#ROW80 2ND QTR POST – RUMINATIONS ON EDITING, A WILD TRIP TO THE FAMILY DOLLAR STORE, BOXING MANIA, AND COMPUTER VIRUSES FROM HELL

Being the lazy thing that I've become, I find it easier to just mash everything into a giant, 40-page post, to test the patience of my readership, heh. Just kidding. I got caught up in a clinical research study, now that my health is good enough to allow such a thing and my doctor is not the sort to have kittens over any participation. “Go forth and teach” is her motto and this will be fun, if any of these things can be said to be “fun”. It's for COPD and mine has improved on the one drug they are testing; adding a second, sort of as a “bumper” so I have a new batch of doctors to drive crazy. All those years spent working in a teaching hospital may not have made me a doctor, but it sure as hell didn't make me a better patient, in any regard. The doctors I have now have survived the cut; the rest lay bleeding by some proverbial clinical roadside, licking their wounds and vowing to choose their words more carefully, the next time they run into someone who sports an I. Q. over 75.

 

The atmosphere in the teaching hospital I worked in tended to be much like the one portrayed in the show "Scrubs" but with many, many more people, and many, many more personality disorders, including my own. Still, it was a fun place to work, or spend some time, pretending to work, while I asked endless questions of the teaching doctors, who were all too happy to answer. The term "docere" is Latin for "doctor" and means "to teach". An apt expression, indeed.

This may look like  a prison, but it is the old University of Michigan Teaching Hospital where I pretended to work for several years. The thing was built piece-meal, and when you went in the front entrance and through the little gerbil-tube (because, Michigan) you entered on the 4th floor of the main hospital. Down on the 2nd floor and around the back, were the morgue and the rooms where the 1st-year students learned the fine art of dissection, by one section of Medical Records; Archives. I worked on the 4th floor, next to the E.R. and Head Trauma Units, in the current Medical Records Unit. I saw some hair-raising stuff in my days there, but I've never been bothered by blood and guts, What gives me the heebie-jeebies is cleaning out the fridge.

So, I missed last week's #IWSG check in, for the umpteenth time; pasting it on my forehead doesn't work; I don't look in the mirror that much. Telling JC to remind me is fine, but then he forgets, or he tells Alex, who forgets to tell him, to tell me and so it goes. I also missed #ROW80, due to the aforementioned Clinical Trial, but now that that is up and running, there's no excuse. Have I mentioned how much I really, really hate editing? Should Skip Bombardier have a mad crush on the heroine? Should she be completely oblivious? Should the kid-alien-musical prodigy be loveable or a true pain in the ass, like prodigies can be? Or just a regular kid? And, shouldn't they all have loveable pets? Like cats? Or should I throw some hedgehogs in there just to mix it up, and because they're the "happenin' thing" now in the U. S.? I'm not really trying to build a world, just a few locations that feel lived in. In some cases it works, in others, not at all. But, I keep plugging away. Of course the best, most lived in, most real scenes are the ones that take place within the musical world, both on stage, and off, and in the computer world, because I know those worlds. So, best to stay away from say, bullfighting, no? As my Ma would say, “Quitcher bitchin' and get to work!” Good idea!

So, this past Saturday was one of those "special" Saturdays that get celebrated in their "special" way here on Nebraska Avenue, 33602, or 33605. Why is it special? Because, it's the first Saturday after “payday” for the folks who rely on Social Security. I'm one of them, but I paid my bills and rent and all of that, bought some food and then remembered I had to go to the Family Dollar Store, not 2 blocks from me. Now, lots o' folks around here act like it's the weekend every damned day, but Saturday after “payday” is especially wild and crazy. When I lived at the homeless shelter, we could look forward to one or four good fist-fights and a stabbing. I always enjoyed the knife-fights; scheduled and non-scheduled. There's so much more at stake. So, having lived in this environment pretty much sharpens up your senses for, if not danger, at least a good hissy fit, and this is what I thought was about to happen on Saturday evening, as I stood in line to pay for my cat food and some diet soda for JC, who is getting better, but isn't ready to go skipping down to the corner, just yet.

The thing that makes me sad about this is that we worked hard to get this store put in, in this area. In less than six months, the miasma of apathy has set in; there are not enough clerks to keep the shelves stocked and tidy; merchandise is scattered all over and bags of chips and candy are ripped open and half-eaten. This store cannot keep enough clerks working because of the area it's in, and the one "District Manager" didn't know what she was doing, so the problem remained unfixed. Unlike most of the stores, the carts are not "locked" to the premises, so they're already all over the neighborhood, serving as some bag-lady's or bag-man's cart to keep her/his crap in. What will make it really untenable is if one of the clerks is hurt or killed on the job; there's no job worth that and they already take enough abuse as it is. This is the "recovery" our stupid Governor talks about; we don't have 700,000 jobs that have been created in Florida. We have 700,000 new wage-slaves. 

