiling, it’s just that those that do it incessantly frighten me.

Like an evil laughing clown, their smile belies the evil that lies just beneath the surface.  You see Giada seems to be pretty handy with a knife, and I worry that one of these days someone is going to get filleted.  I’m confident either Rachel Ray or Bobby Flay could take Giada in a good old fashioned knife fight, but if she cornered poor old Paula Dean in the back corner of a bar, Paula would be half blind on Hurricanes and be no match for the demonic Italian chef.

Will we just sit back and wait for tragedy?  Or can she be stopped now before people are killed, and innocent lunch time ravioli’s are burnt?  I’d lend a hand, but like I said, Giada scares the crap out of me – I’m not getting involved.

 

AND A THIRD FOR THURSDAY - FAIL

Happy Thursday! You know what that means - I'm mailing it in by posting a video I've swiped from somewhere else and trying to offer my own Boneheaded insight into it.

This weeks theme is Fail - actually for me, most every week the theme is fail - so this week I'm really cheesing out.

Here's legendary director Orson Welles trying to do a Paul Masson wine commercial.  Judging from his high level of intoxication and his enormous girth, he's probably consumed a small vineyard prior to filming this commercial.

Funny thing is - I remember this commercial (without the slurring) airing when I was a kid - and the high end classy image the wine was trying to project.  As I got a little older and learned that Paul Masson wines were basically all swill that tasted like fat ass Orson had stomped the damn grapes himself, I wasn't too surprised when I first came across these outtakes.

Check out the couple sitting with the gi-normous Welles - holding their place in obvious fear that if they were to snicker or complain ol' Orson would swallow them whole. 

Rosebud indeed.

TWO FOR TUESDAY - FAIL

It took me a few weeks, but I realized that I never actually added anything to my "Two for Tuesday" features titles that would give anyone searching the archives a clue as to what they might be two things about.  I didn't follow it up on the And A Third for Thursdays either.  

I do however realize that nobody really gives a shit - since nobody ever looks into the archives.  After all what good is old Bone news.  Not that I write anything that can be considered news, or newsworthy for that matter - but my drivel can be considered timeless - so just in case some surviving future generation stumbles upon the dusty back catalog of this blabber, I figured I'd help them out by adding something to the title that indicates what I'm offering within my extraordinarily lazy Tuesday and Thursday throwaway posts.

Look at that - there's about twenty seconds you'll never get back.

Some better things you might have been able to do with those twenty seconds.

* Sneezed three or four times

* Brushed your gerbil

* Consumed a tootsie roll

* Scrolled down to find other adgitize buttons to click through without once stopping and wondering why the fuck my dumb ass bonehead shows up pasted on all sorts of other peoples bodies.

* Had an in-depth discussion with Abe Vigoda (he played TV's "Fish") about all of the positive accomplishments of the George W. Bush presidency. 

* Flossed

Yup, thus far this post is a fail - or, as my daughter, the young Junior Miss Giddy might say, an Epic Fail.  Cracks me up every time she uses the phrase.  It's been popular with the college age set for a few years, and can pretty much be used to describe anything that doesn't quite work out the way it was planned.  Used in the proper context, the stark bluntness of the catch phrase can also incite laughter at the most inopportune time.

Junior Miss had come by this past Sunday - she usually comes by the house on Fridays to do her laundry, but had to come on Sunday because she had so many different errands to run on Friday, plus a school project, then work, she couldn't grab the time.  It's all good for us - she's living at college but still only thirty minutes away, so we get to see (and feed) her weekly during the semester.  Anyway, we asked her about her hectic Friday and she proceeded to point out all of the things that went wrong for her.  We felt bad of course, until she concluded her story with two little words that wrapped up the entire episode..."epic fail".

Although she was using the descriptive to emphasize her frustration, I couldn't help but chuckle a little bit to myself.  Like I said, just something about the phrase that strikes me as humorous, sort of like other cute phrases such as "Go fuck yourself" and "Go pound sand in your ass".

