Baggo and Baseball

Indian summers are typically defined as a period of unusual sunshine and warmth when it's really supposed to be falling leaves and crisp chills. Today, LP and I made indian summer a state of mind by manufacturing the spirit of outdoor sportsmanship on the last day of September.

We had talked about building a Baggo set for each of us this spring, and because the summer tends to run away with the best of us, it wasn't until last Thursday that we decided today would be the Big Day for backyard carpentry. We had a grand plan: print instructions from someplace on the Internet, bring it into the nearest Home Depot, lay it down on the counter and calmly ask for for all materials to be measured and cut to size. Perhaps even have them put it all together so all we needed to do was take our raw Baggo sets home and paint them (LP: Northwestern "N" and purple/white theme, me: Cubbie "C" and Cubbie blue theme). Comfortable with this schedule, we settled down to a fantastic brunch at Glenn's Diner and jabbered about how we'd be all done in good time for LP and Scottie (Lee)'s dinner reservation at Spring for 9pm and for Scottie (McAcvoy) and Julia's BBQ tomorrow.

Two hours later at the Home Depot on Lincoln and McCormick, we picked our plywood boards and 2x4s for the frame (the more expensive options -- handcrafted = premium). Everything started off well, but like a heavy bag of cornfeed falling on our heads, they told us they could only do straight cuts, so we'd have to rent a jig saw for the hole in the board. Then over in paint, they told us we had to prime our plywood, then apply at least two coats of glossy white before painting on our design. Simply put, we would've been able to complete our Baggo sets in one day -- only if our day had started at 5am.

Like a shortstop waiting to relay a perfect fire to home for the tag-out, Ira and Andrea were at home with their to-die-for array of power tools and more than happy to host our tomfoolery. Armed with cold Coronas upon our arrival, Andrea took charge without much opposition from either of us and cut beautiful holes in our boards. We then ground the edges to straighten the curve and sanded them down smooth. By this time, it was dusk, the Coronas were being drained, and it was time for LP to start getting ready for dinner.

On my way home after dropping LP off, I talked to Scottie Mac who declared that he built his set in two hours. I suppose that's how it goes for someone who pretty much built his house on his own. But he doesn't know how to make ice cream.

Speaking of building, later that evening Sara and I watched "Field of Dreams." Funny how corny baseball movies from the 1980s end up being quite tolerable and even enjoyable. Love is blind, they say. There's no crying in baseball, but there sure is some of it watching baseball movies. Just one piece of coaching advice: you always want to watch a movie like that with a good ball player. That's just how the game is played.

Good Man

Tonight, I felt a little better knowing I'll never see Bruce Springsteen on the Asbury Park boardwalk singing a seaside bar song circa 1973. But Tillie's been saved, the Stone Pony's riding high and the Empress still rules, so tonight, it was a good night to be named Lilian, Kathleen or Jiggs and we could have been Harrisburg, Lawrence or Egypt. Instead, we were at the Vic, and we saw what Bruce show must have been and felt like 33 years ago.

I wish I could take back what I always say about opening acts. Their names come and go like some Yellow Pages gone flipping crazy -- Martin Sexton, Jesse Malin, Cornershop, Grace Potter and the Nocturnals, Regina Spektor, and so on (thank god Bruce, at this point, doesn't need one). And I always get restless and want it to be all over soon, so I can watch whoever I'm there to see. I got my comeuppance tonight, because we only got 30 minutes of Josh Ritter and his band -- six songs. Come to think of it, I should have taken all this back when Ray Lamontagne opened for Guster. That was 35 minutes. I would have traded the entire 16-minute "New York New York/Wharf Rat" sequence from Ryan Adams' 2004 fall tour for five more minutes of Ritter. And thrown in the five minutes of "Worlds Apart" from the 2002/3 "The Rising" tour, too.

So this is what I love about Ritter live. Thirty minutes onstage, and perhaps 45 seconds when he didn't have a smile on his face. Gusto, charisma, and personality were all part of the performance by a guy truly in love with his band and his audience. He knew most of the teeny boppers and desperate housewives were there for schmaltzmeister Jamie Cullum, so he always earnestly thanked the house for listening after every song. And for the "Lilian, Egypt" finale, he got every non-fan to growl like a pirate and dah-dah-dah along to the chorus. Then, he sealed the deal by finding a way to work "Erie Canal... low bridge, everybody down" in an interlude. It was the second coming of Springsteen.

