tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26130622.post6255466738115145997..comments2023-10-18T03:06:25.107-07:00Comments on The Daily Growler: The Fast-Passing PastThe Daily Growlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15052460567863294528noreply@blogger.comBlogger3125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26130622.post-21041561893590448052008-06-22T20:36:00.000-07:002008-06-22T20:36:00.000-07:00About your "moron on the roof" joke: First the mor...About your "moron on the roof" joke: <BR/><BR/>First the moron part,<BR/><BR/>When I was about four years old I asked my mother what "adult humor" meant. She replied with an example: "Why'd the moron saw the toilet down the middle? Because his half-assed brother was coming for a visit." Which just helped to cement my childish belief that adults were utterly ridiculous.<BR/><BR/>Now for the roof part,<BR/><BR/>There was a man with an amazing talking dog who went to a talent scout with dollar bills in his eyes, saying "I have an amazing talking dog." "Yeah, yeah", said the talent scout. "Let's see this."<BR/><BR/>"What's on the top of a house?", said the dog owner.<BR/><BR/>"Roof," said the dog.<BR/> <BR/>"And who was the greatest baseball player of all time?" said the dog owner.<BR/><BR/>"Roof," said the dog.<BR/><BR/>"OUT!" "OUT!" said the talent scout, pointing toward the door.<BR/><BR/>The poor dog and his owner plodded out, slank into the car, and drove off, the owner's depressed schnoz falling below the steering wheel. The empathic dog, looking over, and feeling that he'd somehow been a disappointment, said "Jeez, should I have said Di Maggio?"<BR/><BR/>Why does this joke remind me of you? Or, rather, why do you remind me of this joke? Well, wordy wolf that you are, you still must occasionally say "Woof." Sorry, I won't tell you any more bad jokes.<BR/><BR/>But as long as we're talking about the NY Yankees here, and we are talking about the NY Yankees, after all, the Babe and Jolting Joe were Yankees, I once played my trumpet on the field in Yankee Stadium. The Brooklyn College Symphonic Band played at the re-opening ceremony of Yankee Stadium after the 1974-75 renovation. I don't know who finagled our raggedy-assed incompetency into such a gig, but sure I'm glad they did. I remember a sense of incredible awe at being on the field, on the grass, where Don Larsen pitched his perfect game, the only one ever in a World Series, in the fifth game, in October 1956, one month before I was born. And where the Babe played, and Lou Gehrig, and Joe DiMaggio, and Mickey Mantle hit that home run out over center field in 1961, the longest home run, still, I believe, in the history of the game, and you can't believe how long that home run really was until you stand there in the outfield, on the grass, and that stadium seems bigger than the state of Nebraska, and, Oh how I wanted to play pro ball when I was a kid and if I'd been born a boy child I would have tried for that, like so many of the boys in my family did, and some of them got as far as the minor leagues but we haven't have a major leaguer come out of my family yet, and Shit man, to play my trumpet while standing on the grass on the fucking field in Yankee Stadium was the thrill of a life time and I can't believe those bastard are abandoning that field with all its miraculous history. Shit. I spent my summers paling around with my Dad when I was a little kid and all those names from my ancient childhood, like Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris, are like ancient mantras from another incarnation. "3 and 2", and "high and outside" were phrases I knew before I knew the meaning of them. And I used to wrap my little three year old hands around my father's cans of Rhinegold beer and take a frothy big swig of weird bitter tin can juice while listening to the game in the summer with him wrapped in his nimbus of blue cigarette smoke. And why have all my lovers been chain smoking beer guzzlers? "You smell great", I once said to the fiddle playing lover. "The fuck I do. I smell like a smoky bar." "Exactly. My favorite smell." And always the ball game on in the background. And one of my gardening clients had a tenant who had a dog named Seven. "Oh, how cute. You named your dog after Mickey Mantle." Blank stare. "He was the seventh dog in the litter. Who was Mickey Mantle?" Oh, oh . Ouch, ouch. Do you know that there are people walking upright on this planet who are over the age of 21 and who were raised in the US of A, who do not know who Mickey Mantle was? Good God. And if you haven't figured out by now, I love your baseball writing in the guise of marvelous marv the back biter. So keep going and know that I love you.Marybethhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/13278520565186414844noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26130622.post-31299015705531149632008-05-28T20:20:00.000-07:002008-05-28T20:20:00.000-07:00Sweet drug addict Chet Baker was jumped by a bunch...Sweet drug addict Chet Baker was jumped by a bunch of hoods, drug deal related, I think, and had 5 of his front top teeth knocked out. He said that everyone told him that it was impossible to play trumpet with a plate. But he said he was determined to figure out a way and after three years he got it down and returned to gigging. He has a little autobiography out there floating around "As Though I Had Wings". He's the only trumpeter I know of who managed a successful playing career without teeth. He's heroic just for that. A trumpeter without teeth is a heartbreak. (I love my teeth.)Marybethhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/13278520565186414844noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26130622.post-57497421182598588462008-05-28T06:30:00.000-07:002008-05-28T06:30:00.000-07:00Great post -- I never appreciated Lil Hardin till ...Great post -- I never appreciated Lil Hardin till now. I'll have to go back and listen to her recordings. And of course you're right about the Mets and Willie, and laughin' Joe.Languagehathttps://www.blogger.com/profile/13285708503881129380noreply@blogger.com