Monthly Archives: September 2011

Yanks are in California for three games. Must-win time for the Angels who are chasing the Rangers for first place in the AL West. Tonight gives Jered Weaver.

Cliff’s got the preview.

Never mind the beautiful setting:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Photo Credit: The Epiphanist]

The great Vin Scully, folks. Nice job by GQ.

“Portrait of Guillaume Guillon-Lethiere,” By Ingres, now featured in a show at the Morgan Library. Don’t sleep.

Serious Eats drops science on salt.

[Photo Credit: Mockingbird-Events]

Over at SI.com, Joe Sheehan takes a look at the x-factor for each team in the playoff race. For the Yanks? Bartolo Colon:

The Yankees can expect to get great starting pitching from CC Sabathia, who will open the Division Series for them and pitch as often as possible. The dropoff from Sabathia is significant, however, and the best of the remaining starters — the likely Game 2 man — is Colon. In his comeback season after missing all of 2010, Colon has been nearly as good as he was in his Cy Young season of 2005, striking out 123 men and walking just 32 unintentionally in his 145 innings. He hasn’t been quite as effective since injuring his left hamstring in June: a 4.46 ERA and 51/17 K/BB, with a whopping 10 homers allowed in 66 2/3 innings over 12 starts. The Yankees have a deep bullpen that can carry the rotation to some extent, but the compressed postseason schedule means that they will have to get some kind of run prevention, and innings, from the non-Sabathia starters. Colon, with his demonstrated command, is their best chance for quality postseason starts.

Fresh nail polish packs a wallop. At the end of the line, there’s always breakfast-eating and make-up-application on the train. And in the nice weather, there’s polish for fingers and toes.

It’s a collision of personal moments and public space that bothers some. The stinging scent of alcohol acetone in the nail polish isn’t the most pleasant eye-opener, but honestly, it’s better than a lot of subway cars. And on some mornings, every second counts.

I’ll probably take a harder line when a train lurches and a bottle spills on my leg. Until, then, I’d rather see paint than pancakes.

Crime, it don’t pay.

Like most championship thoroughbreds, the Yankees have always been fantastic closers. Since 1901, the team has entered September leading the pack in 41 seasons, and, in all but one, crossed the finish line first.

Yankees’ September Winning Percentages

Note: Red triangles represent first place finishes.
Source: Baseball-Reference.com

The only time the Yankees stumbled down the stretch was in 2010. After entering last September ahead of the Rays by one game, they extended the lead to three, but then lost eight of the final 11 to end the year one game behind Tampa. Under normal circumstances, such a late season swoon would have been viewed as a collapse, but that month the Yankees and Rays engaged in a much less entertaining version of an Alphonse and Gaston routine. The Rays tried to give the Yankees the division, but, unfortunately, they refused to take it.

Years in Which the Yankees Finished First Despite Entering September in Second Place

Source: Baseball-Reference.com

This year, the Yankees began the final month 1 ½ games behind the Red Sox, but quickly assumed the top position with a six game winning streak. Unfortunately, that burst has been slowed by two sluggish losses to the last place Orioles, but nonetheless, the Yankees remain poised to take their sixth division crown by coming from behind. Not surprisingly, two of the Bronx Bombers’ other comebacks also came at the expense of the rival Boston Red Sox, although none was quite like the epic reversal of fortunes that occurred in 1978.

A.L. East Pennant Race Graph, 1978

Source: www.alexreisner.com

So, how will the Yankees finish up this year? Because the current wild card format has all but assured the team will make the playoffs, it remains to be seen how hard they’ll battle for the top spot. However, it’s worth noting the Yankees have never advanced to the World Series when making the playoffs via a consolation, so perhaps Joe Girardi should consider going to the whip? After all, when you’re riding a front runner, it doesn’t make sense to relinquish the lead, does it?

Dogs can hear things that people cannot but at 4:15 this afternoon most Yankee fans, no matter where they were or what they were doing, tilted their head to the side and listened with a bemused look on their face, struck by the piercing, collective wail that came from any Yankee fan who happened to be watching TV when Scott Proctor entered a 4-4 game in the bottom of the ninth.  Nobody else could hear this sound, of course, but we all could. Some of us might have had the urge to scratch ourselves, some, no doubt,  started foaming at the mouth, while others still just shrugged and went back to sleep, or work, or whatever else they were doing.

