The Birds and the Bees - let this be a warning to you Dback foes



My last Flog referenced my cousin Hank Greenwald, the long-time color announcer for the San Francisco Giants. Hank's son, Douglas, is broadcasting Triple A ball and heading for the Big Leagues.

Ironically, Sunday night Doug arrived a late for dinner at my house with a lame story about bees interrupting the Diamondbacks/Giants pre-season game in the top of the second. Bees. Really?

"The huge swarm entered Salt River Field over the right center-field wall, flying directly over the infield and settling in the Giants’ dugout," Doug announced. "The Bee Team sent players scurrying from the dugout and fans from their seats and brought the Bee Squad running. It took 41 minutes to kindly and gently clear out the bees (maybe the umpires just asked them nicely) and get on with the ball game. Oh! The Dbacks graciously gave up a few runs - you know, 'cause bees aside, they're nice hosts. Record attendance: 12,675. Number of bees, uncounted.

So now we have the Birds and the Bees.

Back in 2005, Randy Johnson uncorked a fastball that was rudely intercepted by a bird flying into the path of the baseball. The bird exploded over home plate and a new catagory had to be added to RJ's statistics.

On March 25, 2005 after five innings, the Colorado Rockies and the Arizona Diamondbacks were forced off the field in Tucson by hundreds of angry bees.

ESPN reported after that game that “Darren Oliver, pitcher for the Rockies, was the first player targeted. The swarm apparently smelled hair gel and decided his head was the perfect place for a giant bee feast/orgy. No mention was made of the brand of hair gel, but I suppose it's probably not the kind of event that will score an endorsement deal.

The Diamondbacks tried to take the field in the sixth, but "by then the bees had spread over the entire field." The shortstop was chased into the far end of center field and, after a brief discussion, the humans elected to flee Tucson Electric Park. NO HITS. NO RUNS. NO ERRORS and incredibly, NO STINGS reported in the crowd of 8,029.

It should be noted that none of the bees, nor Randy's bird, had tickets to the game.

Stay tuned ... the Phoenix Zoo isn't too far away from the ball park ... who knows what will be taking the field next!

You Can't Be Too Careful



I got a call yesterday from my cousin Douglas Greenwald, who is following in the footsteps of his father, Hank Greenwald, the play-by-play voice for many years for the San Francisco Giants (with a two year stint with the New York Yankees).  I wasn't able to schmooze any seating out of Douglas for today's sold-out D-backs/Giants game, so I couldn't do any in-person research for this Flog - but it's early in the month and my editor/gallery manager/business partner assures me that she will harangue me daily about nepotism as it pertains to box seats.

It's March 3, 2012 - BATTER UP!

Last season was a year for the record books. At 15 teams strong, the Cactus League Spring Training season in Greater Phoenix set the all-time record for overall league attendance with 1,595,614 attendees at 233 games. The 2011 season also represented the first time all 15 Major League Baseball teams were consolidated in the Phoenix-metropolitan area and we saw the opening of the league’s newest stadium in Scottsdale, Salt River Fields at Talking Stick, home of the Arizona Diamondbacks.

The Diamondbacks were supposed to be also-rans with limited fans in 2011. But with the super-enthusiasm of my editor and her family, attendance was up more than 90% from the previous year’s figures. Season-wide attendance was 2,105,432.  Eileen was personally responsible for D-backs winning streaks (those come-back games in late September resulted from the force of her will) and ignited my enthusiasm, taking me to Chase Field where I set a personal record, attending seven games, (every one of which the D-backs won). And, we introduced my fabulous 4-year-old granddaughter, Izzy, to baseball. She knew every word of Take Me Out to the Ballgame and sang it in preparation for the 7th Inning Stretch, although she didn't care much for the Legends (the giant heads that run around the bases and thru the concourse) - except for at a safe distance.

I grew up in Seattle, an avid fan of the Seattle Rainiers of the Pacific Coast League. I listened intently to the “recreation” off of a ticker tape of the incomparable Leo Lassen.

