Strike... and Yer Out

I LOVE THE NBA!

I have been a basketball fan three days short of forever.

I’ve been in the same NBA Fantasy League since 1993.

My son shares the same birthday as Michael Jordan.

I was the ball boy underneath the basket for Magic Johnson’s first game in the NBA.

A game which ended when Magic’s teammate, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, hit an 18-foot sky hook at the buzzer.

A sky hook that beat us by a point.

I’m old enough to remember watching Moses.

Malone.

And Dr. J.

In person.

And the Jordan before Jordan.

George Gervin.

(Best Nike Poster EVER by the way.)

Lloyd Free gave me a new name before he changed his.

To World B. Free.

He called me “Stove.”

I thought it was because I had a pot belly as a teenager.

He said it was because I was warm on the inside.

Loved that guy!

Now before I cut a tire on Memory Lane.

Let me say that I still the love the game today.

At times, it may be too much me me me.

But it is still a great game.

I just hope we don’t start saying it “was” a great game.

There’s a good chance by the time you read this, the NBA will be on full lockdown.

Lockout.

Whatever.

Honestly I don’t care if you call it a strike.

A work stoppage.

I call it bad news.

And if the reports are even close to true, this bad news might be with us for a while.

I haven’t watched a full NHL hockey game for probably five years.

Really.

I used to be the biggest fan.

THE biggest.

In the late 80’s, I fell in love.

With the Quebec Nordiques.

I watched every game.

On the satellite dish.

Even though I lived in Los Angeles.

I made several trips to Le Colisee to watch my Nords.

And eat Pomme Frites.

Even though they were gross.

I read the French newspapers.

Even though I don’t speak French.

I bought a Joe Sakic jersey.

Rooted for Mats Sundin.

And Owen Nolan

And Tony Twist.

And Ron Tugnutt.

I loved them all.

I couldn’t wait for the day that the Nordiques franchise would finally bring home the Stanley Cup.

That day finally came in 1996.

One year after the team moved to Colorado.

And the great people of Quebec City got nothing.

I don’t really care why the team moved.

Greed.

Money.

Owner.

Player.

Whatever.

The bottom line is they moved.

And us diehard fans just died.

In 1994, Major League Baseball went on strike.

Eliminated the World Series.

I still can’t say that out loud without spitting.

Major League Baseball eliminated the World Series.

Poof.

Gone.

Wow!

That same month, the genius NHL went on strike.

Lockout.

Whatever.

They ended up missing 104 days.

The 1994 season didn’t start until 1995.

The NHL, the ugly step sister of all the “major” sports, had a chance to show off.

While big brother baseball was in a time out.

Instead, the NHL decided to sit in the corner.

And pout.

I said it then and I say it now.

That was the death of the NHL.

Of course it didn’t help that another lockout put the entire season on ice in 2004.

No games.

Believe it or not, if you put a loaded gun to your head and keep pulling the trigger.

You will eventually kill yourself. 

The NBA’s pistol is loaded.

And this one’s not named Maravich.

The NBA somehow survived a work stoppage in 1998.

Starting that season in 1999.

I’m not sure it can live through another triple bypass.

With nearly ten percent of this country without a job, it’s pretty near impossible to have sympathy for these devils.

The average unemployment check is $293 per week.

The average NBA salary is $92,199 per week.

I’ve heard that something like two thirds of the teams in the NBA are losing money.

And I actually believe it.

At the end of the day, I’m probably an owners guy.

And I do understand why these multi-millionaire owners don’t want to keep losing multi-millions of dollars.

And I do understand why these multi-millionaire players don’t want to give up their multi-millions of dollars.

But here’s my one fan's opinion.

Figure it out.

Period.

Order some Gourmet Chinese Food.

Lock yourself in the Ritz-Carlton.

And figure it out.

If you don't.  

We will.

Don't Mess With the Zoo-han

Marlin Perkins died on June 14.

1986.

And that’s too bad.

Because if the host of Wild Kingdom was still with us.

I’d have the perfect location for his next show.

My backyard.

From my backyard you can hear the coyotes.

Sometimes see a deer.

A buck.

Or Elk.

(What’s the difference?)

Add our two dogs.

Loads of insects.

Plus a squirrel or four.

And you’ve got a show.

But wait there’s more.

A few days ago my wife and daughter were roaming around the backyard.

When they saw not one...

Not two...

But three..

SNAKES.

Ok, they were garter snakes.

The wuss of the snake family.

Which was perfect for me.

The wuss of my family.

The closest I ever got to a snake was when Ken Stabler was the quarterback for my Oakland Raiders.

But where I come from, a snake is a snake.

And I want no part of it.

Fortunately I wasn’t home for the first two sightings.

For snake #3, I stood by the door and watched my wife pick up the slitherer with a pair of tongs.

And fling it over the fence.

