Category Archives: Pointless Nostalgia

Baseball, Pointless Nostalgia

Shea Shea, Blown Away, What More Do I Have to Say?

Pour some criminally overpriced Bud Lite on the curb tonight for Shea Stadium, which officially ceased to exist earlier this morning.

I’ll miss the dump, don’t get me wrong. I saw my first baseball game there, and saw some incredible games there (both in the good and bad senses of the word), but I am more than ready to see games at Bernie Madoff Field.

My only fear is that the fan experience won’t be enhanced at all. Because the aesthetic deficiencies of Shea were only part of the reason why it was not a great place to watch a game. You judged your game-going experience by how few things went wrong. It was a successful day if your beer wasn’t 90% foam, or if you didn’t watch a vendor sigh and huff because you asked them for a pretzel.

Sure, the new ballpark is supposed to have spiffy restaurants, games for the kiddies, and other neat amenities. But that won’t mean much if said amenities are run by the same incompetent, apathetic morons who ran Shea’s concessions.

It’s not that I need extra bells and whistles to enjoy a game. I’d watch the Mets in the middle of an active volcano if that’s where they played. However, I don’t think it’s too much to ask that, when you pay a lot of money to enter a ballpark, your customer service experience should never be described by words like “insane,” “frustrating,” and “ordeal.”

If you want a glimpse as to how the Mets treat their fans, look no further than Jason of Faith and Fear and Flushing, and the condition of the genuine Shea seats he ordered. That’s how the team treats treasured memorabilia bought by loyal fans at $869 a pop. You can extrapolate from there how they treat folks who spend a mere $15-20 dollars for a hot dog and a beer.

Baseball, Pointless Nostalgia

To Dream the Difficult-But-Not-Completely-Implausible Dream…

I love people who go on insane quests. I’m not talking quite at the Don Quixote level. More like completely pointless obsessions whose realization won’t accomplish anything for the dreamer. They just wanna see if they can do it. After a while, they don’t really know why they’re doing it anymore. But to stop doing it would mean that all that work they’ve done already would be totally wasted.

Want an example? How about a man whose goal is to acquire an autographed version of every single 1983 Fleer baseball card? Omar the Scrivener’s twittering alerted me to the presence of this monomaniacal blog, which I find completely fascinating.

For those who never collected baseball cards, Fleer was the line that ran a distant third in popularity behind Topps and Donruss. And as a cursory view of this site will indicate, their 1983 set was designed with an aggressive lack of imagination, even by the standards of the day. (Compare Topps’ snazzier look from the same year.)

On top of all of this, the pictures on the cards don’t exactly give Ansel Adams a run for his money. Like this card, where Reds pitcher Eddie Milner is caught mid-grimace. Or this one, where the Astros’ Harry Spillman looks kinda President George H.W. Bush. Or this one, where Seattle’s Bryan Clark flashes a nice smile but forgot to push his cap down on his head. Or this one, where Yankee John Mayberry looks like he just awoke from a pleasant nap.

So why has this man settled on Fleer 1983, of all brands/years?

Growing up, I collected baseball cards. For whatever reason, I ended up with many 1983 Fleer cards. Now I’m writing to players asking to autograph their card.

That’s it. Then again, do you need any more reason than this? I think not.

As of this writing, he’s gotten 458 signed cards out of a total of 674., just a little over 2/3 of the way home. Godspeed, good sir. May your quest conclude happily.

Understand: I am not mocking this man in any way. I completely understand where he’s coming from, because I have done things just as complicated and pointless in my life. And am probably doing some now. And will undoubtedly continue to do them in the future.

Like when I was a kid, I wanted to get a complete set of Topps baseball cards from the year I was born. But since I didn’t have enough dough to buy the set outright, I would by them individually. Or in those terrible sets that guys at card shows put together that are completely full of garbage, hoping that gullible idiots like 10-year-old-me will blow 5-10 bucks on. Which we always do, of course, because we are morons.

This is how now I have a baseball card album with 17 Oscar Gambles, 23 Kent Tukulves, and too many Jose Cardenals to count.

Pointless Nostalgia

My Brain Hates Me, Part 8,143

I don’t get tunes stuck in my head. They burrow into my brain like ticks, and it takes some serious countermeasures to lodge them loose, like extreme zen-like concentration, or dynamite.

But even worse is when I get a tune stuck in my head that I associate with a particular visual memory. 99 percent of the time, that visual memory is an old TV show or commercial. It’s a bizarre sensory memory, almost Proustian–in that it makes me want to lock myself in a cork-lined room and never come out again.

Since I seem to be the only idiot who remembers the bygone TV fare of yesteryear, there’s usually no point in explaining the whole Madison Avenue spectacle going on in my head. All it does is make me appear more insane than usual, like I’m starring in my own private version of Gaslight. Except I’m not being tortured by a sadistic husband, but my own steel-trap memory (if steel traps only clamped down on pointless garbage).

Why, for instance, can’t I simply get “Celebration” by Kool and the Gang stuck in my head? No, it has to be accompanied by an endless loop of Kool and the Gang dancing with Wendy’s Chicken Nuggets.

Regardless, I want to give you a glimpse of the hell that has been my brain for the last few days. Over the holidays, I heard “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart” more than once. So it got stuck in my head, right? Oh, if only t’were so simple!

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