Now, you can’t blame Proctor for being what he is–and after all, this is the same guy who burned his mitt after a bad outing a few years ago–but would you believe, he worked around two base runners and sent the game to extra innings. It’s the truth.

It had been a nutty game to that point so maybe it wasn’t such a surprise. It was  gritsey and gutterly or plain fuggin stupid, depending on who you were rooting for. Ivan Nova had an early 4-1 lead but then the Yankee offense did plenty of nothing while the O’s chipped away–they got on base while the Yankees made errors. They had two men thrown out at the plate (crash, boom, bang) but tied the score against Rafael Soriano. By this time, any self-respecting Yankee fan following along was irritable bordering on Bill Bixby furioso.

Kevin Gregg struck out four Yankee batters in a row–Andrew Jones, Derek Jeter, Curtis Granderson and Mark Teixeira and on to the bottom of the tenth they went. Ol’ Proctor struck out Mark Reynolds and maybe got ahead of himself. Nolan Reimold reached on an infield single, Chris Davis walked and then some twerp named Robert Andino screwed the pooch for good, singling home the winning run.

You can’t blame Proctor. He is what he is. You can howl at the moon all you want. But it’s probably best to lick your privacy, curl up, and go back to sleep.

O’s swipe it, 5-4.

Make-up matinee down in Baltimore.

Nova, regulars…

Derek Jeter SS
Curtis Granderson CF
Mark Teixeira 1B
Alex Rodriguez DH
Robinson Cano 2B
Nick Swisher RF
Eric Chavez 3B
Francisco Cervelli C
Brett Gardner LF

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Photo Credit: coffeesforclosers]

The Great Escape

By John Schulian

Every writer in Hollywood has a dark corner in his head where he keeps the horror stories of how he was lied to, cheated, betrayed, bullied, ignored, treated like a dim child, abandoned, and left with the short end of the stick. It comes with the territory. But right now I have a different kind of story to tell. It’s so preposterously upbeat that people in this brutal business, especially writers, might insist it is a fairy tale. I promise you it’s not. And I know, because I lived it.

It’s the story of how I, a burned-out Philadelphia sports columnist, showed up in Hollywood without ever having written a script, and four months later had a produced episode of “L.A. Law” to my credit and was happily residing on the writing staff of “Miami Vice.” Even now, with 25 years of hindsight at my disposal, I don’t know what I did to deserve that kind of good fortune.

When this began, I was trying to figure out if I knew anyone in Hollywood and drawing blanks. But Phil Hersh, who had fought the newspaper wars in Chicago and Baltimore with me, had stayed in touch with a photographer named Martha Hartnett after she jumped from the Sun-Times to the L.A. Times. Martha had married a TV writer-producer named Jeff Melvoin, who Phil said was a good guy. Before I knew it, I was on the phone with Jeff finding out that he was even more than that. He didn’t know me from a sack of potatoes, but he gave me 45 minutes of his time, listening to my story, offering a quick introduction to the screenwriter’s life, and generally proving himself to be funny, big-hearted, and smart, very smart. Best of all, he wrapped up the conversation by inviting me to call him the next time I was in L.A.

I got there the day after Marvelous Marvin Hagler put away Tommy Hearns in the best fight I ever covered and maybe the most electric event I ever saw in any sport. Mike Downey, who had hit it big as a columnist in Detroit, and I drove from Las Vegas in a rented car, both of us on the verge of major career moves. Downey was about to take his wonderfully funny act to the L.A. Times, and I was looking for someone to tell me how to go about hurling myself into Hollywood’s gaping maw.

When I called Jeff, he told me we were having dinner, but first I had two meetings he had arranged for me. Meetings are the lifeblood of Hollywood, so much so that sometimes you have meetings just to schedule other meetings. Whatever, my baptism by yakking involved sitting down with the head of development at Geffen Films and a vice president at MTM, which was then the hottest production company in TV (“Hill Street Blues,” “St. Elsewhere,” “Mary Tyler Moore”). Though I didn’t know which end of the bat to hold as far as show business was concerned, I survived. The executives I met were interested in getting fresh blood in the business, people with stories to tell -– and naturally they wanted to talk about sports. They weren’t offering me any jobs, of course, but I liked them and they liked me, and that certainly beat the alternative.

