Take Me Out to the Ballgame; or, because baseball is fun, dammit

A couple of years ago, I was talking to a friend about baseball and he was talking about how he stopped watching because his team wasn't very good. I said, "I'd rather watch the Yankees lose, than not watch them at all." To which he said that I must be a pretty big Yankees' fan. And yes, that is true; but more than that I am a baseball fan. It is a great, great game and it is fun. Fun to watch: win or lose. There is something inherently fun about the challenge of baseball. It is, no matter what else it can become, a game. And the fun is in the playing.

I was reminded of that conversation yesterday, as I watched my beloved New York Yankees lose yet another game. My Yankees are mired in a bit of a slump. Coming off of a mediocre year in which they missed the playoffs for only the second time in 20 years they are hovering at .500 which means that they are losing as often as they win. As a team, the play is anything but sparkling, they are making errors (actual, and mental), their relief pitching is giving away runs, and their bats seem to have nothing but holes in them. And the toughest to take is that my hero, the iconic Derek Jeter--who is playing in his final year (SOB)--is batting .260 and well, just isn't the player he used to be, most of the time. It can be a little painful to watch.

Now, before, I sound like a spoiled Yankees' fan with no ability to reflect on my own experiences, I know, the Yankees don't lose a lot of games. I know that as a fan I have little to complain about. Historically, I am a fan of the most successful team in MLB history with a record 27 World Series championships, the latest one in 2010. In the last 20 years the Yankees have only missed the playoffs twice (in 2006 and last year in 2013). Even, right now, when they are playing terrible, they are still a play-off contender. Some would say this makes me spoiled, and maybe it does, but I would say that it makes me unaccustomed to dealing with mediocrity. So, watching them lose is, well, not a common thing. I know that for other fans of other teams this discussion may feel like salt in a wound. Oh poor Yankees haven't won a World Series in 4 whole years... and they would be right. Oh poor Yankees are still in the playoff hunt. Oh poor Yankees with all their all-stars. But. But. If you are used to success then any failure is that much harder to deal with.

As I write this, I am watching the Yankees play the Kansas City Royals. Literally, just seconds ago the Yankees had the bases loaded with two outs and Derek Jeter was batting. I stopped writing to watch. I found myself holding my breath and praying--perhaps a bit more fervently than I am comfortable with--to the baseball gods that MY Derek Jeter--the iconic Jeter. The lifetime .316 Jeter. The one who is guaranteed admittance into the hall of fame. The one who is number 8 all-time in hits. Captain Clutch with a flair for the dramatic.--would make an appearance. I held my breath hoping... but, no. Instead, in a moment reminiscent of Mighty Casey, he struck out.  And it is painful. It actually physically hurt a little. (There may have been something in my eye for a second). That. That is new for me. So. Would I rather watch that, than nothing?

Yesterday the Dodgers lost, too. I have some family members who are fans of the Los Angeles Dodgers. Right now they are miserable. Their dreaded rivals the San Francisco Giants have won two World Series Championships in the past four years and they are currently the best team in baseball. The Dodgers. Well, they aren't. They are in second or third place and if the playoffs were today they would be a Wild Card team. Compared to some fan-bases another spoiled team. But, my brother does nothing but moan. He literally curses and bemoans these terrible, terrible Dodgers. Yesterday, after they lost in a walk-off the Colorado Rockies he said he had HAD it. He wasn't going to watch again until September.

My best friend is a Cubs fan. It is something that I have to acknowledge that I do not really understand. I don't have any idea what it is like to watch a baseball team that has not won a World Series in my entire life, in nearly three of my entire lifetimes combined. I can't conceive of what it like to watch a team that is mathematically eliminated from the playoffs for whole chunks of the baseball season. I can't even *get* it. But, what I do get is that it is painful for her. She sometimes can't watch. Doesn't watch. For a while, her husband wouldn't let her watch the Cubs pitch. He said his team couldn't lose when they were batting.

The thing is though, Jeter is up first in the next inning, and I will be watching. My brother will watch the Dodgers, today. My best friend will watch the Cubs (even when they pitch). We will all watch; because it's fun. Because, even when this game breaks our hearts, it is beautiful, and that is fun, dammit.

Waffling; or, Is it a food? Or a state of mind?

I kind of, sort of, follow a food blog called Food Riot on the facebook. They are a sister blog to another one I follow called Book Riot. Yesterday's post about what I am reading was because of a comment on a Book Riot post in which they referenced their "50 Book Challenge" (sorry, I tried to find a to link it, and couldn't, or well, didn't feel like trying that hard... maybe later). Anyway, it isn't books I want to talk about today, it's food. Specifically, waffles. Ish.