As I'm trying to put my stuff up on the check out counter, this guy, in dirty bermuda shorts, a crummy-looking striped shirt, unshaven, 3 teeth in front and smelling like a distillery, is trying to give the clerk who is waiting on me, a bag with. . . something in it. I can't tell, but the guy is already pissing me off; he's rude and obnoxious. The clerk tells him to hang on, while she gets the Manager, a young black fellow named James. She calls him and he says he'll be right there. Drunk guy swings her bag carousel around, and she asks him to politely not do that, as it messes up her setup. James arrives just as he does it a second time, and takes the guy aside.

I'm trying to pay for my stuff and keep one “eye” on this dude, in the sense of being hyper-aware of him. The clerk and James are the only two people working this store and this guy outweighs both of them. Just because I have a cane and limited vision, does not mean I will not step in if necessary. Six weeks ago, I stood off two muggers at the same time; when they realized I would fight and fight hard, they backed off and left; I wasn't worth the two bucks or whatever. Never, never be an easy mark. Always stare 'em down; even if you can't see 'em. I also have that “rep”, y'know? The crazy one, that makes people wonder just how far I will go in a situation. Word is, I'll go far enough to ruin your day, if not your week, month and year. So, anyway, the conversation between James and the drunk becomes heated. I had paid for my stuff and put it in my backpack.

Another black guy stepped in, but James told him to back off, and sure enough, the drunk guy then started hollering about “black on white” crime. I pulled out my phone and called 911 and reported “drunk and disorderly” at the Family Dollar, blah blah. The clerk still had customers and there was another drunk lady in the store; not of and by itself a problem, but she's egging her drunk boyfriend(?) on. The drunk guy grabbed the bag out of James' hand and takes off out of the store, with James hot after him. I left the store, in time to see the drunk charge at James, in the parking lot and take the bag back (it could have been Tootsie Rolls for all I know), so James chased him down again, and grabbed the bag. 

This time the guy ran at James and tried to hit him and I ran at him, yelling “Leave him alone! I've called the police!” He called me a whore, which, Big Whoop; if you're a woman walking on Nebraska, chances are good you're a lady of the evening, or at least will be called one. I had my stick up and ready to hit him if he struck first, but he backed off from me and went after James again. It became this weird, hellish 3-way tag, as I hit redial and told the TPD dispatch that their “drunk and disorderly” had just become an attempted robbery and attempted assault. James and I darted back and forth to keep this guy from hitting either of us, and he finally lost his adrenaline burst or his nerve and left the area. What a way to have to earn your living!

James and I made sure we were both okay and I went on my way. Drunk dude went off up another street; I'm sure he got himself into some trouble before the night was over. After I left there, I had to go another store close by to buy milk. It was Saturday night alright. Some other, happy drunk said, “Hey, miss, two dollars to be your seeing-eye thingy! Hell, you're so purty, I'll walk ya for free!” I just laughed and said, “I got it, but thanks for the kind offer!” This neighborhood is like no other. I know everyone who lives around me and we watch out for one another. Probably one-third of us on my street were in the homeless shelter, so there's a real bond there. It's a fraternity like no other.

So, after I got home and ate, we found some boxing to look at. I love me some goddamned boxing! Love, love, love, love it! JC is just as crazy over it. We happened to pick up a couple of matches that aired on ShoTime a while back, but we hadn't seen them. Just for grins, I took notes, instead of trying to Tweet, because it wasn't live and frankly, when I Tweet live matches, all the igmos crawl out of the woodwork and they infuriate me. So, these here are my notes:

courtesy: Notifight.com

This was the best picture I could find of the two; Perez on the right is "soft" looking; his muscles are not as clearly defined as Sosa's, nor is his overall condition as sharp. Where you can see Sosa's clearly defined abs, you cannot on Perez. I may be over-reaching here, but Perez also does not look confident about his up-coming match.

