Dave The Dastardly

Any truth to the rumor he needs a girdle to hold in his girth?

I'm jealous. Now I wish I would've ponied up the cash for those scalped tickets.

One If By Land, Two If By Sea Okay, our Twins won't have to go by sea, but they can take two from the Beantown Red Sox. I once dined on Boston strawberries and Arkansas wedding cake, washed down with Kansas sheep dip. And that’s no male bovine fecal matter. For those not up on their regional colloquialisms I’ll translate; I dined on baked beans, cornbread and sipping whiskey. No BS. Either with the meal or about the meal. I thought I’d throw that out there because you know, the Twinkies are playing in Boston which is awash in colloquialisms. Among other weird things. I was in Boston once. Spent a couple days there sight-seeing with the family and trying to learn the language. The BoSox were in town playing somebody other than their Dreaded Usual Opponents (your basic DUO for future reference) also known as the Yankees and the Last Born (my son) and I were hoping to snag a couple of tickets so we could return to Minnesota and brag that we’d sat in Fenway Park amid the natives and survived unscathed. Well, maybe a little scathed... but not mortally so. Unfortunately our Household Rules That May Not Be Violated Upon Pain of Death demanded that I run this incidental unplanned expense past the Little Woman (she tops out at 4’ 10 1/2” - never sell her short by dropping that 1/2”), who among her many authoritative positions also serves as Chief Procurement Officer (your basic CPO). Given a Reluctant But Tentative Approval for an expenditure (your basic RBTA) not to exceed our weekly grocery bill, the Last Born and I went searching for your basic UTP, (Unofficial Ticket Purveyor - also known in less educated circles as a scalper). Unfortunately our solicitation encountered some difficulty with the local language. As near as I could determine after several failed attempts at translation was that Shifty the Scalper required a cash expenditure somewhere north of our last family dental bill, which of course we had only been able to retire by signing a second mortgage with Shylock the Loan Shark Banker, before Shifty would cough up a pair of “legit” Fenway tickets. I did not inquire as to what a pair if illegit tickets would cost. Realizing that a third mortgage for BoSox tickets would far exceed the afore mentioned RBTA and would undoubtedly initiate a severe tongue-lashing from the CPO, I, in a fleeting and rare moment of lucidity as Titular Head of Household, reluctantly concluded it would be best to forego Fenway and take the entire family to Cheers instead. If we were lucky we might be able to catch the game on TV with Norm and Cliff. Undeterred we hopped the trolley for the drive-by tour of Boston. Boston trolleys aren’t really trolleys. They’re more like glorified buses with no windows, no air-conditioning and curmudgeonly drivers that point out interesting places as they speed through red lights, one hand on the wheel and the other flipping off other drivers. Maybe “glorified” isn’t the right descriptive. When our curmudgeon’s bird finger wearied, he pulled the trolley to the curb in front of an expensive restaurant that no doubt paid the curmudgeon a commission for dropping thirsty and frightened tourists at their front door. “Where’s Cheers from here?” I asked the curmudgeon as we were forced off the trolley. He said something in Bostonian that we eventually determined meant we’d get there in an hour or so if we ate at the preferred restaurant and waited for the next trolley. “It’s a long walk,” he advised. “Is there a shortcut?” I persisted. Unbeknownst to the curmudgeon, we were Minnesotans and a hardy lot. “I suppose if you cut through the Common,” he grumped, his commission flying out the window. Falsely heartened, we set out on foot across the Common, the Last Born and I eager to catch the game on TV, the Little Woman and the Third Born, our youngest daughter then in college, reluctantly in tow. It was hot and it was humid. And the Common, much to our dismay, was a good six blocks long. Six long blocks long. Which necessitated several fifteen minute rest breaks for the Last Born who was still recovering from foot and ankle surgery; from a baseball injury nonetheless. We reached Cheers about the same time as the next trolley. A fact noted several times by a now overheated and snarky Third Born and punctuated by a series of silent eye rolls from the Little Woman. We found a booth, ordered a round of Norm Burgers and a tall Sam Adams for the Titular Head of Household (that be me). Basking in the pleasant surroundings I slipped into my oft-used portrayal of a man whose beer stein is always half full and remarked to my sweat-soaked and aching family that we could now brag to our friends that we’d strolled through Boston Common on our way to Cheers. “Who would want to admit we were dumb enough to walk when we could’ve ridden the trolley?” the still sullen Third Born demanded as she flipped her long blonde hair off the back of her still sweating neck. I fell back on the old line of broadening our horizons and learning what life was like outside Minnesota, which merely earned more glares for my Pollyanna efforts. Our waitress, who showed up just then with my Sam Adams, overheard me. “You’re from Minnesota?” she asked in awe (well, maybe not awe). I gave her a “you betcha”. She laughed. “That’s funny, so is the family in the next booth.” We exchanged introductions with our fellow Minnesotans and enjoyed a visit in the mother tongue with folks from Benson, MN, soothing the beasts that simmered in the female side of my family. We never did catch the game. Or see Normie and Cliff, but we did learn a valuable lesson. Lesson #276 From the Dastard’s Book of the Painfully Obvious: There are no shortcuts in life. But no matter how long it takes you to round the bases, it’s always good to touch home. Cheers! On the mound tonight it's Kyle "Keep Us In The Game" Gibson (4-5 6.23 ERA) vs. David "Beloved" (That's what David means. Really.) Price (2-2 ERA 4.76) This could be a nail-biter (I say that because Price cracked a finger nail during his last outing) so open up a sleeve of Ritz crackers and grab your favorite beverage.