Leo was a sportswriter and publicist who became a living legend as a baseball radio broadcaster in Seattle. He covered the city’s Pacific Coast League teams from 1931 to 1960.  His glory years coincided with those of the Seattle Rainiers when they played at Sicks' Seattle Stadium.

Baseball was the biggest game in town, and Lassen was its voice. His distinctive rapid-fire delivery, packed with detail and baseball knowledge, was known throughout the city. His broadcasting career ended with a salary dispute and he withdrew into private life, never returning to the ballpark where he had earned fame. A lifelong bachelor, he spent his retirement caring for his mother and tending his roses at his Wallingford home. He died without any surviving family members but with legions of fans who remembered him with appreciation and affection.

When my cousin, Carla Reiter, married Hank Greenwald, my connection to baseball and Leo Lassen was renewed. I followed the SF Giants until Eileen introduced me to the Diamondbacks.

Hank Greenwald had the same kind of remarkable knowledge of baseball and there are myriad stories of his career. My favorite was his tradition of turning over the play-by-play for one inning in each game to his color side-kick, who one night became speechless when the grounds crew came out and the game was delayed. The surrogate play-by-play guy managed to tell the listeners what was happening and said he would send somebody down to the field to find out what was causing the delay and returned to the microphone minutes later to announced that there was a problem with the rubber.

Wherein, Hank leaned into the mike and announced:  “We practice safe baseball in San Francisco.”

I’ll return soon with a second inning of my baseball report.   Incidentally, the Diamondbacks beat the Giants 9-6 today.

Kismet, Karma and Google Maps

I recently pointed out to David that he has been falling down on the Flog.  Just because he spent the last few months traveling, opening an art gallery, convalescing from a nasty cold, moving into a new home (which involved consolidating three households), entertaining visiting friends and relatives, relapsing and re-convalescing from the nasty cold, attempting to ascertain how unpacked boxes in the garage  seem to propagate and failing miserably at reining in his entrepreneurial tendencies (investing in at least two other businesses that I know of), doesn’t mean he should abandon the all important Flog. 

After all, there are dozen(s?) of you faithful Flog-ites who have been waiting in breathless anticipation for David’s next observations.  Well, I have taken matters into my own keyboard.  I have had to put my editing axe…uh…pen down to step into the role of High Priestess of the Art Gallery, but unlike that slacker David, I can multi-task. 

What about David’s travels, you are wondering?  Keep wondering … that’s a Flog for another day.  Today, I will tell you of The Eye of the Beholder … David’s new art gallery near Old Town Scottsdale (5^th Avenue and Marshall Way).   The Eye, was born of a combination of David’s desire to display the portion of his massive art collection that would not fit on the walls of his home and some dumb luck in acquiring an ideal gallery space in an ideal location with ideal terms.

It began with a bag of small petrified wood pieces purchased at the lone retail establishment at Ft. Courage (somewhere along the I-40 between New Mexico and Arizona).  I’d given them to my jewelry designing mother who decided to drill holes in them.  Thus began the search for drill bits that would cut thru petrified wood.  Mom handed me a bead magazine and pointed to an advertisement in the back for Diamond Drilling (or something like that).  I called the number which was disconnected, then noticed the magazine was five years old.     I Googled the company name and found a current number which was answered by a gentleman named Elliot.  He indicated he was no longer in the bead business, but after explaining what I was looking for, invited us down to his office.

We went, and got the grand tour of Elliot’s ginormous, un-named office building which housed his collection of collections (he collects everything).  Two hours later, we left with a set of hollow, diamond edged drill bits. 

Fast-forward six months.   David is in Old Town Scottsdale taking a look at a retail space that a friend has mentioned is for lease.  David doesn’t think too much of the space but continues looking around the neighborhood.  He comes across a vacant, dusty windowed building on Marshall Way and takes a photo of the “for sale” sign in the window.   When he shows it to me, I tell him I think I recognize the name and tell him about Elliot.  The phone number on the sign is disconnected and I couldn’t remember the name of Elliot’s business, but I remembered where the building was.  I Google-mapped it and came up with a business name (but no phone number), and give the info to David. 

