Mondays don't trouble me on their stereotyped merits or lack thereof. The week has to start somewhere, might as well be Monday.
This one was a real kick in the metaphorical teeth.
Monday is trash & recyclables day, so as I was heading out, I intended to roll both cans back down the driveway if they'd been emptied. The large, blue recyclables cart was done, so I wheeled and parked it. The gray trash can...
...was gone.
Not lying nearby, not knocked up or down the cross street. Just -- gone. After calling Val to assure that she hadn't hidden it, I called APD. They dutifully took a theft report, which was nice, since I wasn't even certain this would be a reportable theft. The cans, after all, belong to the city. But, yes, it is considered theft -- of the can, anyway. I don't think the trash, if still inside, would count.
Then I called Austin's Solid Waste Works and told them my sad tale. The rep replied that, sometimes, the automated lifter arm drops the entire can into the collection truck, and when that does happen, that's the ballgame. The compressors take care of the evidence, and it is far too risky for the truck men to jump in after one. This was news to me, that sometimes an entire can goes away; shoot, I'd pay to see that. Anyway, we should get a new can next Monday.
Val then lost her cell phone, and though it was recovered at the store she'd dropped it and I retrieved it later that evening, the display unit had been cracked and it is essentially non-functional. So, eBay will provide a new one, and then that will go to the Verizon Wireless store for cultural reprogramming. Feh, a nuisance.
Finally, it was indeed Armageddon at Val's place of work, which was no surprise. It was, typically, done in a ham-handed manner. A big hint was the large order for moving boxes placed last week, for people to clean out their desks and cubes into. Victims got their vacation balances cashed out, with direct deposits being made either on Friday or Saturday, so anyone paying attention knew what was coming. And, worse, those laid off got NO severance, regardless of length of service. NONE! ZERO! Damn, that is really cold, and indicative of (a) the company's financial outlook and (b) the sort of people who currently are in charge. The place is circling the drain; it might pull out of the death spiral, but right now it's anyone's guess. I suppose we'll know sometime in the next 90 days if today's bloodletting made any difference.
To be clear, Val did NOT get the axe. Which for now is a good thing; but she's pretty stressed over how many good people did get whacked. Layoffs are never a nice thing, but they are very much a current reality.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Monday, February 02, 2009
Nino Bongiovanni
There is always, at all times, an oldest ex-major league baseball player. The title is a bit like the king or queen of England -- it passes immediately upon the death of the incumbent. It's not a great distinction to hold, because no one ever keeps it for very long, but it's there, and someone fulfills the office. And then that man passes, and so does the title -- I haven't researched this, but it seems like there's a new Oldest Ex-Major Leaguer about three times every two years. The senior retiree is always a nonagenarian (at least), which is why the title moves frequently, and when he does pass on he gets a press release, and usually the new guy gets some press coverage as well.
The most recent was Billy Werber, who passed away on January 22, age 100. Werber also had a long profile last year when he became the oldest ex, thanks to his being the last teammate of Babe Ruth. Werber could tell plenty of Ruth stories, and even today that makes for good copy.
The oldest ex-major league player always gets a little media spotlight, even if it is for the dismal reason of dying. The not-quite-oldest ones leave us in much more obscure circumstances.
Anthony "Nino" Bongiovanni was, best I can determine, the fifth-oldest former major league baseball player when he passed away on January 6, 2009, age 97. I didn't learn about his death for nearly a month, and even then had to Google-dig to find a single obituary in the San Jose Mercury News, the local paper. Nino had lived in the south San Francisco Bay area for decades, if I recall.
Sure, I love baseball, but why this much involvement with an olde-tyme player who, while good, was not great, not more than a line or two in the long history of baseball lore?
I was working a job back in the late 1990s, and one co-worker, Pat, loved to talk baseball at times. It turned out he had played in college, and that's where he'd met his wife, Linda, who also worked elsewhere in the building. Linda was Nino's daughter. I was downright tickled, working alongside family of a former ballplayer. Pat and I each traveled a lot in those jobs, and one time both needed to go to San Jose. I asked if he could arrange a dinner out with Nino, he did, and we spent several hours at an Olive Garden eating spaghetti and talking baseball. Nino was well into his 80s then, but still plenty spry. He told stories about his days in the game, his one at-bat in the 1939 World Series, opinions on modern day baseball (he wasn't kind in his view of Barry Bonds). He showed me, and let me try on, his 1939 National League Champions ring, and told how he had gotten it years after the fact thanks to some coverage in Sports Illustrated. And, though he's not mentioned in it, I asked if he would autograph a copy of Ritter's The Glory Of Their Times -- it seemed an appropriate choice. The evening was a delight, one I remember fondly.