I can eat them naked. But probably not everyone wants to know that. If you're going to dress up a ritz, try a slab of Schmidt's Original Summer Sausage, topped with a sliver of Swiss cheese. Schells Light or a fine German riesling make a fine wash, both cleanse the palate and sharpens the taste buds. And paves the way for a follow-up ritz.

Oh. I was thinking she might meant "not dead". In which event I'd only be half-eligible. A Manhattan! Jeez! I don't think I've heard someone mention that drink since I was a college student moonlighting as a bartender in a sophisticated supper club. Why they let me work there I don't know. Probably had something to do with my witty repartee. Or maybe it was because I was underage and they could underpay me without fearing I'd squeal on them.

Okay, whaddya mean by "straight-up"?

I had some geese once. Obnoxious beasts. They eventually expired from unilateral neck soreness. Could be the next ailment to hit the Twins bullpen.

Reminds me when I was a kid and one of my younger brothers tried to get out of eating whatever food he didn't like at supper; "My leg hurts, my arm hurts, my heart hurts" and on to whatever anatomical part would draw the correct amount of sympathy and he'd be excused from the table. My mother, God-bless her Irishwoman heart, finally put an end to it by promising my brother his butt was going to hurt if he didn't stop making stuff up and clean up his plate. He eventually grew to 260 lbs. Twins take note. There's some lesson in there about unintended consequences. Be careful you don't outsmart yourselves.

56 was good for me. I "retired" from a career that was sucking the life out of me and became my own boss. Which is pretty easy to be because I'm pretty laid back. I'm definitely the easiest employee I ever had to supervise. Of course my wife helps in that regard...

Forties? I have shoes older than that.

I'm a light eater. Eat a couple 60w bulbs everyday. My brothers-in-law however are prototypical Americans; part pig, part garbage disposal. I once shanghied two of them to help us move. The Little Woman made barbecues for lunch. Mark ate an even dozen. Dan only had eight; he'd had lunch before he got there. Swear to God.

I think Gibby's going to need a couple of comets off the Sanoman's bat today.

I have driven through Kansas numerous times. It was sort of like a "why did the chicken cross the road" thing: I needed to get to the other side. Now Nebraska; let me tell you about driving through Nebraska. The first time I did it was back in the 1970's. In a pickup truck without air - not the air you need to breathe, the air you need to keep your cool. I really had no intention of being in Nebraska. It was just in the way of me getting to Colorado and escaping my in-laws for a couple of weeks. It was July. Mid-day temps were barely south of 100, humidity was like having a wet blanket slapping you in the face. I had both windows open but the resultant breeze was akin to sticking your head into a blast furnace. I had the Platte on my left, a paltry line of scrubby trees hiding its muddy brown waters. To the right were relatively flat parched pastures, an occasional forlorn cow contemplating suicide and on the western horizon a line of railroad cars stretching from here to eternity. An hour later I was in the same place despite my gas gauge having dropped a notch. Two hours later I was in the same place, despite what my odometer was telling me. Three hours later, with the sun now shining in my eyes and bringing the cab temperature up around 150 degrees, I started to wonder if I had died and gone to Hell, condemned to spend eternity in a hot truck driving through Nebraska with the Platte river hiding behind skinny trees on my left and long trains that either never ended or weren't moving on my right. Four hours later I was still in the same place and I was contemplating suicide along with the forlorn cows. Then, just after I'd begun pawing through the cab with the thin hope that I'd left a pistol under the seat (I didn't even own a pistol) that I could use to end it all, I caught a glimpse of dark shadows on the western horizon that slowly grew in size. Mountains! Laughing deliriously, I eased the truck up to 90 mph. Salvation was mine! Until I got stopped by a highway cop. I've crossed Nebraska a half dozen times since, but always at night. In an air-conditioned vehicle. At the speed limit. Crossing Nebraska is sort of like being a Twins fan; it's a long and endless journey, the scenery never seems to change and just when you think you've finally suffered enough, something comes along to dash your hopes.