A few weeks later, David calls me as he is leaving a hospice facility where he has been visiting a friend … which happens to be directly across the street from Elliot’s building.  David goes to the building and three hours later emerges with a new best friend – Elliot.  Two weeks later, we have a short term lease on the Marshall Way building and we are officially in the Art Gallery Business.  We have a Gallery High Priestess (me), a Gallery Master (Kris – although I tried to sell him on “Gallerina”) and Schlepper (David).    

Oh, and we have some art.   For sale.  Stop by, visit us on the web, or call us … we almost certainly have something you can’t live without (Eye of the Beholder).  You can thank me in person for updating The Flog.

Regards,

Mean Eileen, Editing Queen and High Priestess of the Gallery

Eye of the Beholder   4251 N Marshall Way  Scottsdale, AZ  85251

Semantics 101 for the Ultra-Crazy (with extra foam)

Letter to Alan Keyes

Dear Mr. Keyes,

I received your “urgent memorandum” which was enclosed in an envelope bearing the words JURY DUTY NOTICE in large bold letters affixed with a Non Profit postage stamp.

I assume your fund-raising  efforts have reached desperation levels,  thus the subterfuge required to get anyone to open correspondence bearing your name. 

The reason you have never been elected to any public office is that you are a whack-job (interpret that however you like – it’s such a conveniently flexible term).

I am impressed however, that you have managed to convey in writing a tone that can only be described as jet engine-like screeching hysteria.  Chicken Little would be envious.  Leaning so far to the right has its perils – you’ve obviously bonked that side of your head so many times that your creativity is limited to fake civic duty announcements.  That’s civic – as in U.S.  government – as in the one with offices to which you have never been and will never be elected.  Because you are a whack-job.  In consolation, if "Crazy Town" were an actual place, you'd be a shoe-in for mayor.

You are entitled to your insane rantings – this is America after all.    

However, I find it somewhat less than amusing that you point (excuse me, vigorously thrust) your finger at what you call Obama’s criminal behavior while actively evading taxes under the guise of myriad non-profit organizations.   You rail against “big government” while milking the system for your personal gain. 

You don't really deserve it, but I have decided to enclose the "generous gift" you begged for; two pieces of embossed copper bearing the profile of an original tree-hugging liberal. 

But I am reporting to the U.S. Postal Service that you are abusing Nonprofit postage, the deceptive words “Jury duty notice” on the envelope and eight pages of irresponsible and extreme statements demeaning the President of the United States and the Office of The President of the United States.

It appears to me that you,  Alan Keyes, may be in violation of False or Deceptive Representations, the Postal law (TITLE 39 > PART IV  > CHAPTER 30 > Sec. 3005) prohibiting false or deceptive representations made in an attempt to obtain money or property through the mail.  This section was amended a few years ago to authorize the Postal Service to impose significant monetary penalties. The law now permits an administrative penalty for deceptive mailings of up to $1,000,000 for the first offense depending on the volume of mail.

Shame on you, you selfish hedonist.

If The Shoe Fits ...

More adventures in How Not To Buy A House in Arizona

My housemate/daughter's  Realtor turned onto a back-road circuitous route to the first house of ten we would look at on her quest to find the right house for two adults needing two home offices, bedrooms and baths, two rooms for young children, one for a Nanny and a large well equipped kitchen.

The long street went by one corral after another with beautiful horses.

Scottsdale, AZ had segued into Louisville, KY. I loved the ride. I loved the horses. I loved the ambiance (Ruth clearly didn’t).  I liked the contemporary ranch-style home (again, "no bueno" from Ruth).  But when she walked into the master bedroom closet the large shoe collection within captured her attention.  She noticed immediately that the owner of the home wears the same size as she does.

I turned to  Realtor Rick.   “Do the shoes convey?” I asked.

If he can work it out, we may have a new home.

And after all that, the burger was just ok

WARNING!  Use caution (and telepathy) when driving through Pueblo of Laguna, New Mexico. 