Food Riot ran a post about this new thing called "waffling." This is a thing. A thing where you make desserts (and I assume you could do savories as well) in your waffle iron. First, I have to say, I was not a fan of waffles for a long, long time. I prefer protein for breakfast rather than carbs, and if I had to make a carby breakfast, I'd rather make pancakes because there is, well, less fuss. All that equipment! I am not a kitchen gadget person. I love to cook, and until recently (when I found myself cooking for 6 people who do not like anything remotely foodie) I considered myself a little bit of gourmet. I changed my mind about waffles, and waffle makers when I found these whole grain waffles. They really are the best. Seriously. THE BEST. I eat them with cottage cheese and fruit and maybe a little jam, if I am spoiling myself. So, once I discovered the perfect waffle, I was much more open to the idea. And, I sort of *get* the waffle iron in a new way.

So, now that I have admitted that I have a distrust of kitchen gadgets, and that I have only recently gotten past my general distrust of the waffle-maker as a tool I can admit that "waffling" fascinates me. The selling points seem to be that using the waffle maker is 1) faster and 2) creates nooks and crannies for toppings to hide in. That sounds pretty good to me. But. The major selling point seems to be the novelty. I once read an article about ways to make toast with your kitchen appliances that just seemed nutty. And in some ways, waffling feels similar. More like a need to be new and different than any desire to create delicious food.

There is touch of that ongoing history about the ways that each generation has needed to create a distance between themselves and the one that came before it in this idea of re-claiming kitchen gadgets. It is as if in the desire to be creative and inventive we have also become a bit, well, lazy. Waffling seems like an attempt to fulfill the desire we have of making something new, but without all that work. Hey, I know, let's take something that is already good, but boring, because, hey that's how YOUR mom makes food. Look at me! I am putting perfectly good recipes into a waffle maker! This isn't your grandma's cookies! Or, her waffles! It is this desire to be different that has served well America for centuries. It is what drove people to settle here, to invent, to push boundaries, to develop a history of ingenuity. But, I worry that there might be a better way to do this than to take a brownie mix, store-bought cookie-dough, or other pre-packaged food into a kitchen gadget. It seems, just a little bit, more like a cheap thrill, than a good idea.

What do you think? Ingenious idea? Or cutting corners?

Half-done; or, a mini-break half book reading list

I am getting a two-week mini-summer break this year. I start summer school on June 9th. I have a little bit of work to do before then, but for the most part I am footloose and fancy free for once. Normally, I cram as much travel as I can into these little breaks, but this year I am taking a couple of trips to New York that are sucking the money out of me, so I need to do some staycations. The good thing is that I will have some time to read.

I used to real a lot. All the time. All. Of. The. Time. Then came school and a degree in literature, and well, I actually read less than ever. Then Grad school, and I didn't read anything that wasn't assigned. And now, as a writing instructor I pretty much read only what I needed to to teach my classes. However, this year, I found myself in situations where I would have time to read a little. The trouble is that for the most part I would be at other people's house, or travelling when I would pick up a book and read it for a while, then I'd have to leave. This resulted in several half-done reading sessions. I have a handful of books to finish. So, my first foray in the "Reading Challenge" is to finish my half-started books.

1.  The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas (currently pg 274 of 509)
I started reading this on May 19th. I was at a friend's house whose husband has the worst taste in television programs. I often find myself reading a lot at her house because I can only take so much terrible tv. In the past, I have usually just grabbed for one of the Harry Potter books and read it until it was time to go and then just put it back. Because I had read them all (more than twice) it didn't bother me if I left it unfinished. But, this time I saw a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo and started that instead.

I had only gotten about 30 pages in, when it was time to head into the Bay Area for a professional development workshop. I grabbed the book, completely sure that I would not read another word. Well, it was my lucky day as I ended up on a lovely little campus called Valambrosia Retreat and there were no TVs or computers in the rooms. The only entertainment available to me was to play with a handful of tame bunnies who wandered the campus, or read. I left that retreat about half finished with my book.

2. The Fault in our Stars by John Green (currently 177 of 313). **FINISHED**
I started this book on April 12th. I was on vacation in New York with some friends. My friend had bought The Fault in Our Stars at the Strand Bookstore in Manhattan. I had no intention of reading anything on that trip. My primary purpose was to watch Derek Jeter play in his farewell season. Much to my dismay he didn't play. In any of the three games I had purchased tickets to. I had flown thousands of miles and spent 100's of dollars for nothing. As each game ended and Jeter still hadn't played I was being incredibly brave. Then the final game was rained out. I needed a release and I picked the the incredibly sad and tragic John Green novel. I only read half, but the story of teens battling terminal cancer gave me the emotional outlet I needed and allowed me to put my relatively minor disappointment into perspective.

