Transformer Jr.

Whilst in the car, my iPod rolled over to “Satellite of Love” (the Lou Reed version, not the Joel Hodgson version). I started to sing it to The Baby in the back seat, and she seemed to genuinely like it.

I can tell when The Baby genuinely likes something. She is already quite adept at expressing displeasure, or just looking straight past you when she doesn’t care to be bothered with you. She can even fake-laugh already, when she thinks she should be laughing at something.

So The Baby likes Lou Reed. I’ve promised The Baby that for her next birthday, I’m getting her a copy of Metal Machine Music.

Famous Last Words, A Decade in Advance

As I’ve noted on this site many times, I’m starved for baseball right now. So I’ve been watching some of the All-Time Games on the MLB Network, even though their listings and what they actually show don’t always jive.

F’rinstance, on Saturday, the cable guide said they’d show the Mets’ home opener from 1985 (which Gary Carter won with a walk-off homer in his NY debut). But they showed Tom Seaver’s 200th victory instead. Which was a fine alternatvie, except that Tom Terrific looked extremely strange in that hideous 80s White Sox uniform.

On Sunday, they showed a Tigers/Yankees game from 1976, where Mark “The Bird” Fidrych started for Detroit. I’d always heard that The Bird was a maniac who alternately delighted and annoyed crowds with his mound antics. But this sample from his only good season didn’t provide anything too exciting, at least to my eyes. Maybe people were more excitable back in them days.

What really piqued my interest were the pregame introductions. Each member of the two teams stated their name, position, and hometown, as is routinely done in nationally televised football games these days.

When they got to Yankees skipper Billy Martin, he said “Born Berkeley, California, died New York.”

Both Billy and the camera crew laughed heartily at this. Viewed with historical perspective, this statement is either eerily prophetic or possessed of the kind of doomed gallows humor found in most Alcoholic Literature (see: Under the Volcano, A Fan’s Notes).

It floored me so much that I wanted to rewind it, tape it, and post it to YouTube. And then I remembered that MLB is a total dick when it comes to posting video. So you’ll have to take my word for it. Or watch the game when they rerun it, which I’m sure they’ll do 900 times or so.

Submit to the Guild of Calamitous Intent!

guild.jpgAfter taking a one-year hiatus from running a fantasy league (though not playing in them, I assure you), I have decided to don my commissioner’s cap once again. Not only that, but I shall allow you, the Scratchbomb reader, to join said league: The Guild of Calamitous Intent! (Which will be its name until Doc Hammer and Jackson Publick sue me.)

It will be a head-to-head league via Yahoo, who I’ve found to be reliable in fantasy matters in the past (unlike some other sites). We’ll have a live online draft; it’s currently scheduled for the evening of Monday 3/16, but we can adjust that date/time if it proves difficult for any potential participants.

Right now, The Guild is a 12-team league, and slots are given out on a first-come-first-serve basis, so act fast. Already, The Wife has joined, as has Skitch Hanson (although I’m going to have to talk to him about his team’s unfortunate name).

If you’re interested in joining the fray, comment on this post and I will send yez an invite. THEN PREPARE TO BE DOMINATED ON YOUR FACE.