A few nights ago I was bringing up the rear of a three-vehicle procession on Old Route 66 from the Guadalupe Vineyards near San Fidel, NM.  The vintner, Tony, had his face fixed for dinner at his favorite burger joint in the village of Bibo which he alleged was a fifteen minute drive away.  The Sledgehammer of Reason (having liberally sampled the goods at the vineyard) let me drive the picturesque rural road; my only turn at the wheel on a 1,000 mile, 3-1/2 day journey.   Tony was driving the lead vehicle, followed by his cousin, famed artist Pablo Milan with his lovely significant other, Len.   

Having only a glimmer of an idea where we were and knowing the "smart" phone got progressively dumber the closer we got to the mountains, I kept pace with the rest of the pack.  Tony was clearly starving after a hard day of grape-crushing and was not wasting any time.  As we drove over a hill one of New Mexico's finest (and youngest) pulled out from the side of the road with his lights flashing.

I pulled over to the shoulder to let him pass, as did Tony and Pablo.   To my surprise, he pulled up behind me ... and to his surprise he then discovered his Super Powers had inadvertently kicked in, and had managed to bag three vehicles with one stop.   Appearing a bit confused, the officer asked if we were all together to which I responded affirmatively, adding that we were all on our way to dinner in Bibo.  Had I ever been to Bibo, I would have realized how suspicious this sounded - it actually takes longer to say, “Bibo” than it does to drive through it and I gather Zagat doesn't have any impending plans to check it out. 

I hadn’t been going that fast (and certainly not faster than Tony) so I wasn’t sure why I was being pulled over.  Inebriated co-pilot?  Seemed unlikely.  Missing hubcap?  Ugly, but as far as I knew, not a crime.  It turns out that going over that last hill, the speed limit dropped briefly from 55 to 35 and I had been clocked at 47.  There supposedly was signage, somewhere, that indicated the change in speed limit - just not anywhere visible from the road. 

Officer Confused demanded my license and registration which he then took back to his vehicle for a mini-investigation.   Meanwhile, the Sledgehammer managed to get a call through to Pablo to tell him what was going on.   Of course, most of a bottle of one stellar Grey Riesling (among others) made the message sound a lot like, “ah tink we’re butted for weeding” which I suppose is why Pablo and Len suddenly lurched around to get their eyes on the situation.

Whatever info the cop was able to ascertain about me was apparently disappointing – he reluctantly clipped his handcuffs back on his belt and returned to our car.     Vintner Tony (administrator of the local parochial school and well known in the community) started to get out of his truck but was ordered back in by the cop.  I was then handed a pink slip and informed in a out-of-the-vast-generosity-of-my-Super-Powered-heart tone that I was only receiving a warning which held no repercussions license or insurance-wise. 

My fellow intrepid travellers' collective opinion was that there were too many witnesses to issue a BS speed trap fine.  It should be noted that of our three vehicles, mine carried the only out-of-state plate.   Not implying anything - I'm just sayin' ...

Further Musings on Occasionally Convenient Coincidences

The slightly interesting news: There are 28,477 people in the U.S. with the last name Stern. Statistically the 1,311th most popular last name.

The good news: There are only 337 people in the U.S. named David Stern. I am David F. Stern. (#237). F as in Friedman, my mother’s maiden name, not F as in the F-word people in Phoenix still apply emphatically to the NBA commissioner (who is #266).

In 1959 I went with a group of Wharton Business School students I had just met to a bar adjacent to the campus. A man introduced himself as the establishment’s owner and apologized for having to ask for our ID. I was first to produce mine.

“Are you related to David Stern, the publisher of the Philadelphia Record?” he asked. Sensing an opportunity, I replied, "He's my father." He called the waiter over to our table and said to him “drinks on the house for these fellows.”

Four years later I was invited to dinner in New York City by a friend who wanted me to meet a guy named Johnny Stern who was producing the TV show Victory at Sea. After introductions I asked Johnny Stern how he got such a job in TV at his relatively young age. “My father is publisher of the Philadelphia Record,” he said.