I would have loved to have met him again, but never did. One time left a brilliant memory.
My condolences to Linda, Pat, and their entire family, and my thanks to the memory of Nino, who played the great game, and was a fine dinner companion.
Nino Bongiovanni, Cincinnati Reds 1938-39.
The most recent was Billy Werber, who passed away on January 22, age 100. Werber also had a long profile last year when he became the oldest ex, thanks to his being the last teammate of Babe Ruth. Werber could tell plenty of Ruth stories, and even today that makes for good copy.
The oldest ex-major league player always gets a little media spotlight, even if it is for the dismal reason of dying. The not-quite-oldest ones leave us in much more obscure circumstances.
Anthony "Nino" Bongiovanni was, best I can determine, the fifth-oldest former major league baseball player when he passed away on January 6, 2009, age 97. I didn't learn about his death for nearly a month, and even then had to Google-dig to find a single obituary in the San Jose Mercury News, the local paper. Nino had lived in the south San Francisco Bay area for decades, if I recall.
Sure, I love baseball, but why this much involvement with an olde-tyme player who, while good, was not great, not more than a line or two in the long history of baseball lore?
I was working a job back in the late 1990s, and one co-worker, Pat, loved to talk baseball at times. It turned out he had played in college, and that's where he'd met his wife, Linda, who also worked elsewhere in the building. Linda was Nino's daughter. I was downright tickled, working alongside family of a former ballplayer. Pat and I each traveled a lot in those jobs, and one time both needed to go to San Jose. I asked if he could arrange a dinner out with Nino, he did, and we spent several hours at an Olive Garden eating spaghetti and talking baseball. Nino was well into his 80s then, but still plenty spry. He told stories about his days in the game, his one at-bat in the 1939 World Series, opinions on modern day baseball (he wasn't kind in his view of Barry Bonds). He showed me, and let me try on, his 1939 National League Champions ring, and told how he had gotten it years after the fact thanks to some coverage in Sports Illustrated. And, though he's not mentioned in it, I asked if he would autograph a copy of Ritter's The Glory Of Their Times -- it seemed an appropriate choice. The evening was a delight, one I remember fondly.
I would have loved to have met him again, but never did. One time left a brilliant memory.
My condolences to Linda, Pat, and their entire family, and my thanks to the memory of Nino, who played the great game, and was a fine dinner companion.
Nino Bongiovanni, Cincinnati Reds 1938-39.
Sunday, February 01, 2009
Seventh Birthday
Amalie turned seven a few days ago. It almost seems like she has a birthday every year!
It was a regular school day, but she brightened her classmates' day by providing the makings for throw pillows, a technique she learned in Girl Scouts. Amie picked out swatches of felt, took them to school to let her fellow students pick their favorites, and brought everything home, labeled. Val then spent a long night cutting the swatch edges into strips so they could be tied together. Finally, everything went back to class, and the kids tied and stuffed their pillows. It was quite a lot of work, but everyone enjoyed it.
Val, still on furlough, picked Amie up on her birthday and took her and Carson to a park -- I was still retrieving her new bicycle from where we'd hidden it (at a friend's house). I got home, parked the bike on the back deck, and then scattered Amie's other gifts around the house. Unlike past years, where they were just lying about in plain sight, Val and I thought she was now old enough for a real scavenger hunt. So I wrote up a bunch of clues -- easy to figure out, but she had to do the reading and the reasoning -- including one very easy word puzzle. Amalie loved this approach, and picked up on it quickly -- get a clue, read it, solve it, and then dash away through the house, Carson at her heels to join in the fun. (And she wasn't allowed to collect a present until she had solved its clue, even if she spotted it early.)
Sherlock Amalie, world's greatest kid detective, solves a clue.