Junior Miss wasn't pleased, but she understood.  One of my favorite sites to visit and waste some time is Fail Blog - all sorts of funny pictures and videos of things not turning out how they were intended.  The Fail Blog channel on You Tube is one of that sites most popular.  It's a great theory - short clips of people doing some pretty stupid things - sort of the next, ruder generation of America's Funniest Home Videos.

Like I said, it's Tuesday - so here's two of my favorites.  Check back again on Thursday for a third.  

I've watched each of them multiple times - and I laugh every time.  Yup a stoned cop and Jesus falling off the cross - pardon me for not exhibiting political correctness - guess I'm an epic fail when it comes to that sort of quality. 

EBAY

 

I’ve been a registered user of eBay for over eleven years.  I have a perfect feedback rating.  I’m primarily a seller, but I buy things from time to time.  Not a big time dealer, but I am a “Powerseller” as well as a “Top Rated Seller” due to my positive reviews.  Every few months I get a burst of energy and put together a bunch of ads and list some items for sale.  I’ve mainly dealt in sports cards and some collectibles – I’ve also used it to get rid of stuff when we clean out a closet.

It’s strictly a part time thing, good for a few extra bucks here and there.  From time to time however, it screams loudly to me the primary reason I could never work in retail again.  Dealing with the general public takes a very thick skin and more patience than I could ever possess.  People, in a retail transaction, often take advantage of most any opportunity to show what complete morons they can be.

eBay has consistently made great advancements in making the use of their site easier, and there’s no doubt that they give you the unique opportunity to reach literally millions upon millions of potential customers.  Truth is, pretty much no matter what you’re looking for, you can find it on eBay.

Need a pair of purple plastic shoes for an angry clown with a club foot?  You’ll find it on eBay.

Need a genuine Ed Asner back hair comb? You’ll find it on eBay.

Looking for a first edition copy of “Shit My Brother Never Told Me” by Ted Kennedy?  You’ll find it on eBay.

Unfortunately, as a seller, so too can you find some of our species most obnoxious individuals.  You see eBay goes to great lengths to make certain that the people who are selling their wares on the site are honest and above board.  That’s a good thing, but in many cases it puts all the power in the buyer’s hands and sometimes sellers have to take the old adage of “the customer is always right” to an extreme.  Often, one simple complaint or bit of negative feedback can negate years of excellent customer service.  So a seller will usually just give in to a ludicrous demand to avoid that possibility.

One asshole customer recently really chapped my gherkins.

The excrement sucking fucktard had purchased a CD from me that was brand new – never opened.  It was still in the original wrapping from the factory.  Unfortunately, there was a black pen mark on the back of the CD sleeve.  I didn’t notice it at all – so it was obviously quite small.  This small mark however seemed to throw this particular fussy fucker into a rage.  She sat down and fired off a venom filled tirade into my e-mail box about her immense displeasure with this and how dare I create such a tragic situation for her to have to deal with! If I didn’t know any better, I’d have thought that I’d sold the offending CD to Gary Coleman.

I quickly and politely replied that if she was displeased with her purchase that I always offer a refund upon the return of the item, and that since this black mark would be a significant deterrent to her enjoyment of the music on the CD contained therein that I would be happy to refund her money, all six dollars of it.  I even went so far as to apologize for my inexcusable oversight, and promised her that I’d gladly lop off my right arm with a rusty hacksaw should it ever happen again.  

This was not good enough for her.  She again lambasted me about the stress this was causing in her life and refused to return the item to me, she simply wanted her money back, no questions asked.  Apparently I owed her a freebie due to the trauma she had encountered and all this time I’ve stolen from her pathetic life due to this unforgivable action on my part. 

My return policy is clearly stated on all of my ads and on each invoice that goes out.  It’s clear and concise and I guarantee satisfaction because if you’re not happy – I’ll refund your money, but you have to return the item.  If not, then it’s, what’s the word…uh….theft? 