I'm at a loss. Does the FO think we need help with the pitching staff? How did they come to that conclusion? What was the first, second, third, fourth clue?

I know a guy a few miles from me that threw a pretty decent curveball twenty years back. You think I should send his phone number to the Front Office?

Just started raining here again. One rumble of thunder, a bolt of lightning and now light sprinkles. 60 miles south of Target. Whoops! More thunder. Looks like they'd better start closing the stadium roof if they want to get this game in.

I Have Heartburn So Bad It's Coming Out Of My Ears An enterprising scientist with time on his hands decided to explore the differences in verbosity between the human male and female. I’m not sure what his motivation was behind this new research project but I suspect he was Buxton-like when it came to picking up women; he struck out a lot. Regardless of his motivation, our word-counting scientist discovered the average female utters approximately 80,000 words a day while the average male gets by with around 14,000 words per day, approximately 25% of which are expletives (you ever wonder why Webster came up with a 10-letter word to define 4-letter words?). The fact that women move their lips more often than men is something any married guy could have verified with a sigh and a nod of the head. A married woman on the other hand would probably still be explaining the difference. Now don’t be getting the idea that I’m a misogynist because I’m not. Some of my best friends in the past, if even only for a night or two, have been women. No, I broach the subject merely because I’m a data guy and data guys go by the numbers, mostly because they’re incapable of abstract thinking, disregarding artificial stimulants of course, and with myself being a notable exception. Besides, I know from years of experience that women require all those extra words to issue orders to their men as well as to remind them to do important stuff like take out the garbage and change their undies whereas men only need to nod dumbly when given their instructions. Show me a happily married man and I’ll show you a guy who excels at nodding dumbly. But I have to admit there are times when I really enjoy listening to the Little Woman (she's 4' 10 1/2") prattle on about something I hold in complete indifference. It’s a soothing, relaxing sound... sort of like the background music in the dentist’s office. Why just this morning over coffee I got a fifteen-minute dissertation on the difficulty of French braiding. Probably a thousand words worth. I got in a grunt or two. Personally, I had no idea the French were into ropes. I thought the Chinese made everything for Americans. Except of course baseball. Well okay, maybe the Chinese make American baseballs. Probably why they use that cheap fake stuff for the cover now instead of genuine horsehide like they did back in the Good Ol’ Days. Speaking of horsehides, anybody remember the old cowboy movies where all the good guy had to do to summon his faithful steed was whistle? No “Here Boy! Here Boy! Sit! Ungawa simba!” Sorry, went a little Tarzan there. Tarzan rode elephants, not horses. Maybe because all the horses in Africa had been slaughtered to make baseballs. Anyway Gene Autry, Roy Rogers and the boys just let out an eardrum-piercing whistle that their nag could hear from a mile away while it’s head was stuck in belly-deep grass, or stomping rattlesnakes to death or nodding dumbly at what the mares were telling them. No words needed. In an interesting side note (that’s a pun), eardrum-piercing whistles don’t work well for summoning women. Especially in a shopping mall. You can try it if you want, but take my word for it, shrill whistles tend to summon security guards, not wives. And if so summoned you’ll exhaust your 14,000 daily allotment of words trying to explain what it was you were trying to do. Oh, and the security cops won’t accept “conducting cultural research” for an explanation either. Damn philistines! But think about this, if a guy has only a 14,000 word limit on his daily word-o-meter he’s not going to use ‘em up calling for a horse, or asking strangers in the mall if they’ve seen his wife. Being wise to the extreme, your basic male knows he needs to conserve verbiage. Deviously enough, that brings me to the point of this undertaking; this restrictive 14,000 word limit is why men invented baseball signs. Baseball games you see are usually played in late afternoons and evenings. Which means the players have fairly well exhausted their daily word quota by then. And if they do have any words left in the bank they quickly use them up with baseball chants; “Hum batter batter batter! Chuck it in their big fella! He can’t hit, he can’t hit! No worries here!” Chanting obviously sucks up a lot of words so usually by the third inning the players are out of ammo. But rather than stand around like deaf mutes, they start flashing signs at each other. Now to be clear, grabbing your cup and shaking it isn’t an attempt to communicate. So that’s not a sign. Well it could be a sign of runaway jock itch, but not a sign of communication. Unless you’re Italian. Neither is picking your nose. Something Frankie Viola discovered during a nationally televised game. However touching the tip of your nose, without insertion past the first joint, is an acceptable signal. So’s elaborately clapping your hands, crossing your heart and hope to die, pulling your ear (again avoiding insertion) as well as touching your cap or rubbing the thigh of your pants. The latter is also useful for dislodging boogers and ear wax should you have inadvertently violated the “first joint” rule. Flipping the bird is a sign but since it’s use is not strictly limited to baseball we won’t count it here. Unless of course you are communicating with your opponents. Rolling the eyeballs and/or lifting a skeptical eyebrow are useful signs for communicating with your wife, but not so much for fellow baseball players, who are usually at greater distances and therefore can’t detect subtle eyeball rolling. Especially if you’re wearing the proverbial sunglasses. Sticking your tongue out is another no-no, both for wifely communication and for communicating with baseball players. Unless of course you cover your mouth with your glove. But since men don’t usually wear a baseball glove around the house you should avoid using that particular sign for communicating with your wife unless you’re willing to endure a severe tongue-lashing (little play on words there). Out of necessity baseball signage has evolved into its own unique and secretive language with some signs defying explanation to the uninitiated. And sometimes for the initiated as well. Like Twins baserunners. I have therefore provided a link to a master baseball signor for your elucidation. After viewing you will want to keep an eye on the perpetually vilified White Sox during today’s game if for no other reason than to learn how they keep their sox white. I’m sure they won’t talk about it. Turley the Terrible (0-1 ERA 12.46) takes on the Quintessential Quintana (3-8 ERA 5.07) today, outdoor baseball permitting. Look for a close one, probably something on the order of 35-23. Twins favor of course.