Then I met Jeff for dinner and he paid, so I liked him even more than I had on the phone. Mostly we talked about how I was going to get in the business. “Everybody breaks in a different way,” he said. And I said, “What if I wrote a letter to Steven Bochco?” I’d been bowled over by Bochco’s “Hill Street Blues” from the first minutes of the first episode. I can’t tell you why I watched it – I’ve never watched much TV — but I did and a world of possibilities opened up to me. “Hill Street” was as revolutionary then as “The Wire” is now. It felt real, the characters were mesmerizing, and the stories pulsed with humanity and humor and pain and love. If I could work on a show like that, I told myself, I’d be proud to call myself a TV writer. I told Jeff the same thing. In that case, he said, I should write Steven Bochco.

So I did, and in the envelope with my letter, I enclosed a my boxing anthology, “Writers’ Fighters,” and a copy of the Mike Royko profile I’d done for GQ. It all went in the mail the day before I left to cover Wimbledon. And then I started praying to whatever god it is that looks out for writers in need of a new beginning.

Steven Bochco

When I returned two weeks later, there was a letter from Bochco telling me he’d received my package and promising to read what I’d enclosed. He also warned me that a lot of journalists had tried to make the leap I was contemplating, and failed. But if I were still interested, he’d be glad to send me some “Hill Street” scripts to study. I wrote him back in a heartbeat: please send the scripts. Then I went on vacation for two weeks. I came home to find this letter, on Twentieth Century Fox stationery:

July 17, 1985

Dear John:

Herewith some HILL STREET scripts. I read about half your book so far. It’s wonderful. You’re a terrific writer, and if you can’t make the transition to film writing, I’d be very surprised. Not to mention disappointed. As soon as I get my next project (a series about, God help me, lawyers) perpendicular to the ground, I will send you what we’ve written and invite you to write a script. (For money, of course.)

If you have any questions, or just want to talk, call me. My office number is XXXXXXXXXX.

Best regards,
Steven Bochco

P.S. You also type great. I didn’t spot a single do-over in your letter.

Today, that letter, framed, hangs in my office at home. I’m still amazed by it and still everlastingly grateful for the lifeline it represented. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t guaranteed anything except a chance. A chance was all I was looking for. I would have to write in a different form and a different medium. I would have to navigate a world I knew nothing about. But at last I had something to hope for again. And I owed it to Steven Bochco, a man I’d never met.

Click here for the full “From Ali to Xena” archives.

This story first appeared in the Ft. Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel in the late 1980s. It appears here with permission from the author.

Running Cars

By Pat Jordan

Rod Chadwick, 38, is running cars in the hot sun. He sprints across the street to the parking lot. A tall, leanly-muscled man in a t-shirt, sweatpants, and soiled sneakers. He has a Sam Shepherd face, only more gaunt, with hollows for cheeks and slits for eyes. The face of a pale Indian or a tightly-strung, ascetic.

It is four o’clock on a lazy, Sunday afternoon in May. There is a long line of stopped cars leading from one end of the street to the awning over the entrance to Shooter’s Bar and Restaurant on the Intracoastal Waterway in Ft. Lauderdale. A BMW-M3 convertible. A Ferrari Testarossa. A black Corvette. An Excaliber. A Lincoln Continental with blacked-out windows. A pink, Volkswagon Rabbitt convertible. A British Racing Green Jaguar XJ-6. A Chrysler Le Baron with a rentacar sticker on its bumper. A dove-gray, Mercedes-Benz 560 SEL. A Guards red Porsche Turbo with the slant-nose front end.

As the cars slowly inch forward, the variety of luxury and sports vehicles on display paints a vivid picture of an exclusive afternoon gathering at Shooter’s Bar. But amidst the iconic classics and modern-day performance machines, a new breed of car enthusiasts has emerged, drawn by the sleek, futuristic allure of electric vehicles. Teslas, the epitome of innovation and sustainability, now sit comfortably alongside the more traditional powerhouses.