Because we're the kind of friends who email in Bruce lyrics (Me: I've seen better days. Caroline: You know you ought to quit this scene, too.), Caroline and I discussed Springsteen/Ritter analogies before and after the show. First of all, stating the obvious -- the tousled hair and the open-collared shirt under slim-fitting suit. Extremely Hammersmith Odeon ("Born to Run" tour, November 18, 1975).

There was Sam Kassirer, who dressed like a scene from "Dallas" pounded the keys like a Western saloon pianah player. Like Danny Federici, he also moonlit on the accordion. Dave Hingerty was a pretty mean rhythm bandit -- he'd roll a tight "Born to Run" intro. Zack Hickman has way more hair than Garry W. Tallent ever will, and a much better dress sense. OK, so Josh Ritter is NOT entirely Bruce Springsteen, Jr.

Together, they all played Josh's songs about asking girls to dances, driving girls home from dances, California, L.A. badlands, Midwestern flatlands, lovesickness, heartsickness, cowboys, driving away, Johnny Cash tributes, and the golden age of radio. Caroline felt that one line from her all-time favourite, "Kathleen" -- "But I'm here and I'm ready and I've saved you the passenger seat" -- echoed "Thunder Road"'s "From your front porch to my front seat." I surmised that "Wolves"' "At times in the frozen nights I go roaming in the bed she used to share with me" was akin to "I'm On Fire"'s "At night I wake up with the sheets soaking wet..."

Not forgetting the Dick Cheney jokes. Or that goofy stage sidekick. Sometimes they wear bandana doorags, sometimes they wear white Stetsons.

If all this isn't more than happy coincidence, then get me a Prozac, stat. After the show, we skipped out on potential headlining snoozer Jamie Cullum and hung out with Josh in the lobby. We were beginning to feel like very novice fans until we realised everyone received the same hearty "How ya doin'?" and sincere kiss on the cheek, even the Trixies. He was concerned about how the band sounded, and we jabbered about Cash, "Erie Canal," him running the NYC Marathon, audiobooks about Shakespeare, and the show I missed (but Caroline didn't) last Saturday in Madison.

I guess we've seen the history of rock & roll, and his name is Josh Ritter.

Day and Night

As the countdown to winter continues to be forced down our throats like a colonoscopic time bomb, days like today -- all 21 degrees Celcius (sorry, I still can't bring myself to think in terms of Fahrenheit) of a bright, bright sunshiney day -- make all weather naysayers look like Cubs fans who have been around long enough.

It was one of those days that I'll treasure and miss as the leaves begin to pile up. Biking to the gym, double-header at night, scarfing down Subways and peanut M&Ms as Ursula clobbered two triples in two consecutive at-bats -- summer pleasures to light up the winter hearth in a few months. Truth be told, summer isn't quite as fun without good friends.

And hey hey, the Cubs clobbered the Brewers 14-6.

Laissez Les Bon Temps Rouler

When Hurricane Katrina hit last year, when the tsunami hit the year before, when the planes hit the World Trade Center five years ago (and the list can go on), many things began to seem more inconsequential than they were.

The Hollywood Hot Dogs so far are 2-0 on the season, surprisingly because their owner and coach -- me -- knows nothing about football. I missed the draft, somehow ended up with Peyton Manning and Matt Hasselbeck, and won my first two games easily. As I watched the Bears sneak by the Vikings for their 3-0 win on Sunday, I posted some smack on my fantasy football league message board: "Watch my team go 3-0 after tonight, just like DA BEARS."

Who am I kidding, really... I don't even really like football that much. I've been watching it because it seems like a local team I can like is on to something, and Dodgers baseball isn't on TV here everyday. So I checked the Dogs' box score after yesterday, and saw that we were leading Concussed Confusion by nine points... although Confusion has two players going tonight, Devery Henderson and John Carney of the Saints.

The significance of tonight's Monday Night Football match-up isn't lost. It's the first time the New Orleans Saints are playing at home at the Superdome in over a year, and even if the devastation still called the Lower Ninth Ward home and the musicians didn't, football was back. Previously sunken in the depths of divisional hell, the Saints are 2-0 on the season and give the Crescent City some sort of hope. At least someone was winning. At least someone was getting somewhere. Moving forward on the football yardage was far better than the sinking feeling of knowing levee reconstruction was backward as ever.

So when Maria text'd me at halftime that Carney had 10 points and Henderson eight already, I thought, what the hell. It's only the Hollywood Hot Dogs. They'll survive a grilling and bad ketchup. The great people of New Orleans though, one of my favourite cities in America, should have and deserve their joie de vivre (Maria's phrase, no pillaging). So, good thing Michael Vick maybe had one too many bowls of gumbo pre-game, because tonight, the Saints go marching in.