3. Beautiful Chaos by Gary Russell (currently 79 of 242 okay not quite half) **Finished**
April 30. This is a Doctor Who book. I bought it for my niece, but it seems a little old for her. I was reading it to make sure it was appropriate for her, and I got a halfway and realized that I was finishing it for myself. I don't think my niece will read it, at least not for a year or two. But. I started it, so I will finish it.

4. Romeo and Juliet by Shakespeare (currently Act II) **Finish-ed**
April 22. Another one begun for my niece. She and I started reading this play together. We made it through one act before we were both distracted by other things. So, this one will be the hardest finish as I am literally reading this aloud with an 11 year old. But, we'll give it a shot!

5.  The Cat's Table by Michael Ondaatje (currently pg.117 of 265).
March 18. I was on a field trip to Ashland, Oregon chaperoning a high school drama trip with my best friend when I go sick. I was not able to leave my room for two days. So, I bought this book. Again, I got through about half before I went home. Once there I got even sicker (maybe the sickest ever) and I didn't pick the book up again.

On Weariness; or, Running on Empty is Still Running.

Oh today. I am two kinds of tired. Shallow and deep. Global and local. Literal and metaphorical. I am weary and worn. I am hollowed out and running on nothing. In these bleary moments where caffeine masquerades as clarity, I feel my skin tighten and it is as if something inside is pulling at me. Pushing me to do crazy things. Things that my rested brain keeps me from doing. I want to make big decisions. I want to DO things. Something. Something big and grand and terrifying. I want to take huge leaps and fall off of edges. It is almost as if I am at my most honest when I am too tired to pretend. I get loopy when I am tired. And loopy is when I am just crazy enough to jump.

But, sometimes, I am too tired to run wild and instead I have another cup of coffee to wake up just enough to be safe. Or,  distract myself with breads and circuses, or cocoon myself in sleep until I can trust myself to behave; You know, just keep calm and carry on.  But, even while napping, sometimes, I remember, dream of, braver days when I couldn't be so easily quieted. When I did recklessly leap and run and try. Now, I worry that I am too tired to be that rash again. That this time the weariness is heavier, deeper, that it has housed itself in my bones. A cancer eating my hopes and leaving me marrowless and brittle. How many rash chances do I have left in me? How many gates can I crash through and still not break? 

I hope the answer is all of them. I hope I am just weary enough to try, but not so tired that I sleep.

Doctor Who as Catharsis; or, It's the FEELS dammit

I haven't written about Doctor Who for a couple of months. Not because I haven't been watching it, and especially not because I haven't been thinking about it. I am at the end of Series 6. I might even be officially done with S6; I am not sure where the Christmas episodes fit in. The difference between where I am now, and where I was last time I wrote a blog about the good Doctor is that I have seen all the reboot Doctors. I have one more series to be caught up, but until Peter Capaldi makes his debut later this year, I am, at least for the minute up to date (sort of). So, a return to the question of "Who's your Doctor?"

For some, I guess, this answer is easy. I have heard, and read, accounts of fans knowing immediately with whom their loyalties lie. All I know is that, for me, it isn't Matt Smith. At the beginning I would have laid the blame on him for being too young, too silly, too frantic, too slick...just too much. Then I blamed the writers for not writing stories that allowed Smith access to my favorite aspect of the Doctor, the fact that he is just "Sorry, so, so sorry." But, now, I am pretty sure it isn't Matt Smith, it's me.

Doctor Who is at its best, for me, when it is sad. Not just sad, but those heart-wrenching, kleenex moments, when I want to cry out loud; I am happiest with DW when I am hiccoughing through my tears. It is catharsis to engage in a little harmless sobbing. Matt Smith, so far, hasn't really stood a chance with me. I think that accepting what I love about Eccleston and Tennant is an undercurrent of painful loss that makes them just imbued with buckets and buckets of pathos. And, as I have said well, apparently, I like to be sad. I do like humor, and as I have said, I wouldn't like Doctor Who if it isn't funny. But, I like my jokes as foils to darkness. Laughter through tears? Yes. Laughter because it is a relief to laugh after crying? Yes. Pure comedy doesn't work as well for me.