“THAT’S RIGHT... GET OUT,”  I yelled.

From behind the glass.

Unfortunately three was not enough.

A few days later snake #4 arrived.

And I was the only one home.

As my luck would have it, I had just locked myself out of the house by closing the back door.

In order to get back in, I had to walk to the front of the house.

And go through the garage.

As I took three steps toward the path to the garage.

There he was.

Staring at me.

Like the whale staring at George Costanza.

The backyard was angry that day, my friends.

Like an old man trying to send back soup in a deli.

I got about three feet out and suddenly the great beast appeared before me.

I tell you he was ten stories high if he was a foot.

Ok, maybe he was six inches.

But still.

He was blocking my path to freedom.

So I backed up.

Slowly.

Went inside.

Grabbed those same tongs.

And airlifted the big fella into the next zip code.

Or 20 feet.

Whichever came first.

Thankfully I haven’t seen him since.

Thankfully for him, that is.

But that is far from the end of our backyard zoo.

A few weeks ago my seven-year old daughter noticed a bird building a nest.

The nest kept getting bigger.

And bigger.

And before you knew it, it was the full-time home for a momma.

And her brand new chicks.

Fortunately the nest is located in an area where it provided no challenges.

For us.

Or them.

So like John & Paul, we’ve just let it be.

I must say it is pretty darn cute watching the mama dropping fresh worms into the mouth of her babies.

My daughter loves it too.

So much so that she visits her new friends several times a day.

Well today she was outside visiting when we heard a shreek.

Seconds later she was in the house.

“You gotta see this,” she said.

So we headed out back.

Expecting the worse.

And what we found was bad.

Really bad.

Another bird, building another nest.

Inside our satellite dish.

Gasp!

“OH MY GRAVY,”  I thought.

What if I can’t record Glee?

Come on, a man can only be pushed so far.

So I went inside.

Grabbed a ladder.

And those same pair of tongs.

The ones with the rubber tips.

And I got ready for surgery.

I think it was my 12th grade Physics class that taught me.

Metal tongs on metal satellite dish = KABOOM.

So I inched up the ladder, with rubber tipped tongs in hand.

Got myself in position.

And started plucking away at the nest.

Snakes, Deer, Elk, Coyotes, Insects... fine.

Birds messing with my TiVo?

I don’t think so.

We sent the seven-year old inside.

Just in case there was something in the nest that she shouldn’t see.

Good move.

I pulled piece by piece away from the dish.

Like I was Patrick Dempsey inside a fake ER.

Then finally it was time to remove the biggest chunk.

The nest.

I reached in.

Got a good grip.

And yanked the sucker out of its resting spot.

Dropping it ten feet down to the ground.


Take that!!!

As the nest landed on the pavement.

You heard my wife gasp.

Seconds after you heard three eggs crack.

Like it was happy hour at Denny’s.

(I hope my daughter doesn't read this blog.)

Now I don’t take any pride in killing animals.

But a man’s got to do.

What a man's got to do.

To protect his family.

And his Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

You Live, You Learn

Time to put all of my post-its into one blog.  Enjoy!   

Sir Bacon

My father-in-law doesn’t like eggplant.

I learned that today.

He is Korean.

And Californian.

And is in town visiting.

During lunch he informed us that he doesn’t eat eggplant.

And hasn’t since 1952.

“That’s all we ate during the war,” he said.

And he got sick of it.

Sixty years ago.

It’s funny what you learn.

And when.

*****

I learned that you never know who you are going to meet at 7/11.

The other day the guy in front of me bought two packages of Marlboro 100s.

A Penthouse Magazine.

Face Down.

And a beef stick.

He told the cashier.

“I’ll bet you didn’t recognize me without my Wendy’s uniform on.”

Who knew Wendy’s paid so well.

*****

A few months back I took my family to see the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall.

My youngest daughter asked if my oldest daughter was going to be a Rockette one day.

My wife said, “she’s not going to be a Rockette.”

“She’s going to be a rocket.. scientist.”

*****

I spent an entire week in the barracks of Cooperstown with my son and his 12-year old baseball team.

I learned that one of the boys wants to be a youth pastor when he gets older.

He asked me who my favorite Christian artist was.

“Is Lil Wayne Christian?”, I responded.

How would I know.

I’m Jewish.

*****

I learned that time can erase a lot from your memory.

When I got to Cooperstown I had forgotten about a trip we made there when I was in my teens.

I was there with my mom, dad and brother.

It got so hot in our hotel, we opened a window.

A short time later, a bat flew in.

Not a baseball bat.

Even though we were in Cooperstown.

A real bat.

Dracula-ish bat.

While I dove under the covers, my brother smashed it with a tennis racket.

Like he was Bjorn Borg.

Brother-1, Bat-0.

*****

I learned that having a peanut allergy can be dangerous.