The first fight was in the Welterweight division, Sosa v. Perez and I can't remember their first names, nor did I write them down. These two have actually fought one another as amateurs. Color me shocked! Perez looked really soft, as if he hadn't trained. It was his first professional fight, but still, I did not see one meaningful punch thrown in the entire bout. I've never witnessed so much butt-clinching either, by Perez (or any other fighter, I honestly didn't know that was a defensive move) and it was pissing Sosa off by the end of the bout. The thing I didn't understand about that fight, was the fact that the judges actually gave some of the rounds to Perez, leading me to wonder what fight they were watching, or maybe I was listening to one fight and seeing another, but I doubt it, since they kept yapping about Perez and Sosa, and those were the names on the fighters' trunks. Awful fight.

courtesy: pound4pound.com

McJoe is a terrific counter-puncher and here we see him beat Quihano to the punch. McJoe had been working the body pretty much through the whole match which slowed Quihano down some; a must when you're fighting in a division based more on speed, than on power! A fun fight to watch, even if Dabo's trunks ended up sideways on his ass; at least I didn't have to watch 8 rounds of butt-hugging!

The next fight was in the flyweight division and it has been ages since I saw flyweights fight. The most important thing to remember about them is that everything is sped up; it's like watching two gnats or two hummingbirds throw tiny fists at one another for a few rounds. Eventually, you get used to the rhythm, but not having seen them fight for awhile, it was a bit of a shock to remember how truly fast these guys are. Another thing, there aren't a lot of knockouts in the flyweight division; they typically go the distance because they aren't known for their power so much as their speed. There are exceptions to every rule, however, and boxing LOVES, LOVES, LOVES to break those kinds of rules.

courtesy: pound4pound.com

Here, Arroyo catches Quihano with his guard down. Many boxing matches are a lesson in watching boxers practice patience, as they look for that one split-second chance to get to through their opponent's defenses. It can make for some really boring boxing, and becomes more of a chess match. Of course, everyone is hoping that the two combatants will engage in all-out war, but it doesn't always work out that way. I'd wager it takes patience, fortitude, stamina and hella smarts to become a decent boxing fan.

This fight featured David Quihano v. McJoe Arroyo; Quihano has had seven knockouts, which surprised me; this was supposed to be a kind of come-back fight for him, but the only really noteworthy thing I got of this entire fight was his trunks being on kind of sideways, so that his knick-name “DABO” was somewhere to the left of his ass-crack, or was it the right? I don't remember. I guess this is why I won't be replacing Bert Sugar anytime soon as a great boxing writer, although it is fun to write about it in this capacity. I did have to remind JC to watch the fighter's feet. Quihano was becoming flat-footed and losing energy; I knew he was tiring, long before JC did. But JC can always tell the closer bouts than I can. Anyway, Arroyo won the fight, and Quihano will have to try again.

courtesy: bbc.co.uk

Prince Naseem on an honest-to-God flying carpet, making his "ring walk" prior to his bout with Marco Antonio Barrera, Certified Public Accountant, and oh, yeah, boxer.

After the fights, I regaled JC with the story of Marco Antonio Barrerra's and Prince Naseem Hamed's fight and how hilarious the Prince was, coming into the ring on a flying carpet, all pimped out and shit. Marco Antonio Barrerra is a CPA in his day job in Mexico City and acted like one on his ring walks, as well. No high-falutin' shenanigans for him. I just remember the look on Marco Antonio's face when the Prince drifted by on his flying carpet; it was a “I can't believe this shit; and I'm in BOXING for fuck's sake!” look, and then he went on to tear the Prince apart in a fight that went to the scorecards. As a contrast and comparison of just plain hard work and non-stupid entrances, versus one of the hammiest and self-aggrandizing displays of all time, that showed us nothing, this one was a doozy. It is also a metaphor for the entire sport itself and why boxing has so endeared itself to me. 

courtesy: eastsideboxing.com

This is as fancy as it ever got with Barrera. Retired now, and probably still running the family accounting business in Mexico City. Although he's got his game face on here, he's of a sunny disposition and "just a guy". But, not really; he's a boxer.

I've been fixing computers around the neighborhood for some of my pals, and I was going to tell you about the tesch.b virus and f5f5dc.com exploit, but that got so complex, it will wait for my next post. I will just say this; if you are running Windows, Adobe Reader (any flavor) and have JAVA you are at risk, and this time, the host server is in St. Petersburg, Russia, and the virus causes your browser to inquire for open sessions repeatedly. You end up with svchost.dll32 files coming out of your ass and your computer will be unusable, because it will be so slow. It's a horrible exploit, but I'll run ya through the fix next time!