Amie had quickly, and enthusiastically, gathered her presents and was ready for the last clue. It led her to the back deck, where she quickly spotted and grabbed a wrapped gift -- obviously a DVD movie -- which was sitting on the seat of the new bike. Holding her treasure aloft, she did a little dance, oblivious to the bike, until Carson mentioned it to her. The penny dropped, along with her jaw, as she took in her biggest present and the one she incredibly had missed.
Oh yeah -- a bike!
The hoard gathered, the unwrapping commenced, always a joyful orgy of chaos and rending. Carson knows his birthday is but weeks away, but it's hard for a sibling to only watch from the sidelines, and Amalie graciously let him open three presents, which he attacked with gusto.
Some arts & crafts things, a painting kit, a PixOs set she had wanted since before Christmas, a Girl Scouts shirt, some books, a movie, new soccer socks and shinguards, and a Barbie, among other things. Amalie was plentifully satisfied.
Presents!
And then it was on to the cake. I had baked Amie's hand-picked selection the night before, but it needed frosting. We mixed up a batch, and I began icing the cake per Amie's long-planned specifications -- white on the sides, sky blue over the top. Both children got enough samples that a second, small batch had to be mixed before the cake was finished, but we got there. Amie had also wanted a rainbow on the cake, and despite my assurances that it would happen, she was getting worried -- there was no more frosting! I pulled out my secret ace -- a six-color pack of nonpareils, little dot sprinkles. Unfortunately, the first test spot showed they didn't stick to the frosting worth a damn; fortunately, Val hit on a solution immediately. We pulled out a sheet of wax paper and cut out an arc. Using this as a template, I was able to get the nonpareils to more or less stay in place, and the rainbow was formed -- red, orange, yellow, green, purple, and pink on top, since it was Amalie's cake, after all. It turned out rather nice.
Birthday rainbow.
Dinner followed, and then the traditional songmaking and blowing out of the candles, a job for which Amie's lungs are well-suited. We each had a piece of cake, and the kids then demolished it with small seconds and thirds and samplings of frosting. It didn't look very nice after that, but still tasted great.
Amalie pointed out she had a loose tooth, which fell out on Sunday, February 1st.
It was a regular school day, but she brightened her classmates' day by providing the makings for throw pillows, a technique she learned in Girl Scouts. Amie picked out swatches of felt, took them to school to let her fellow students pick their favorites, and brought everything home, labeled. Val then spent a long night cutting the swatch edges into strips so they could be tied together. Finally, everything went back to class, and the kids tied and stuffed their pillows. It was quite a lot of work, but everyone enjoyed it.
Val, still on furlough, picked Amie up on her birthday and took her and Carson to a park -- I was still retrieving her new bicycle from where we'd hidden it (at a friend's house). I got home, parked the bike on the back deck, and then scattered Amie's other gifts around the house. Unlike past years, where they were just lying about in plain sight, Val and I thought she was now old enough for a real scavenger hunt. So I wrote up a bunch of clues -- easy to figure out, but she had to do the reading and the reasoning -- including one very easy word puzzle. Amalie loved this approach, and picked up on it quickly -- get a clue, read it, solve it, and then dash away through the house, Carson at her heels to join in the fun. (And she wasn't allowed to collect a present until she had solved its clue, even if she spotted it early.)
Sherlock Amalie, world's greatest kid detective, solves a clue.Amie had quickly, and enthusiastically, gathered her presents and was ready for the last clue. It led her to the back deck, where she quickly spotted and grabbed a wrapped gift -- obviously a DVD movie -- which was sitting on the seat of the new bike. Holding her treasure aloft, she did a little dance, oblivious to the bike, until Carson mentioned it to her. The penny dropped, along with her jaw, as she took in her biggest present and the one she incredibly had missed.
Oh yeah -- a bike!The hoard gathered, the unwrapping commenced, always a joyful orgy of chaos and rending. Carson knows his birthday is but weeks away, but it's hard for a sibling to only watch from the sidelines, and Amalie graciously let him open three presents, which he attacked with gusto.
Some arts & crafts things, a painting kit, a PixOs set she had wanted since before Christmas, a Girl Scouts shirt, some books, a movie, new soccer socks and shinguards, and a Barbie, among other things. Amalie was plentifully satisfied.