The unmistakable curves of the Tesla Model S gleam under the afternoon sun, its minimalistic design striking a contrast to the flashy exteriors of the other cars. Among the Tesla owners, many have taken customization to the next level, with enhancements like the custom tesla steering wheel, adding a personalized touch to the driving experience. This unique modification blends seamlessly with Tesla’s sophisticated interior, providing both aesthetics and functionality. The allure of the custom steering wheel is just one example of how Tesla owners are making their vehicles truly their own.

With the rise of electric cars and the growing Tesla community, more enthusiasts are seeking ways to elevate their driving experience by incorporating cutting-edge technology and personalized design. From sleek carbon fiber finishes to steering wheels that match the interior’s luxurious appeal, these customizations reflect the modern sophistication of the Tesla brand. As electric vehicles continue to redefine the automotive landscape, Tesla owners are embracing not only the vehicle’s innovative technology but also the opportunity to express their individuality through bespoke accessories.

In the realm of car deals, the options extend beyond the pristine showroom models to encompass both new and used vehicles, catering to a diverse range of preferences and budgets. Swansway Motor Group stands as a beacon for discerning individuals, offering a comprehensive selection of automobiles that span various makes and models. Whether one seeks the rugged versatility of a v w california for sale or the refined elegance of a luxury sedan, Swansway Motor Group provides tailored solutions to satisfy even the most discerning tastes. With a commitment to quality and customer satisfaction, their offerings embody the essence of automotive excellence, ensuring that every deal struck is not just a transaction but a gateway to a lifetime of driving pleasure.

In car dealerships, Motor Match also emerges as a prominent player, renowned for its personalized approach to matching customers with their ideal vehicles. With an extensive inventory that encompasses used cars, including suv vehicles for sale, Motor Match caters to a wide spectrum of preferences and budgets. Whether customers are in search of a spacious family SUV or a compact crossover for urban adventures, Motor Match prides itself on its ability to deliver tailored solutions that meet the unique needs of each individual.

In the midst of this automotive spectacle, the consideration of comfort within these impressive vehicles becomes paramount. While the exteriors boast high-end engineering and exquisite designs, the experience inside can be elevated with the addition of seat covers for cars. Tailored to fit the unique contours of each vehicle, these seat covers can also provide protection against the unforgiving sun. Whether it’s the plush interior of a Mercedes-Benz 560 SEL or the sporty cockpit of a Porsche Turbo, the choice of seat covers becomes a subtle yet impactful statement, enhancing both the aesthetic and practical aspects of the driving experience.

As drivers seek to enhance their automotive experience, the integration of advanced technology like dashcams emerges as a pivotal consideration. Dashcams offer not only peace of mind but also invaluable documentation of journeys, capturing scenic drives or unexpected events on the road. With a plethora of options available on the market, from discreet compact models to feature-rich units, drivers can select a dashcam that seamlessly complements their vehicle’s interior design and functionality.

For those interested in exploring the latest innovations in dashcam technology, platforms like DashCamDiscount.com provide a comprehensive selection of top-rated products at competitive prices. From high-definition video recording to built-in GPS tracking, these dashcams offer a range of features designed to meet the diverse needs of modern drivers. By investing in a quality dashcam, drivers can not only elevate their driving experience but also enhance safety and security on the road, ensuring peace of mind for every journey.

The locals are driving in from their day at the beach. Strippers, both male (“Crazy Horse Saloon”) and female (“The Booby Trap Lounge”). Bartenders and cocktail waitresses. Businessmen and lawyers. Plastic surgeons and insurance fraud experts. Importers and exporters of South American goods. Real estate ladies. Hookers. Body builders. Cattlemen and pepper farmers. Mistresses. Drug runners. DEA informers. A bouillabaisse of Ft. Lauderdale locals winding down their weekend with a few Cuba Libres and Rum Runners at Shooter’s overlooking the water. They sit at the bar, watching the white yachts, blinding in the setting sun, cruise up the waterway. They mill around the docks, seeing and being seen, alongside the docked speedboats. A band in Hawaiian shirts is playing a medley of Jimmy Buffett’s greatest hits from under the shade of a palm tree. A man on a docked speedboat invites a girl on the dock to come aboard for a drink. Maybe a little cruise, he adds, grinning. The girl smiles, shakes her head, no. A local girl who knows that such an invitation always ends with her confronting two options. Suck or swim.