 

I really could care less about the six bucks, so I refunded the money via PayPal, even including an extra couple of bucks for return postage and again politely asked the miscreant to return the item to me.  I don’t know, in my world – if a seller refunds your money due to your not being satisfied with an item you’ve purchased, you’ve got to return the item.  This clown ass shithead obviously lives in another world, and she refused once again to return the item.  Instead of just sticking the fucking disc in an envelope and returning it to me, she preferred to take the time to send me a manifesto explaining how she would prefer to just put this whole horrible incident behind her, as she undoubtedly has been losing sleep and probably withholding her womanly favors from her blind vegetative husband.  Most likely she now spends her nights wandering aimlessly about the trailer, kicking the assorted cats that litter the floor and wondering if sleep will ever come.

She’s attempting to deter me by threatening to notify eBay of my illicit listings and not properly describing every little nick and scratch on a $6.00 item.  Of course, as a seller, once I refund a customer’s money for any reason, eBay considers the transaction cancelled, and short of hunting the bitch down and pointing and laughing at her sad attempts to navigate an anger management class, there’s no action that they’d consider taking.

I know I’ll never get the item back, and I don’t really care, I have better things to do than get into an e-mail war with an ill-tempered cretin with a blazing yeast infection.  Besides, I can always let off a little steam by sharing this shit with you.

It is amazing though to find the stupid pointless issues that can throw people into a rage.  It’s good to know that I can look at people like that and laugh at them – and better yet, point out their idiocy in the hopes that others rise up and stomp them out.   

A THIRD FOR THURSDAY

  

This week’s theme is guitarists who were overlooked in the Rolling Stones Top 100 Greatest list

Today – a video from Brian Patrick Carroll, otherwise known by his performing persona Buckethead.  A true shredder, he’s one of the world’s fastest guitarists and can seamlessly shift from speed metal to improvisational jazz without missing a beat.

This is Whitewash…

Weather the style is of your personal taste or not – you’ve got to wonder how Rolling Stone would exclude Buckethead in their list of greatest guitarists while including marginal players like Joan Jett, Robbie Krieger or Joni Mitchell.   

TWO FOR TUESDAY

 

This week’s issue of Rolling Stone features two of the world’s greatest guitarists, Eric Clapton and Jeff Beck.  Their current tour came to Madison Square Garden last week.  It prompted me to revisit a recent ranking – the Rolling Stone 100 Greatest Guitarists of All Time.

One of the best things about a list of the greatest whatever is that it’s always subjective, and always spurs your own mental listing of those who’d make up your own opinionated ranking.  To a music fan, listings featuring top performers are sure to elicit passionate debate.  This particular ranking was no different as I argued loudly with myself over some of the great guitarists I could not believe were overlooked.

For example – how do you put together a list of the 100 Greatest Guitarists and omit Stanley Jordan.

Perhaps, it’s that by his own design, Jordan has chosen to not position himself into a particular musical styling.  When he first came on the scene in 1985, he was marketed as a jazz progressive.  His unique style of tapping – playing on the fret board as opposed to the traditional picking and strumming creates a sound that is distinctly his own.  His new arrangements to classic standards and rock songs are an eclectic mix of styles.

Here’s Stanley Jordan’s version of Stairway to Heaven…

  

How do you rank Kurt Cobain and Jack White in the top 20 (Buddy Guy for some reason is ranked at 30 – c’mon now, that’s just silly) and omit Mike Oldfield.

Oldfield is probably best known as the composer of Tubular Bells which was used as the theme song for The Exorcist.  He’s an exceptional guitarist and some of his most prolific recordings were done while he was firmly entrenched in the progressive rock genre.  His performance at the Montreux Jazz Festival in 1981 is legendary – here is a clip featuring some of the most amazing noodling you’ll ever see or hear.  It’s a little long, if you want to jump ahead a little, Oldfield doesn’t start playing a guitar until about two minutes in.  I always thought the keyboardist looked a little like the kid that got picked on in junior high – but that’s beside the point.   