Presents!And then it was on to the cake. I had baked Amie's hand-picked selection the night before, but it needed frosting. We mixed up a batch, and I began icing the cake per Amie's long-planned specifications -- white on the sides, sky blue over the top. Both children got enough samples that a second, small batch had to be mixed before the cake was finished, but we got there. Amie had also wanted a rainbow on the cake, and despite my assurances that it would happen, she was getting worried -- there was no more frosting! I pulled out my secret ace -- a six-color pack of nonpareils, little dot sprinkles. Unfortunately, the first test spot showed they didn't stick to the frosting worth a damn; fortunately, Val hit on a solution immediately. We pulled out a sheet of wax paper and cut out an arc. Using this as a template, I was able to get the nonpareils to more or less stay in place, and the rainbow was formed -- red, orange, yellow, green, purple, and pink on top, since it was Amalie's cake, after all. It turned out rather nice.
Birthday rainbow.Dinner followed, and then the traditional songmaking and blowing out of the candles, a job for which Amie's lungs are well-suited. We each had a piece of cake, and the kids then demolished it with small seconds and thirds and samplings of frosting. It didn't look very nice after that, but still tasted great.
Amalie pointed out she had a loose tooth, which fell out on Sunday, February 1st.
Astros Winter Caravan
Most offseasons, the Houston Astros have a Winter Caravan -- round up a couple of players, travel around to a few cities in Texas and Louisiana and maybe a bit further, and give a little face time back to the fans outside of the home city. I've been to a few over the years, and they are low-key affairs, not too crowded, little media coverage. The fans and players all know everyone is there for some autographs and pictures, and at least in Austin, I've never seen one get unruly. So everyone has a good time.
This year's Austin visit was on January 27. When I first checked the Caravan schedule back in December, only one stop was listed, at a sporting goods store at the north end of town -- not ideal, but manageable for me. Happily, while re-checking a few nights prior to the date, a second stop was listed -- at the University Of Texas football stadium, much closer, and earlier in the afternoon. Excellent! Also listed were the visiting players -- infielder Mark Saccomanno, pitcher / rehab patient Mike Hampton, and retired slugger Jeff Bagwell, who now works for the front office.
Wow. The Caravan delivers some good players, but rarely one of Bagwell's stature.
I asked Carson is he wanted to meet some baseball players, and he agreed. I unearthed some cards of Bagwell and Hampton, made sure I knew where to park, and we were ready.
Tuesday was cold and windy, but the walk from the garage to the stadium wasn't too far, and soon we were inside the north foyer and warm again. I've never attended a game here and only ever been in the executive club, thanks to a former co-worker who had a membership and enjoyed having lunch there sometimes (it did serve up a good board of fare). Here we were, in a large lobby, not the most welcoming environment but not bad. There were concession stands and several chairs with tables or benches, utilitarian, probably a popular lunchtime stop for the student body. Carson and I took our place at the end of the line, which continued growing behind us.
Carson quickly took note of the many baseball bats other fans had brought in hopes of autographs. I explained that people like getting all sorts of things signed -- I had brought only cards (my preferred memorabilia, as they take up little space), but others had bats, balls (lots of baseballs), photographs, or posters. The man behind us had a huge Bagwell photo, about 20" x 24" at a guess, which was in a protective sleeve -- he showed it to Carson, and told me he'd bought it in Houston the week before for $15 (not a bad deal). While we waited for the players to arrive, Carson wandered about, trying to have some fun or talking to other fans in line. At one point a baby, a crawler, started heading across the open floor -- Carson marched out and recommended that the baby head back to his daddy. The littler one giggled, and eventually turned around. The waiting was rather dull (always is), but the crowd was in good spirits.
Finally the players arrived and the line started poking along. Carson was getting even more restless, but also tired and a little hungry. We reached the short rope maze at the head of the line, which was moving smoothly. I wasn't listening in deliberately, but I overheard a young woman a little bit behind us make a mild lament that she'd just today learned about the Caravan. She gave enough clues that I guessed she was wanting a picture but didn't have a camera. I caught her attention and asked if she wanted a picture with Bagwell? Yes, she replied, but she didn't have a camera. "But I do -- do you have email?" I responded, and said I'd take her pic and send it to her. This pleased her, but neither of us had any scrap paper. I remembered there were copies of the UT daily newspaper back by the door, and since Carson needed something to do, I described to him where to go to get one. He found it on the second try, the woman wrote down her email addy, and we were at the head of the line.