So much of what appeals to me about Doctor Who is the underpinning of the trope of loss. Everyone is so broken and I suppose in what is prolly a little too revealing of a statement, I like that. I like crying when Rose and Ten get separated. I refuse to imagine Rose happy with her fake Doctor. I see her as having been tricked into settling--a trick that you cannot convince me that she will never be appeased by. I refuse to think that even memory loss can allow Donna peace. It is clear that even the *blessing* of ignorance will never allow her bliss. And don't even get me started on Rory, that poor guy. He guarded Amy for 1000 years, and he still has to wonder if she loves the Doctor more...Anyway, the major appeal for me is that no matter how much Nine and Ten joke or smile, at the end of the day I can see that they are haunted. I can see their ghosts, and I like that.

It is only as I see these later Eleventh Doctor episodes that I am beginning to see his ghosts, and it makes sense that I am beginning to like him more.So, unless S7 is just one big Eleventh Doctor cryfest is seems that I am still back to choosing between Nine or Ten. Well, I'm still not sure. I liked Ecceleston before the DW because of his amazing Jude in the film version of Jude the Obscure. Just watch that movie without crying I dare you. I came into this show already predisposed to Christopher Eccleston's 9th Doctor. He is broken, rough, and drowning in pathos.

Even as sure as I was that Eccleston was the one for me, it didn't take long for me to fall for David Tennant's 10th Doctor hook, line, and sinker (come on, "I don't want to go" and that music from Bad Wolf Bay? I can cry right now thinking about it). As much as I like Ten,  if I am honest, I prolly like the character of "David Tennant" better than the Doctor. (Come on David Tennant, you know we'd so be friends!) I am to the point where I can't choose between Nine and Ten.

As I am on the cusp of Series 7, I know enough (spoilers) to know that the Doctor will lose Amy. And, knowing he is going to be broken again, I like him more already. With this perspective in mind, I have begun to see Eleven as being a Doctor who is frenetically (and futilely) trying to outrun his losses. Joking and running to forget his past; and with that view, I like him better. Does this make me cruel? A sadist? Maybe, but I do know the more the show makes me cry, the more I like it.

Who knows, maybe Peter Capaldi's 12th Doctor will be the saddest of all, and settle this whole debate for me.

Favorite Ninth Doctor episode: "Father's Day"
Favorite Tenth Doctor episode: "The Satan Pit" ("Doomsday" is right there)
Favorite Eleventh Doctor episode: "The Girl Who Waited"

What is your favorite episode from each of the *new* Doctors? Are you a Nine? Ten? Eleven? Or something else?

Word by Word; or A Travel Memoir

London: Shoes.

Being a mostly country girl, I was not prepared for the unyielding firmness of days spent walking the pavement of a real international city. Sure, this was not my first sidewalk, but I was shockingly unprepared for the daily pounding my feet received from walking the miles demanded by a life in London. Within weeks, foot pain was a reality. Feeling like a character in a film about overworked labor class waitresses and construction workers, I would kick off my shoes at the end of the day and rub my tired feet. I was far too young for pain like that. The shoes I had been wearing that had seemed more than comfortable when I had bought them and broke them in by wearing them for my life in Chico CA were woefully unable to bear the brunt of my 5-10 mile pavement pounding escapades through the streets of London. Finally, on a day when even my morning dose of ibuprofen could not assuage the pain in my feet, I caved in and bought a pair of fancy trainers that were by far and away the most expensive clothing purchase I had ever made. I remember putting on shoes that cost more than I could imagine spending and feeling like I was wearing clouds. It is 11 years later, and I still have those brown leather Timberland trainers. When I stepped  out onto the London sidewalk, in my new shoes, I felt like a Londoner. They are well-worn now, but still, when I travel and I know I am going to be walking a lot, those are the shoes I reach for.

Lake Havasu: Mustard.

MTV Spring Break was filmed in Lake Havasu, Arizona in spring of 1995. It was a fleshfest of twenty-somethings partying on houseboats. I watched with the singular envy only known by a sheltered small town girl. When it just happened that I was driving across country to visit my Great Aunt Katherine--yes, I am named for her-- in Indiana and when I saw the sign to Lake Havasu, I just had to detour. My excitement turned to disappointment when I realized that Lake Havasu is really a retirement community. I shuffled dejectedly through a town that obviously catered to senior citizens not college kids. Gift shops full of tote bags, rhinestone studded sweatsuits, and t-shirts about grandkids. Not what I was expecting. Always the trooper I refused to be bowed, I boarded a houseboat to go out on the lake. The houseboat captain was a self-ascribed Lothario. A somewhat attractive man in his late 50's is was pretty obvious that the senior ladies also thought he was Lothario. I, the lone dark-haired lass sitting in a sea of silver, was decidedly not as impressed. The captain flirted and the ladies just ate it up, his big joke was that when we would sail close to the other boats filled with even more silver-haired ladies--who were all gazing longingly at OUR captain--he would hold out a jar of Grey Poupon and shout, "Pardon me, but do you have any Grey Poupon?" And everyone, but me, would laugh uproariously.In the last hour of the trip I discovered that the original London Bridge had been moved to Lake Havasu. They took the bridge apart, brick-by-brick, and reassembled it over Lake Havasu. At the end of the day, that fact saved that trip for me. It just seemed so ridiculous that London Bridge had been erected in AZ. It was so out of place, and was the only part I liked. It was like me. I remember standing on that ridiculously placed bridge watching the sun go down and below me a boat skimmed the lake and a voice shouted, "Pardon me..." Finally, I just had to laugh.