DRAGON'S LOYALTY AWARD

Dragon's Loyalty Award presented by M. J. Joachim

This is a great thing that has been bestowed upon me. By accident, or as collateral serendipity, or something like that. Lemme explain. Last year, I took part in a blogging challenge at the spur of the moment, rather like I decided to participate in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) last year, and actually "won" both, by finishing. The other challenge, for those not in the know, is the A-to-Z Challenge, where, during the month of April, you write a short post every day starting with the letter "A" and finishing up with "Z". It works out because every Sunday during the month, it is "dark" (a musician's and actor's term) wherein you don't post or write on that letter. If you finish the challenge, you get a  nifty badge that you display on your blog, which I did, much like the one I got for NaNoWriMo in 2013. You also get some street cred for finishing the damned things, because you gut out the writing blocks and all the inherent other stuff, like. . . uh, life. 

Two years ago, I wrote exactly 1637 words for NaNoWriMo and quit in total misery, because I was in the throes of undiagnosed Parkinsonism and that shit ain't fun. I've been able to take everything else thrown my way, but that was truly debilitating, both mentally and physically. Now, that I'm under treatment (some people wish I weren't as I am busy making their lives a merry Hell for past indiscretions, but I was too sick) I feel 20 or 30 years younger. I believe in the quality of persistence over time and it applies to all things, so maybe this is a good award for me. Dragons live forever. 

So, too, do challenges, and friendships. This is my second year on the A to Z Challenge and I am proud to be a member of #teamDamyanti. I did have a bit of confusion over this award, which is nothing new with me. I've done such jack-a-nape things like follow my own self on my own blog, when I was trying to answer a reader's comment and argued with myself under the pseudonym of Andi-Roo over suicide, when I performed a hurried cut-and-paste job, that was really just a cut-and-paste-paste. That floated around in the cyber sphere for several hours before I caught it and fixed it. Andi's response? "Ha ha ha! Girl! You crack me up!" Of course, there's always the time I thought I was doing good for the homeless in my area, in a post, that had a horribly juxtaposed picture: 

Admittedly, some of the stuff the ex-cons at FSJ, my old homeless shelter, used to concoct between pinochle games looked worse than this, -- scrunched-up cheetos, ramen soup noodles and anything else dumped into a single-serving size potato chip bag, add water and eat with a spoon and called "goulash -- this was NOT on purpose!

I'm legally blind and have a very weak right eye, and my left eye has dark cast that makes it hard to see and read. Sometimes I have to read things 8 or 12 times, or come back and give it a go another day. I've been legally blind for 10 years, so am used to this, but it makes for some interesting interpretations and I tend to "skim" a  lot of text. So, today, I just realized that M.J. Joachim had awarded the Dragon's Loyalty Award to the entire Team of Co-hosts and their Minions, of which I am one. Color me. . . confused?

No, I'm not. Well, okay, kinda sorta. I mean, I just show up and try to do what I'm told. It is an honor and I have to tell 7 things about myself, then award this to 15 bloggers and visit them and pass on the love. Consider it done, M.J., and thank you so much for this award!

I started playing the violin at age 11, but realized my mistake and switched to viola at age 15. I did not pick up another violin until the age of 45, when some idiot in Tampa hired me to play the violin on a gig, while I was living in Charlotte, North Carolina and had a free week. I guess all the other violinists between Charlotte and Tampa died or left town that week. I had to rent one for the gig and I rented the worst thing I could find in the hopes that I would never be hired to play another violin again. It didn't work. More idiots hired me to play the violin. I still hate the violin. The only thing worse than the violin, is playing Mozart on the violin; that right there, is Hell in a barrel. Give me Beethoven, or better yet, Shostakovich, or something with lots and lots of 16th notes, except for the slow parts; I love slow parts and can e-mote like a mo-fo and have a gorgeous sound. Or rather, I should say, Wolf has a gorgeous sound.

I own a viola that was "born" 10 years after Beethoven's death in 1827. My Florenus is of the Bolognese school of fiddle-making and was built in 1837. His name is "Wolf" and he was named by the luthier who appraised him and insured him. I've owned him since I was 19, and he's lasted longer than any of my marriages. He's a much better partner, too. At 177 years old, he's considered a young adult in the fiddle world. 

Wolf's hand-carved scroll; a trademark is the crudeness of the work; the House of Florenus is known for it. It certainly doesn't hurt the sound. His 2-piece back is "matched" up; 2 "tiger stripes" run down either side of his seam.

 

 My viola bow was "engineered" and built by an aeronautics engineer out of Germany. Many modern bows are now built by former engineers and their sons. In the old days, bow-makers, like Tourte, Vuillame and Withers observed birds and watched the shapes of their wings as they flew. The wood is pernambuco.