Bagwell was the first along the table. I handed one card to Carson and said he should pass it to Mr. Bagwell. To my shock, he skim-tossed it across the table into Bagwell's lap! Thankfully, Bags is an old pro at this, picked it up with a smile and signed it, then signed mine as well. I told Carson to step behind the table for a quick picture, and he did, but well to the side. Jeff coaxed him close with a "c'mere, bud!" and I got my shot in.
Past and future Red Sox draft picks (Jeff, 1989, fourth round, and Carson, 2023, first round).
We thanked Bagwell and moved to the next player, Mark Saccomanno. I didn't have any cards of him, but the Astros prepare all their player reps with their own postcards, so we took one and thanked him and Carson shook his hand. Mike Hampton was the last player, and Carson and I both handed him our own baseball cards. Hampton has been bedeviled by injuries for the last few seasons, missing 2006 and 2007 completely. It's good to see him back on the mound at last, and I told him so, that no one should have to live under such a bad sign. He thanked me for the sentiment, and apparently he's been hearing that a lot. We thanked him as well.
Last along the table was longtime Astros announcer Milo Hamilton, quietly signing his own postcards. I enjoy hearing Hamilton's voice, a good baseball voice, and told him so. Looking back, I saw the woman, Lisa, had reached Bagwell's station, so I told Carson to stay right here and I'll be right back. I walked back, took two shots, and that was that. Walking back, Milo had gathered Carson to his side protectively, and said that Carson had been a very good boy.
Milo Hamilton, good with kids.
We needed a restroom break, and then Carson wanted a corn dog. Unfortunately, the concession stands didn't have corn dogs, but he did get a free cinnamon pretzel, which kept him busy on the walk back to the car. I could see he was tired; it had been about two hours since we left home, and most of that was spent waiting around. On the way out of the parking garage, the car at the head of the line (about a dozen cars long) was clearly totally confused about how to get out of the gate, so I turned aside and drove all the way down to the bottom level where there was an open exit, and we were out.
Carson nibbled his pretzel and started to doze off. I was tempted to do the same -- well, go directly home and sack out -- but had promised to get milk cartons for Amalie's school party the next day and wouldn't have a better opportunity. It would have been so easy to go home (it turns out I was getting a cold, which is why I was overwhelmingly tired), but no, gotta be responsible.
We arrived at the Costco, Carson completely zonked. I got a carriage, wrapped him in a blanket, and stuffed some gloves under his head as a makeshift pillow. In we went, got our few things, and back out. As I was lying him in the backseat, he briefly awoke, and said "that was fast!"
"Yes, you slept through it. Go back to sleep." He did, all the way home. Later, I sent Lisa her pictures.
This year's Austin visit was on January 27. When I first checked the Caravan schedule back in December, only one stop was listed, at a sporting goods store at the north end of town -- not ideal, but manageable for me. Happily, while re-checking a few nights prior to the date, a second stop was listed -- at the University Of Texas football stadium, much closer, and earlier in the afternoon. Excellent! Also listed were the visiting players -- infielder Mark Saccomanno, pitcher / rehab patient Mike Hampton, and retired slugger Jeff Bagwell, who now works for the front office.
Wow. The Caravan delivers some good players, but rarely one of Bagwell's stature.
I asked Carson is he wanted to meet some baseball players, and he agreed. I unearthed some cards of Bagwell and Hampton, made sure I knew where to park, and we were ready.
Tuesday was cold and windy, but the walk from the garage to the stadium wasn't too far, and soon we were inside the north foyer and warm again. I've never attended a game here and only ever been in the executive club, thanks to a former co-worker who had a membership and enjoyed having lunch there sometimes (it did serve up a good board of fare). Here we were, in a large lobby, not the most welcoming environment but not bad. There were concession stands and several chairs with tables or benches, utilitarian, probably a popular lunchtime stop for the student body. Carson and I took our place at the end of the line, which continued growing behind us.