 

There are several great performances from both Stanly Jordan and Mike Oldfield available on You Tube.  Be sure to check out Jordan’s version of Over the Rainbow and Oldfield’s Ommadawn also performed live at Montreux in 81. 

PHONES

I generally don’t like talking on the phone.  I’ve used the phone for business for years, but I’m not too big on the chit chat shit.  A quick informative catch up from time to time is cool, but that’s about it.  Having done sales for many years, I know how to “work the phones” and converse about any particular business topic at hand on the phone, so I’m not adverse to a conversation, I’m just more interested in getting to the point and moving on to the next task.

Perhaps that paints me as a prick.  Oh well.

Anyway, my pet peeve today is poor phone etiquette, particularly when it pertains to cell phones.  Here at the home office, we each use our cell phones as our primary number – we have an office line which doubles as the home phone as well.  I generally use that during the day and I’m one of those schmucks that wear a headset so I can keep my hands free to surf the web for dancing monkeys or type out ideas for books I’ll never write while I try to close a deal on the phone.

 

It almost never fails, as soon as I make a connection with a client or my probation officer on the office phone, my cell phone rings.  It’s Boneheads law.  So, it turns out lots of people leave messages on the cell.

I have a very clearly spoken voicemail message that simply asks that if you’re leaving me a message, please let me know what your call is regarding.  I don’t think that’s too much to ask, it’s just good business.  If you’re a client perhaps you have a specific question about an invoice, if you’re a colleague you might have a specific question about a proposal or money you owe me.  

Bottom line, if you’re leaving a message, is it so friggin difficult to mention what you want?  This way, if it’s something specific, when I call you back I can give you the answer to the question you have, rather than not being prepared and having to then call you back a second time since I have to search for the specifics you need.   Or, if I happen to get YOUR voicemail, I can simply leave the answer to your question, thereby eliminating the need for us to chat at all.

.

It’s called time management, and none of us have enough time for idle chit chat.  I have work to do dammit.  I have boneheads to place on other people’s bodies and beer to load in the fridge; I don’t have the time to discuss how my fucking weekend was.  Chances are good that I drank more booze than necessary, belched, tripped over the dog, complained about something completely unimportant, played music much too loudly for the neighbors and spent too much time on my hair – it really hasn’t changed much for the past couple of decades, so let’s not spend time talking about it ok?

Lately I seem to have been getting an inordinate amount of messages that sound pretty much like this… 

“Hi J, its V, give me a call when you get a chance”

Fine, but what if I don’t get a chance?  Will an opportunity pass us both by simply because you didn’t state the nature of your message?  I’ll never know cause I don’t know what the fuck you wanted.  State your reason, I’m a wizard at rearranging priorities and dealing with the most important shit first – but I’ll never know what’s important if you don’t tell me.

And I know I almost always come across as a total asshole when I do call these people back. 

Bone: …returning your call

Them:  Hi, how are you?

Bone: OK – what did you want?

Them: How was your weekend? 

Bone: I drank a bottle of Scotch and puked on my shoes, what did you want? 

Them: How’s Chrissy?

Bone: She’s fine fucking dandy what did you want?

Them:  I had a question for you (pause)

Bone: Go 

Them: Ummm, what was I calling you about again? 

Bone: I’m going to jump through this phone, rip out your liver and beat you to death with it.

You see my quandary; I can be a man of little patience on the phone so sometimes I come across as a bit crass.  I haven’t actually beaten someone to death with their own internal organs in many years, but I tend to be a little more direct on the phone than I am in person.

In person, I’m generally charming and witty and pleasant to be around.  Most people consider me to be absolutely delightful. On the phone, I’m often a cantankerous and cold fucktard if you’re not a client or someone I haven’t spoken to for a really long time.  I guess it’s because to me the phone is a business tool and should be used as such.  As a manner to discuss business or simply exchange pertinent information.  Maybe it’s a guy thing but if I’m going to chit chat I’d rather do it in person than over the phone.