The 2nd Liston-Ali fight, which secured Ali's place in the history books. Ali's trainer, the late Angelo Dundee took time out to talk to this boxing fan when he was working a young fighter in Tampa, circa 1999. This sport is rich in history, heart, love and tragedy. It is Shakespeare on a 20-foot canvas rectangle.

 

I am a HUGE boxing fan. Boxing is the quintessential art of physical and mental abilities melded together. Boxing history and lore is some of the most fascinating in the world, and the very best boxers possess the minds of chess-masters and the quickness of cats. The fighters have the hearts of lions and are some of the kindest people I have ever met. Boxers do not fight out of anger, but they practice an old and gladitorial sport that has lost relevancy in the modern age. Much of the arm movement and pronation is echoed in the musical world, as is the pace of a Championship Match. I've met many of my musical colleagues at boxing matches.

My only other secret is this: my psychiatrist, who is also an internist calls me his "Google" for all things "Parkinsonism" (I explained the DaTScan process to him). When I started to exhibit overt symptoms, without knowing what I had, I started to learn, from what I could glean on the internet, my own primary care physician and from support groups on Facebook and Twitter (I only had Medicaid, which did not pay for any Neurology testing or medication, at the time). My greatest source of information is YumaBev who has had Parkinson's Disease for many years, and is a dear, wonderful friend, and such an inspiration! I have Parkinsoism, or essential tremor, or "Parkie Lite" as I am calling it, for I exhibit every one of the symptoms, yet my substantia nigra produce Levadopa, thus I am on a much different drug regimen. But, as is my wont, I faced it head-on and went back over my own family's history and believe my mother suffered from it, as well, which would speak in favor of e.t., as that is a "familial tremor" and therefore, inherited. We are now facing the idea that this may also be altered by certain protein combinations, or by gene therapy. 

That's pretty much all I have to say about me; I still get to play my fabulous Wolf without it sounding like a machine gun, although my performing days are behind me.

If you have NOT participated in the A-to-Z Challenge before, I urge you to try it! It's so much fun and you'll get to meet bloggers from all over the world. If you want to plan your challenge around a theme, please, please please, contact any one of us at #teamDamyanti, or sign up here:

A-to-Z Challenge

#ROW80 POST 10 – LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, IT'S SHOTIME BOXING!

Here is a little-known fact about me. I love boxing. Love, love, love it. I think it is perhaps the purest of sports; you not only have to be physically at your best, you have to be able to out-think and psych out your opponent. You also have to study your opponent and take advantage of your opponent's weaknesses, and be able to study yourself and mitigate your own weaknesses. It's a whole lot like music, in fact.

Playing any instrument professionally is about showcasing your strengths and hiding your flaws or mitigating them. There's also a pattern to everything; scales, 2nds, 3rds, 4ths, 5ths, 6ths, 7ths, octaves. You drill yourself over and over until it's instinct. Boxing is just like this. Playing a piece of music, especially a solo, has a beginning, middle, and an end. There is a period of feeling it out, or introduction, a climactic section and then a coda. Boxing also resembles this.

Well, boxing doesn't look like THIS, but you get the idea.

One night, I went to a boxing match and ran into the conductor of one of the orchestras I was playing in at the time. I said, “What are you doing here?” He looked at me, and said “I could ask you the same thing.” Oops. We agreed that we were both rabid boxing fans.

My father's mother lived for boxing, or so she told us. This was back in the days of Howard Cosell and Muhammad Ali, and I was more captivated by their traveling sideshow: Cosell: “You are being bellicose, Muhammad, you know that right?” Muhammad: “Well, if I'm that, it must be good!” and on and on. Great stuff. Then, he stepped into the ring and I was transported. My father watched the fights on Saturday nights. “We used to listen to boxing on the radio.” I just thought that was stupid, then, but I can understand how he could imagine it now. I've listened to many a summer baseball game on the radio and enjoyed the hell out of it.

This pretty much sums up their relationship.

The thing is, boxers are a really different breed of cat. They are probably the most accessible of athletes, and will talk your ear off given half a chance. They are also very, very smart. I've talked to Antonio Tarver, shortly after he took the title from Roy Jones, Jr., who at the time was my boy. But once knocked out, Roy was extremely easy to knock out from then on. It is almost axiomatic, that once a fighter has been downed, they develop that “glass jaw” and it pretty much stalls their career.

Like anything I'm fascinated with, I studied it carefully, but won't bore the daylights out of you with all the various minutiae I discovered. There's tons of it; stats, history, schools of fighting, blah, blah. Favorite fighters and favorite coaches. I met Angelo Dundee, a former trainer of Ali, who was working a fight in Tampa and he very graciously talked to me for a few minutes. He signed my “Heroes” book, along with Antonio Tarver and Mark Biro and several others. These people are amazing.