Carson quickly took note of the many baseball bats other fans had brought in hopes of autographs. I explained that people like getting all sorts of things signed -- I had brought only cards (my preferred memorabilia, as they take up little space), but others had bats, balls (lots of baseballs), photographs, or posters. The man behind us had a huge Bagwell photo, about 20" x 24" at a guess, which was in a protective sleeve -- he showed it to Carson, and told me he'd bought it in Houston the week before for $15 (not a bad deal). While we waited for the players to arrive, Carson wandered about, trying to have some fun or talking to other fans in line. At one point a baby, a crawler, started heading across the open floor -- Carson marched out and recommended that the baby head back to his daddy. The littler one giggled, and eventually turned around. The waiting was rather dull (always is), but the crowd was in good spirits.
Finally the players arrived and the line started poking along. Carson was getting even more restless, but also tired and a little hungry. We reached the short rope maze at the head of the line, which was moving smoothly. I wasn't listening in deliberately, but I overheard a young woman a little bit behind us make a mild lament that she'd just today learned about the Caravan. She gave enough clues that I guessed she was wanting a picture but didn't have a camera. I caught her attention and asked if she wanted a picture with Bagwell? Yes, she replied, but she didn't have a camera. "But I do -- do you have email?" I responded, and said I'd take her pic and send it to her. This pleased her, but neither of us had any scrap paper. I remembered there were copies of the UT daily newspaper back by the door, and since Carson needed something to do, I described to him where to go to get one. He found it on the second try, the woman wrote down her email addy, and we were at the head of the line.
Bagwell was the first along the table. I handed one card to Carson and said he should pass it to Mr. Bagwell. To my shock, he skim-tossed it across the table into Bagwell's lap! Thankfully, Bags is an old pro at this, picked it up with a smile and signed it, then signed mine as well. I told Carson to step behind the table for a quick picture, and he did, but well to the side. Jeff coaxed him close with a "c'mere, bud!" and I got my shot in.
Past and future Red Sox draft picks (Jeff, 1989, fourth round, and Carson, 2023, first round).We thanked Bagwell and moved to the next player, Mark Saccomanno. I didn't have any cards of him, but the Astros prepare all their player reps with their own postcards, so we took one and thanked him and Carson shook his hand. Mike Hampton was the last player, and Carson and I both handed him our own baseball cards. Hampton has been bedeviled by injuries for the last few seasons, missing 2006 and 2007 completely. It's good to see him back on the mound at last, and I told him so, that no one should have to live under such a bad sign. He thanked me for the sentiment, and apparently he's been hearing that a lot. We thanked him as well.
Last along the table was longtime Astros announcer Milo Hamilton, quietly signing his own postcards. I enjoy hearing Hamilton's voice, a good baseball voice, and told him so. Looking back, I saw the woman, Lisa, had reached Bagwell's station, so I told Carson to stay right here and I'll be right back. I walked back, took two shots, and that was that. Walking back, Milo had gathered Carson to his side protectively, and said that Carson had been a very good boy.
Milo Hamilton, good with kids.We needed a restroom break, and then Carson wanted a corn dog. Unfortunately, the concession stands didn't have corn dogs, but he did get a free cinnamon pretzel, which kept him busy on the walk back to the car. I could see he was tired; it had been about two hours since we left home, and most of that was spent waiting around. On the way out of the parking garage, the car at the head of the line (about a dozen cars long) was clearly totally confused about how to get out of the gate, so I turned aside and drove all the way down to the bottom level where there was an open exit, and we were out.
Carson nibbled his pretzel and started to doze off. I was tempted to do the same -- well, go directly home and sack out -- but had promised to get milk cartons for Amalie's school party the next day and wouldn't have a better opportunity. It would have been so easy to go home (it turns out I was getting a cold, which is why I was overwhelmingly tired), but no, gotta be responsible.
We arrived at the Costco, Carson completely zonked. I got a carriage, wrapped him in a blanket, and stuffed some gloves under his head as a makeshift pillow. In we went, got our few things, and back out. As I was lying him in the backseat, he briefly awoke, and said "that was fast!"
"Yes, you slept through it. Go back to sleep." He did, all the way home. Later, I sent Lisa her pictures.
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