Funny, but to sum it all up – I’m writing this on the weekend, so as always I’m complaining about something completely unimportant.  I tripped over the dog about two hours ago while running to answer the phone.  The person who called left the following message… 

“Hey J, it’s me, call me when you get this”

I still haven’t called them back because I don’t know what they want.

AND A THIRD FOR THURSDAY

This week’s theme is baseball and spring training.  It’s still colder than a witch’s tit here, but its warm enough in Florida and Arizona for all those high priced ballplayers to stretch in endlessly embarrassing poses and practice the latest style for adjusting their cups.

My wife always thinks that they’re scratching their balls, I think most women think that.  The reality is that they’re simply making the necessary adjustments to the hard plastic apparatus that’s protecting their twigs and berries.  Trust me, if you’ve ever taken a bad hop to your unprotected nuts you’d wish you had a hard plastic dome there.  I’m sure some of them are scratching their balls, I mean – if you can get an itch on your arm or neck, you can just as easily get an itch on your balls.

But I digress…

On Tuesday we waxed nostalgic about a couple of great Yankee homeruns – today, a great play.  It’s known as “The Flip” and was pulled off by one of the greatest of all Yankees, Derek Jeter.  The 2001 Division Series, a scoreless game, Jeremy Giambi attempting to score on a hit to right doesn’t even think to slide as the throw misses the cutoff man.  What he didn’t count on was Jeter sprinting across the field to get the ball on the foul side of the first base line and flip it perfectly to catcher Jorge Posada to nail the runner to preserve the scoreless tie in the game eventually won by the Yankees 1-0.

Jeter has done many things to cement his legacy as one of the team’s best ever, this is possibly my favorite. 

Try not to pay attention to the music – I wanted to put up a clear video of the play and this was the best I could find.  Yes, it’s true – I probably could have spent a little more time looking, but there was a beer calling my name…

 

TWO FOR TUESDAY

 

Pitchers and catchers report for Spring Training this week.  With the Super Bowl now over a week in our rear view mirror, it’s a good thing.  Less than seven weeks till the start of the 2010 baseball season and I can get interested in sports once again. 

If you’ve been here before you already know the Giddy home is old school New York fans – Giants and Yankees.  So of course this blog will always be partial to both.  Having grown up and followed the Yankees all my life I understand that I’ve been lucky enough to witness some great games and seasons courtesy of some great teams.  

Sure, the Yankees have been fortunate to have abundant resources in which to pay the best talent, but as fans we too have been fortunate in that the team has consistently gone out and tried to win year in and year out by acquiring the best talent.  They don’t take all their profits and pocket them – they are constantly looking to improve the team.  I’m not about to let the pitiful accusations from fans of other teams that it’s the Yankees checkbook that keeps them competitive deter me from the loyalty I feel to my team.

In honor of the dawning of a new baseball season then, here are two great moments that Yankee fans will forever remember.  

1976 was the first year I was able to see the Yankees in the post season.  It had been a twelve year drought, and in the early 70’s – they even closed the original shrine in the Bronx to renovate Yankee Stadium, so the team had to share Shea Stadium with the cross town Mets.  In 76, the reopened the ballpark and fielded a highly competitive team led by stars such as MVP Thurman Munson, Mickey Rivers, Catfish Hunter, Sparky Lyle and my favorite player, first baseman Chris Chambliss. 

The Yankees won the eastern division handily and the championship series versus the Kansas City Royals was an even match going into the bottom of the ninth tied 6-6.  The Royals brought in Mark Littell to face Chambliss leading off the inning, and on the first pitch he sent it over the fence to win the game and the pennant.  As I recall I was in the den watching the game and pretty much woke up the entire house with all my hooting and hollering. 

Of course, the Yankees were crushed by the Cincinnati Reds in the World Series four games to none, but to me it was of little consequence as that home run kept me in a great mood for many months afterward. 