In researching this, I found out they've had 3 bouts together. Jones lost every one of them. Stop, Roy. Just stop.

I would be remiss if I didn't mention the ring walks by the combatants. Probably the most memorable was the ring walk of the bout between Marco Antonio Barrera v. Prince Naseem Hamed. MAB is a CPA in Mexico City, with all the flash and panaché of a CPA. But damn! The man could box and he could hit and brawl and there was no quit in him.

Marco Antonio Barrera, staring at his shoes apparently; looking rather amused.

The Prince Naseem was some jumped-up Arabian guy from the U.K. who traded on his Arabian ancestry; he was like something out of "Scheherazade" or "1001 Arabian Nights." Every fight of his was bizarre, tingle-tangle orientalism. Dancing harem girls, camels, guys with scimitars. But, he had one every fight up until this night, due to the fact that he had the most non-traditional boxing style I had ever seen. He punched people backing up. He switched to south-paw in the middle of combinations. There's no denying that he could punch like a mule, he was just and elusive boxer. He decided to try and start his head games on ol' Marco with this entrance: 

This was on HBO and Larry Merchant became even more catatonic than usual when he saw this. Marco started laughing and shook his head, which is not a good sign for the Prince. This has got to be the most hilarious ring walk I have ever witnessed. And oh yeah, Marco beat down the Prince in the 4th round, when Naseem quit on the mat. It was his 1st loss, and he wasn't heard from again.

The broadcasters are something else again. I always listen carefully, because I know I'm going to hear some kind of shit that is hilarious. One night on HBO, Roy Jones, Jr., as color analyst, said “How do I know why this guy isn't up to his game? Maybe his eyelashes are tangled.” Roy was quickly replaced with George Foreman, he of the 8 children all named George. He was barely understandable, but funny as hell. I'm surprised he didn't try to sell his George Foreman grill. He was also the oldest man to hold a Heavyweight Belt. He didn't fight so much, as just lean into his opponent and slug him in the liver a couple of times a round. It must have been like hitting a tank.

I still think he was a little better than Larry “Prozac” Merchant. This guy could put a crack addict to sleep in about 2 sentences. “I... think... we... … can... safely... say... … that... Lennox... Lewis... … is … … one … … of …. the … … sport … … kings ….... is... the.... finest... exemplar... ever. Okay, is Lennox a horse? Are we talking about Polo? Horse racing? My God, what in the hell are we talking about? He gave a eulogy on the death of Princess Di and I think he's still giving it.

Larry Merchant. The drugs have either worn off, or are just kicking in. Anyway, what has been seen cannot be unseen.

Over at SHOtime, they had the notorious name-botcher (Ring Magazine's description, not mine, but apt) Dr. Ferdy Pacheco. The late Dr. Ferdy lived in Tampa, as did the late Angelo Dundee. Dr. Ferdy painted and he painted quite well. Too bad he wasn't so good with boxer's names. He was Muhammad Ali's doctor at one time as well. A nice man, but boy, the fighter Betthavean Scottland became “Beethoven Scott” or something close to it. He was usually in the ballpark, so no one ever complained.

There's a new batch of folks over at SHOtime, sort of. Brian Kenny, Al Bernstein, who's a retread and 2 other guys I never heard of before. Tonight I heard something that I just live for. Once upon a time, several years ago, on the old USA Tuesday Night Fights, a guy, last name of Clancy and Sean O'Grady were calling the fights. I can't remember who was fighting, but one of the fighters had on these hideous plaid trunks and they were truly hideous. Clancy just busted out with “Boy, he looks like he jumped through a couch!” Mirth and hilarity ensued.

O'Grady supposedly went to Medical School and then boxed. He was a much better color commentator than a fighter. I don't know about the doctorin'.

Tonight, we were watching a championship fight between Canelo v. Lopez and Canelo was just hammering on Lopez. Lopez was taking it with aplomb, hardly backing up. Up pops Al Bernstein, with this pithy observation: “I really like how Lopez is showcasing his composure.” WTF? Well, Canelo displayed awesome ring generalship, cutting Lopez off and keeping him in the corner. Canelo also threw several brilliant combinations. The fight was stopped in I-forget-what-round by referee Joe Cortez. A good fight and Canelo retained his belt.