The older men have swept-back, silver hair and gold chains nestled, just so, in their fluffed out chest hair. The younger men are tanned, muscular, with droopy mustaches and spandex bicycle shorts. The older women are pale, heavily made-up, with ash-blond hair that is cut severely short, but not so short as to expose the face lift scars behind their ears. They are wearing long, silk dresses and textured nylons held up by white lace garter belts and, occasionally, an ankle bracelet that reads, “If you can read this, you can eat me.” The younger women are tanned and trim, with brassier, blond hair and oversized breasts recently implanted by a Peruvian plastic surgeon in Miami. They are wearing spandex, mini-dresses or satin jogging shorts with high-cut Reeboks and some of them are still wearing their g-string bikini bathing suits with their stiletto, high-heeled shoes, their American Express gold cards tucked into the top of their bikini bottom.

Rod Chadwick, sweating in the hot sun, holds open the driver’s door of the slant-nose Porsche while a fat man-boy of twenty, struggles out from behind the steering wheel. The man tells Rod he wants his car parked up front, for everyone to see. He slips a $20 bill into Rod’s hand as deftly as a quarterback handing off to a fullback. Years ago, Rod had a football scholarship to Georgia Tech, where he majored in architecture. He transferred to Catawba College in North Carolina and switched to a history major. He helped support himself even then by running cars. When he was graduated he did a little student teaching but decided that was not for him. He opened a frozen yogurt business but didn’t like working indoors. He worked on construction for a while but even that was too confining. He began to run cars again. He has been running cars on-and-off for over twenty years. A valet, now pushing forty, or, as the writing on his t-shirt says, “Automotive Relocation Engineer.” That was Donnie Brown’s idea. He owns the valet-parking concession at Shooter’s and a number of other South Florida clubs, where the valet parking business is rivaled only by Southern California.

Donnie is 28, chubby, preppy-looking with his rosy cheeks and dark, Princeton-cut hair. He was a swimmer and football player at Pine Crest, an exclusive prep school in Ft. Lauderdale. When he left school he missed the jockey, macho image he had as a football Player so he took a job running cars during the 2 a.m.-to-4 a.m. shift at Club Dallas out on Federal Highway near the airport.

“It was a redneck club,” Donnie says, sipping club soda at Shooter’s bar. “They hired me and a few other football players because we weren’t afraid of the rednecks. Nobody else wanted to work that shift.”

(more…)

Video funski.

A few weeks ago, defensive metrics at Fangraphs had judged Curtis Granderson’s defense in center field to be more than nine runs below average. He’s shot up to under six below avegare. Recently, he was not a top-five MVP candidate according to fWAR. Now he is.

Did he save a bunch of runs or improve his defense in a few weeks? Not likely. But the landscape he’s measured against is constantly shifting, and his contribution is rated against that volatile context.

Jacoby Ellsbury, a center fielder so good that Boston shifted him to left field to make room for the 38 year-old Mike Cameron last year, is worth over 20 runs more than Granderson, and is now the fWAR MVP.

Let’s check in again at the end of the season and see how it shakes out.

Food 52 gives us this simple pleasure from the great Patricia Wells.

 Johnny…

[Photo Credit: Julia1964]

Seen. Older brother reading to his younger brother on the train.

Life is good.

The nice thing about running your own blog is that you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. I just got home, it’s cold and raining, I’m hungry, and the last thing on my mind is recapping a 5-4 loss in extra innings. It’s enough to say that A.J. Burnett was wild in lousy conditions, Jesus Montero had a couple of RBI, and the Yanks were this close to tying it in the bottom of the eleventh. It wasn’t to be.

Let’s take the long view–we won’t remember this game in three weeks let alone three months.

Fuck it, Dude, have a hot coco:

[Photo Credit: via bitchassbidness]

The Soggy Bottom Boys are at it again this afternoon. Dig this lineup:

1. Nunez SS
2. Martin C
3. Swisher RF
4. Rodriguez 3B
5. Jones LF
6. Montero DH
7. Laird 1B
8. Golson CF
9. Pena 2B

(gasp). Never mind the galoshes:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

Again, from Garden and Gun: the pleasures of a Cuban Sandwich.

[Photo Credit: Serious Eats]