There have been so few series ending post-season homeruns hit in over 100 years of major league baseball, to have witnessed one hit for your favorite team, by your favorite player is truly a magic moment.  Yankee fans however, had another big crack of the bat in 2003, game seven of the ALCS against their biggest rival, the Boston Red Sox…

Ok, Aaron Boone was a role player on that team, he came over from the Reds in mid-season to play third and was a marginal performer.  He didn’t even enter game seven until late in the game as a defensive replacement, but he’ll forever be remembered as the man who took Tim Wakefield deep in the bottom of the 12th inning to propel the Yankees into the World Series. 

Of course the Yankees lost that series too, this time to the Florida Marlins if you could believe it.  The 7 game marathon against the Red Sox was an absolute classic with so much drama and so many side stories, you could write a book about it.  And there have been several. 

Sorry for the crappy quality of these clips – but you just can’t seem to get good quality videos and calls without the licensers of Major League Baseball pulling the off.  But you get the point.  I wanted to show this particular clip from the game because if you look closely when the cameras briefly show the announcers in the broadcast booth – the guy standing up is Bret Boone, Aaron’s brother who played for the Mariners and was a guest booth announcer for the series.  You can see Joe Buck and Tim McCarver looking at him like they’re in awe of the actuality that their broadcast partner’s brother just hit one of the most dramatic homeruns in the history of the game.

But the thing I actually remember the most about the Aaron Boone game is that it was the seventh straight game Junior Miss Giddy and I had the opportunity to watch and enjoy together in this series.  She was 14 years old at the time, same age as I was when I watched the Chris Chambliss homerun in 1976.  I had been separated for a little less than two years from her mother, and it was still a couple of years before Chrissy and I formed the Giddy alliance, so it was just the two of us watching the games in Bellport.

My guess is that sometime in 2019, someone will hit another dramatic homerun that sends the Yankees into the World Series, only to lose to their National League opponent.  Sydney will be 14 that year, so it stands to reason that it’s a pretty safe bet.

See you Thursday!

VALEN-FUCKIN-TINES DAY

Several years ago – I wrote a weekly column for a popular online wedding site called The Bridal Review.  It was a website that featured ads, links, columns and message boards for brides to be.  I was of course completely out of place and offensive, the column was called “Bridal Bonehead Review” and generally sucked, but I’d occasionally get a laugh or two.  Some of the others can be found in the labels list on the fancy sidebar to the right, or by simply clicking on my self portrait (my logo from the column) at the top of the sidebar.

This was my Valentines column from I think 2004 –

Valen-fuckin-times Day

Aunt Esther doesn't know the hell she hath wroth when in 1850 she sold the first Valentine's Day card in the United States.  It started an entire industry geared to add stress and anxiety to hard working gentlemen feeling obligated to be romantic on at least this one day every year. 

Miss Esther Howland is given credit for sending the first Valentine cards in the USA.  Perhaps it was simply an attempt by a lovelorn woman who was cursed with an eerie resemblance to John Goodman to get a date via direct mail. Remember, this was long before the days of internet dating sites and Box Socials.

Perhaps too, it could have been the work of an evil reincarnation of the original Saint Valentine, returning to cast burden upon the ancestors of those who brutally murdered him.

Yes, I said murder.  As a young Bonehead, I too was cursed.  Cursed to be a husky little boy with a bad haircut in elementary school.  No – I never got a whole lot of cutesy little Valentine's Day cards as a kid, so I had lots of free time to research the history and traditions of Valentine's day while other little guys with Brylcreem hairdo's and Levi's jeans got to sit under the shade tree and see little Debbie Stillman's underpants.  Now its payback time – and I'm the one under the tree, and with a whole bunch of Long Island brides to be this time!  Don't worry though, no need to show me your under…(LINE AGGRESIVELY REMOVED BY SITE EDITOR).