Canelo, on the left, is from Guadalajara, but he has the map of Ireland on his face and can't speak a word of English. His record stands 43-0-1 after  this fight, on May 5th, 2013. Lopez is managed by Oscar de la Hoya's organization, GoldenBoy.

Canelo is scheduled to fight Floyd Mayweather, Jr., who is pretty tough and is trained by his uncle Roger in September. I do love the sport. Were I any younger, I'd train and spar. I might still, who knows. I've been fighting as an amateur for years. Maybe I need to step up and go pro.

#ROW80 POST 12 WEDNESDAY CHECK IN – 1984, THE YEAR THE DETROIT TIGERS LAST WON THE WORLD’S SERIES

Something has been out of kilter this week. Hell, it has been for the last several weeks. Me. Like a boxer in a 15-round heavyweight title fight, I’ve been struggling from the 12^th round on. I’m fighting to keep my form and stay on my feet. For a couple of rounds, I’ve had trouble going back on the offensive. Defensive fighting sucks and I hate fighting peek-a-boo style; think Pee-Wee Whittaker. Gah. I’ve had enough of this; it sucks. This quick jab, cover, duck and dodge doesn’t cut it with me. I think I’ve found a way to re-assert my ring generalship and go back to offense, but damn if I didn’t go down and almost take a full 10-count.   

In case you couldn’t tell, I’ve been around boxing and boxers somewhat. I liken it to music, oddly enough. I relate most things to either music or math. Applying analogies from the familiar to something new are how I learn; we all do and the pronation (rotation in the wrist, elbow and shoulder) in boxing is what I recognized first in the similarity to music. It is one of the hardest things to learn, for bowing in string playing; and the most powerful tool you can develop in boxing. If you’re a natural puncher, so much the better. The second most familiar analogy I picked up on was the rhythmic style of each boxer (1, 2, 3 or 1 .. 2, 3, wait for it ... 4) and the third, and actually probably the one that sucks the most to train, endurance. I've run into many a musician at boxing matches. It goes like this:

Me: "Conductor So-and-so. What a shock! What are you doing here?"

Conductor So-and-so: "Me? I could say the same thing about you. What are you doing here?"

Me: (Cheesy grin) "I like boxing." No shit. I thought you liked knitting. So does Conductor So-and-so. Lots of musicians and other types you wouldn't associate with blood sports do. Conductor So-and-so and I hate each other a little less after that. It's practically in the contract that all section musicians detest their conductors. Joke. He's an awesome conductor. I wouldn't want to conduct a symphony full of me. I digress.

Right now, the Detroit Tigers are ahead of the New York Yankees 3-0 in the AL Playoffs. The San Francisco Giants have come from behind to win their series and they’re one step closer to the World Series. This got me reminiscing… back during the summer of 1984, I was pretty much just working, practicing and hanging out in Ann Arbor. The Detroit Tigers came out of the gate with a roar.  This was THE year, OUR year and everyone knew it. The Tigers had ended the previous season on a high note. The 1983 season had started typically shitty for the Tigers, 0-43 or something horrible.

In 1983 Sparky Anderson had had 88 fits in the dugout and Dave Rozema, Kirk Gibson and Jack Morris had been bailed out of jails and sewn up in hospitals more times than anyone cared to count. I was watching “Magnum P.I.” and when I wasn’t drooling over Tom Selleck and his ‘stache, I was out playing baseball. Ann Arbor is baseball city and I played the shit out of baseball. Yeah, I’ve heard all that. “Ooh, your hands! You’re a musician!”

I’d stand out there in Center Field with my shades and my Detroit Tigers hat with an orange “D,” not this and glove and attitude, all 5’4” and say “Fuck you, I can catch,” lose the ball in the sun, get hit in the face and break my nose. That happened twice. Once during a game. I’m tough. So, I had a coach one season who noticed that I was little and thought I was going to be part of the Whitaker-Trammell baseball city (you can look it up) wannabes and put me as short-stop, which I was pretty good at.

Anyway, Daddy is still out in California, bugging me about how he’s going to Spring Training at the Cactus League and following Nolan Ryan around and all of this cray-cray (see A-R theWorld4Realz here) and he’s calling me every other day to needle me, because the Tigers just signed 2 hotdogs from the SF Giants named, Enos Cabell and Larry Herndon. I’m already hating what I’m seeing. If I remember rightly, and God forbid I should Google this and louse up a funny story, these 2 were just horrifying. I was all like, “What in the Hell was Tom Monaghan (the owner) thinking? These guys suck!” Daddy’s like, “Ha ha, they just count their money. And Enos? He hits at everything! That bastard has never seen a pitch he doesn’t like. It could be 50 feet on the outside. Enos is going to go down swinging away at it!” Daddy goes on, “Larry will have a pocket full of gloves and stand out in Center Field and count his money, he won’t catch a thing. Hee hee. Ho ho.” Great. Thanks. I'm laughing, because, he's laughing. It's our way of bonding. 