Edinburgh: Wet.

My memories of Scotland are rain-soaked, really. I have only been twice, for only a handful of days each time, but it was nothing if not permeated by rain, and well, being wet. Visually, this city in memory is a mix of green and gray: The rain and the pavement, and walking so much I was drenched with sweat. The rain coming in an open hotel window to land on a bed soaking rumpled sheets and clothes discarded in passion. I am sure the sun shines in Edinburgh, and I am sure there are paths that would not force me uphill or up a set of stairs, but I don't remember any. Every journey through that city was a climb that left me breathless and slick with sweat. Tired, wet, and breathless became a default state; but, the arduous path was always worth it. Always. At the top is a castle, a view, a monument, a hotel room... a boy. Each soaking me with rain or sweat.

What about you? What is one word that you associate with a trip or a place?

Baseball Heaven: A Rebuttal; or, Maybe a Surrender

The first time I stepped out of a professional baseball stadium's cement labyrinthine underbelly and glimpsed the lush outfield grass I cried. I was about 13 and my church youth group had gone to Oakland to see the Tigers at the A's. Our seats were up so high I don't even think I could see the players' names pasted on the back of their uniforms. I don't know who won that day, I don't even remember if we stayed for the whole game, but I will never forget the way my chest constricted and how I just couldn't breathe when I saw that gorgeous field laid out before me. It was, to me, heaven.

My love of the green grass, wood bats, leather gloves, and that gorgeous red dirt is a feeling of reverent awe that never lessens and never fades. No matter how old I am, or how many games I have been to, I cry a little every time. It isn't about the stadium because it doesn't really matter where, it just matters that it is grass, chalk, dirt. Each of the (only) five stadiums I have visited it is the same. Every time I emerge from the dark into the light and there is nothing in front of me but green, and brown, and sky and I have to swallow gasps and blink back tears. I am moved every time, because it is just so beautiful.

I have a friend who has written a blog that claims that Wrigley Field is in fact "Baseball Heaven" and as I read her Ode to Wrigley I found myself wanting to argue. It could have been because she threw down the gauntlet by saying that my beloved Yankee Stadium is most definitely not Baseball Heaven, and that it isn't Fenway Park--my second favorite stadium--either, but that it is Wrigley. And I wanted to fire back. I wanted to write about how Wrigley is the aging diva of baseball; but, then I realized that I am not qualified to criticize. I haven't been to Wrigley. Or Great American Ballpark, or Busch Stadium, or Oriole Park... or any of the other 25 parks. I have only been to five. So, what do I know?

The truth is that any definition of Baseball Heaven is profoundly and distinctly personal. Every fan probably loves their stadium, at least in some way. For me, Yankee stadium was mecca. I toured it with my heart racing and a post-coital glow. Fenway Park was historic and wonderful, and I had a great time there. But, Oakland (O.com? The name changes so much, I don't even know anymore) will always have a place in my heart. It's close and I've seen some really great baseball there. And, you know, no one ever forgets their first. It is an argument that can't be won. Like comparing lovers. Who am I to say? I don't have the credentials to rank stadiums; I don't have the experience to compare and contrast. And what makes one cat purr makes another hiss.

Baseball Heaven is not a place. It that space between the infield and the grass. That moment of silent tension right before the pitch, when players spring into ready position. That silent moment when we wait to see what will happen. That space where anything can happen. It is Derek Jeter methodically kicking rocks and smoothing the infield dirt while waiting to pounce. It is a cold drink on a hot day; it is listening to fans around me discuss past games. It is Nick Swisher wooing the crowd, and the crowd flirting back. It is a cotton candy vendor winning a dance off against a drunk fan. It is the sound of a ball on a bat, the thud of a leather, and the sight of green, and brown, and sky.  That to me, is Baseball Heaven.