So Valentine's Day is supposed to be this romantic day based on love, laughter and sex.  Did you know that the namesake of the day was really Saint Valentine.  Long before he was canonized as a Saint – he was a simple Priest.  Around 270 AD Tony Valentine was a holy priest in Rome, who, with St. Marius and his family, assisted the martyrs in the persecution under Claudius the second. Claudius had determined that married men made poor soldiers. So he banned marriage from his empire. But Valentine would secretly marry young men that came to him. When Claudius found out about Valentine, he first tried to convert him to paganism. But Valentine reversed the strategy, trying instead to convert Claudius.

Fool! 

Valentine was apprehended and incarcerated. During the days that Valentine was imprisoned, he fell in love with the blind daughter of his jailer. His love for her, and his great faith, managed to miraculously heal her from her blindness before his death. Before he was taken to his death, he signed a farewell message to her, "From your Valentine." The phrase has been used on his day ever since. Since the emperor and the courts of Rome, who, on finding all his promises to make him renounce his faith ineffectual, commended him to be beaten with clubs, stones, and afterwards, to be beheaded.  The Romans lopped off his head on…you guessed it, February 14.

Now, had he been beaten to death with either heart shaped boxes of chocolate or a nagging wife, I might understand some of the traditions as to how this holiday got started.  Beaten to death with clubs – perhaps they were adorned with red hearts and pink flowers?      
 
Seems though that the legend of the priest named Valentine carried forward.  It became a tradition for the men to give the ones they admired handwritten messages of affection, containing Valentine's name. And sometime shortly after the Black Plague, the first Valentine card grew out of this practice. The first true Valentine card was sent in 1415 by Charles, duke of Orleans, to his wife.   

He was imprisoned in the Tower of London at the time. She reportedly withheld her favors on their next congical visit as he forgot to include roses or candy with the card. 

So Duke Chuck's wife was the first Valentine's Day bride to be pissed off by her husband.  Starting another long line of time honored Valentine's Day traditions.  Guys just can't get the right gifts. 

Sometimes though, just showing up is enough.  I'll bet there were seven pissed off young ladies in Chicago on Valentine's Day night in 1929.  That was of course, the night of the famous Valentine's Day Massacre.  On a brisk February 14th evening in North Chicago, seven well-dressed men were found riddled with bullets inside the S.M.C Cartage Co. garage. They had been lined up against a wall, with their backs to their executioners and shot to death. With the exception of a certain Dr.Schwimmer these men were mobsters working under the leadership of gangster and bootlegger, "Bugs" Moran.

Within a few seconds, while staring at a bare brick wall, these seven men had become a part of Valentine's Day history: the St. Valentine's Day Massacre.  Little did they know then as they stood unaware of their pending immediate doom, that their misfortune would create a cliché all boneheaded gift giving guys would endure as the tales of their feeble attempts at romance elicit mock and gossip from their romance starved wives, girlfriends, fiancés and pen pals. 

Legend has it that Al Capone – the top mobster in the Windy City that year was behind the rub out.  Bugs Moran accused him right away saying that only Al Capone kills that way.  Capone of course denied the accusations throughout the remainder of his days.  His alibi – he was in Miami at the time, entertaining his Valentine with chocolates, martinis and lies about his hidden vault. 

It was over 60 years later that his alibi was proven true as the grandson of Capone's 1929 Valentine's Day sweetheart Carmella Rivera went on national television to expose nothing more than an old bottle hidden in Al Capone's secret vault. 

Seems that everyone has a special Valentine's Day Massacre that they hold near and dear to their hearts.  For some, it's a mob hit.  For others, it's a box of half eaten chocolates or a Necco Sweetheart candy with the message "Bite Me" or "Not If You Were the Last of Your Gender".  In my family – we laugh over our prescription mood modifiers and cheap red wine about the fact that my dad was born on the same day as the Valentine's Day Massacre. 

There's really very little connection, other than the fact that he's Sicilian, favors pinstriped suits and cash and gives really bad haircuts.