He loved the Giants. He loved stupid English more. He used to get all kinds of hysterical over misprints in the newspaper. "Ha ha ha ha, The GAINTS. Ho ho ho, Tee hee hee." Far less than whatever warranted his delight, was whatever he was laughing at, if that makes any sense. Alas, I have inherited that in spades. The fact that I have "PD or, non-PD" just makes it so much worse. Emotional roller-coaster, they say? Nay, I say. Everything is perilously hilarious, to the point where I damn near lose consciousness, or cry me a river and die. Thanks. I laugh far more than I cry, but Jesus wept... or not.

Anyway, back to our tale of the "2 hotdogs from the SF Giants." It all comes to pass. I’m just livid. Spring training of 1984 is just horrid. This was supposed to be OUR year. God. I’m up in Ann Arbor watching this shit-fest on lazy afternoons drinking beer, staring at an empty Joker Marchant Stadium in Lakeland, Florida. Al Kaline and George Kell are trying there damnedest to put lipstick on this bulldog. I’m thinking they need to take it out and shoot it.

One afternoon in late March, I’m watching one of these games. Poor George; he’s fumbling around. He was no announcer. He certainly knew baseball and I learned tons about the game from him, he spit out this gem, “We’ll be right back. Be sure to tune in for the Andro-Media Strain this Saturday.”  M’kay. The umpires suck. They must have driven over to the School of the Blind and picked up a bunch of students from over there. After about the 12^th blown call, a strike that was right up the middle the ump said was an inside ball, one of the 2 guys in the stands right behind the catcher, Lance Parrish hollered “Catcher, give the umpire your glasses.” The cameras were so close, you could see Lance grin. I loved the easiness of those spring training games. The slow somnolence of the rhythms of the innings. Nothing was hurried, no haste. It’s one of the things I love about life in the south.

Spring training is for a reason; a strange alchemy occurred during the spring training season of 1984 in the Detroit Tigers organization. The addition of Enos Cabell and Larry Herndon from the San Francisco Giants, among several other players from other organizations proved to be the key. But the addition of those 2 were the pivotal tipping point. Here’s why I say that.

One afternoon, late July, I was sitting on my couch, watching a rare day televised game. I had been back and forth, talking to my father ever since the season had started. The Giants were doing what the Giants had always done, which is, I can’t remember. Not much. The Tigers tore out of the gate, and I don’t think they were ever out of 1^st place the entire season. They went 35-5 which was unprecedented. That’s still not why I say what I said. Here’s why I say that.

There’s a knock on my door, as I’m watching this game in late July. I have the front door open, just the screen door is closed. It’s my father. He’s flown in from Los Gatos to take me to a game. I’ve been to bunches of games that summer; “game-parties” have sprung up like sudden late-summer thunderstorms do in Michigan. I’m gleeful. I haven’t seen him in quite a while and I’ve missed him. He looks older, worn and tired. I don’t care. We are both kids again. Caught up in the excitement of fun, riffing off each other and baseball.

Off we go and climb up into the bleachers, like the true animals we really are. This is the summer of the “Wave.” My father was not one for any of that. He just thinks it’s all beyond silly. We’re right down front. I guess so he can pour his beer on people. When the “Wave” comes around, he gives a half-assed “arms up” still clutching his beer in one hand, cigarette in the other, or it’s perched in the corner of his mouth. He’s been teasing me all fucking season about Enos Cabell and Larry Herndon.

Enos swings and strikes out. But damn; the Tigers are in first place in the AL East and it is historically the toughest league in all of baseball. Sparky knows how to manage a baseball team. He will go on to become the first to win Manager of the year in both the National and American Leagues. He won the World Series when he coached the Cincinnati Reds in 1970. Herndon drops a fly ball, that should have been an easy out. My father, the deathless heckler shouts, “Quit counting your money and catch!” Herndon, grinning, turns and executes a theatrical bow. I guess he’s used to hearing it.

My father is smiling in his urn that is underneath the flight path of SFO Airport

My check in goals are below, not much getting done. I hope to be able to explain why on Sunday. I was trying to link to something, but rather than fidget around for the next 2 hours and get frustrato, insert here, while less elegant, but much more expedient, will have to do for now. My Content Manager is out on va-cay right now. Asshole.