And humiliating.

When you walked in the mess tent in Cooperstown, there was a roped off area for the kids with a peanut allergy.

The thought was right.

But it looked like they were eating in jail.

*****

I learned that I really got along well with one of the dads.

Who is also an assistant coach.

“I wish we would’ve got to know each other better over the last five years,”  he told me.

“Because we are alike.”

The next thing I knew we were taking a shower together.

In the community shower.

With 10 other dads.

I’ve never met.

I learned that bathing suits were required in the boys showers.

But optional for the men.

*****

I learned that some men like shaving in the shower.

Even the community shower.

Even the guy who had more hair on his back.

Than he did on his face.

Or his head.

*****

I learned that Cooperstown Dreams Park is run by a dictator.

Those were his words.

Not mine.

I asked him why we couldn’t wear our own team hats with the uniform they provided.

“I don’t want the teams to look like a gigolo in Atlantic City.”

He also told us that the boys need to wear their pants pulled up to the knees.

So they don’t look like “thugs.”

Sir, Yes Sir!

*****

I learned that there is a new theatre for performing arts in Oneonta, New York.

“Good bands are coming this year,” I was told.

“The Wailers were just here -- Bob Marley’s old band.”

“Blue Oyster Cult is next.”

“Oooooooh”, I thought.

“I hope they play Burnin for You.”

Who's next, The Knack?

Weekend at Grossinger's

Grossinger’s Resort.

Grossinger’s Resort.

Grossinger’s Resort.

Did I mention -- GROSSINGER’S RESORT.

Those two words changed my blog.

For at least a day.

You see Sunday I wrote a blog about my recent trip to Cooperstown.

And in that blog I mentioned that my father and I went to Grossingers Resort in upstate New York when I was 12.

Then I made the smooth, almost seamless transition to the trip I took with my 12-year old son last week to Cooperstown.

In upstate New York.

Those are the types of segues that win Pulitzer Prizes people.

But what does this have to do with my blog.

Well, here’s what.

Monday night I was watching Goldmember in the basement with my kids.

At some point between Mike Myers costume changes I picked up my iPhone and clicked on sitemeter.com.

That’s the software that shows me who is reading my blog at that exact second.

(It’s so addicting.)

Well as soon as it loaded, I immediately noticed something abnormal.

The number of eyeballs on the blog had gone bonkers.

Now when I say bonkers, I’m not talking youtube bonkers.

Or even perezhilton bonkers.

Sir Bacon is still a local mom and pop operation.

But at 10:30pm ET on Monday night, I had dozens of readers on my website.

At a time when on some nights I don’t even have one.

Readers from Port Saint Lucie, Florida.

Amarillo, Texas.

Mattawa, Washington.

Bixby, Oklahoma.

Warrenton, Virginia.

And the Czech Republic.

And MANY others.

So I put on my Inspector Clouseau hat to get some answers.

That’s what journalists do.

Well it turns out every single one of those readers had found Sir Bacon from the same exact place.

The yahoo search engine.

By searching for the same exact words.

Grossinger’s.

and

Resort.

I hear Grossinger’s is huge in the Czech Republic.

I did some snooping to see if Grossinger’s was in the news last week.

Nothing.

My friend said maybe Howard Stern mentioned Grossinger’s on his show.

Nothing.

Maybe the return of Fear Factor is being shot at the Grossinger’s Resort.

Nothing.

Now the initial surge into sirbaconville certainly caught me off guard.

But what really blew me away was how it continued.

For the next day-and-a-half.

And during that time I had literally 20 times the amount of readers I usually get.

And 99% of the readers found me by searching for those same two magical words.

“Grossinger’s” and “Resort”.

Now the fact that hundreds of people -- from all over the world --were all searching for a resort in upstate New York at the same time is a little funny.

And the fact that they all stumbled across my blog by doing that search is a little bizarre.

But here’s where it gets flat out creepy.

Oliver Stoney if you will.

According to wikipedia, Grossinger’s Catskill Resort Hotel closed its doors.

In 1986.

25 years ago!

(Cue the Halloween music.)

Now I’ve been writing this here blog for the last 18 months.

And I’ve been constantly blown away by how many people have found it.

And I thank every single one of you for doing so.

But it’s not like I’m advertising Sir Bacon on the Super Bowl.

This is a word of mouth thing.

And the fact that anybody has found me still blows me away.

But how is it that casually mentioning a hotel in my blog.

A hotel that closed its doors 25 years ago.

Can increase my audience by 20 times.

That makes no sense.

If it’s really that easy...

I’ll be writing a blog on Grossinger’s Resort every Monday.

The 1959 Edsel Ford every Tuesday.

My favorite M*A*S*H* episodes on Wednesdays.

I’ll have a million followers by Thursday, right?

Thank you Grossinger’s.

RIP.