Gee, I'm not impressed. How come the Twins only sign guys the buzzards are circling? Don't we have anybody in the minors who isn't dead meat? Are we really sure Terry Ryan isn't pulling levers behind the big curtain?

Dude! Highness is a state of mind.

The last Chicago guy I looked in the eye gave me a belligerent "What are you looking at a$$hole." That was my brother. Experts say you should never look a mad dog or a Chicagoan in the eye as they consider a direct look a challenge. Even the guys in the toll booths scowled at me when I said "Hi, how's the wife and kids? Got change for a hundred?"

I see what you mean. I love the flowers but what are those big brown things? Rotten molars? And that green guy... one of the Transformers?

Don't do it. It's addictive.

Hey, I'm happy because I never have to go to either NYC or ShyTown ever again. I'll admit it, I'm a BigCityphob. Man was never meant to live in hives or swim upstream on cement highways hoping to fertilize something (an idea, a paycheck or a fellow human being) before they die. Give me the wide open spaces where men are men, women are naturally gorgeous and you can catch a baseball game from the comfort of your own couch where the beer's cheaper, the refrigerator is a few steps away and the bathroom's just down the hall. Wait a minute... I just heard a car go by. First one this morning. Damn traffic! Going to ruin the neighborhood if this keeps up!

I knew we should've kidnapped JoBoo!

Sellers or buyers? Well, since we blew the number one pick on a shortstop we don't need and we'd rather comb the pitching market for other team's cast-offs instead of bringing up the more promising guys from our own minor league system... I'd say we have nothing to sell that any other team would want. Light beer or real beer? Light beer for us old farts because real beer makes us... fart. Hot dogs or Brats? Depends on how you're fixed for antacids. Coffee or Tea? Morning coffee on the deck with the wife, watching the wild birds at her feeders. Eggs or Egg Beaters? Since I keep a small flock of chickens; eggs. Which the wife turns into a great natural breakfast (scrambled -served with our own raspberry jam on toast) after the coffee pot runs dry. Life is good. Twins... not so good. But hope springs eternal.