Monday morning, the rains came to North Florida, swamping paddocks, flooding our little country roads and precipitating enough automotive carnage to block up Interstate 75 at nearby Reddick, among other places. If I were the suspicious type, I’d be looking at the promotion department of Noah, the movie, appearing this week at your neighborhood cinemadrome.
It’s been dry for almost two weeks, so nobody’s complaining….except, maybe those accident victims. The rain hereabouts tapers off by mid-April, disappears completely in May and returns with a vengeance in June, hanging around for the rest of the Summer. This week, of course, brings the Vernal Equinox, one of two times a year (the other being September 22) when the plane of Earth’s equator passes the center of the Sun and the tilt of the planet’s axis is inclined neither away nor towards the Sun. When we were hippies, many of us would celebrate this spectacular event by trooping off to the beach at St. Augustine to greet the sun at some outrageously early hour. This did not include Bill, who is superstitious in matters of getting up before daylight. Bill would usually point out that the actual Equinox—the official arrival of Spring—was not taking place until oh, say 12:57 p.m., like it is this year. He promised to arrive before then.
When we were kids, Spring meant the arrival of baseball, and don’t let the annoying fact that snow might be on the ground trouble you too much. Hell, spring training was in full flower in Florida, it must be time to break out the bats and balls in New England, too. So we kids would drag our long-stashed gear out of the back of the closets and hike on down to the B&M (owned by the railroad) field to play a few innings. First, of course, we had to shovel out some baselines, the mound and a couple of batter’s boxes, just a minor inconvenience. After that, it was Play Ball!
I remember an early game when we got the whole neighborhood out, about fourteen kids, seven on a side. I was pitching and chubby little Paul Brooks was in right field. You know about right field, of course. That’s the repository of less talented players, the supposition being that most batters, being right-handed, will hit to left and the right fielder will have plenty of time to contemplate nature, do a set of deep knee bends and whistle a happy tune. The first pitch I threw was blasted to right field, where Brooks circled warily for a time before completely losing track of the ball. It fell nearby, but Paul knew not where.
“Come on, Brooks!” I yelled, “He’s going for three!”
“Well, gee, Bill,” the lost outfielder complained, “I can’t see the ball. It’s the same color as snow!”
No shit, Paul. Thanks for that. Inside the park home run. Great for a pitcher’s ERA. It occurred to me in later years that the softball people, with their brilliant yellow spheres, were onto something. Too late for me, as usual.
What About Those Eggs?
Spring has been celebrated throughout human history as a time of organic and spiritual rebirth following the “dying of the year” in Winter. The ancient Germanic festival of Ostara (in honor of the goddess) celebrated the cyclical return of light and life with fertility rituals and symbols, some of which still survive in the modern observance of the Christian holiday Easter, which traditionally falls on the first Sunday after the first full moon following the vernal equinox. The egg, being the most literal and obvious of all fertility symbols, is the center of some ancient customs which survive today in the form of egg rolling and Easter egg hunts. There is also a quaint belief, which we will blame on the Chinese, that you can stand raw eggs on end on the first day of Spring. You can, too. Before you perform this magic, you might want to bet a few dollars with friends on your ability to do it. And make sure you have some strong glue in the kitchen. Just the tiniest dab on the end of the egg will do it. And make sure to glue the bigger end of the egg, dumbo.
Star Spangled Blunders
As an avid attendee of a vast number of sporting events, I get to listen to a large number of Star Spangled Banners. I like the Star Spangled Banner. The Star Spangled Banner has been very, very good to me. When I was a kid and went to the Boston Garden and later to Fenway Park, organist John Kiley would crank out the Banner, and a pleasure it was to listen to. Before the high school football games, the school band would march out onto the field, turn to the home crowd and give it their best, even if their best might sometimes make you wince a little. Some of those 18-man outfits are a little puny in the volume department and there is always the question of tone-deafness, but they are spunky so who’s noticing? Even the recorded Banners at high school basketball games are okay, although who can forget that time at a small school nearby when they popped Cotton-eyed Joe into the CD player? Everybody just thought it was the national anthem of North Central Florida. There was another occasion when a ten-year-old novice at a similar event substituted The Chicken Dance, and I can tell you the Veterans in the crowd were not pleased. But none of this is reprehensible behavior.
In the last few years, however, there has been a growing tendency to have some local amateur come to the microphone and present his or her own sparkling rendition. This is all very nice for that person and for family and friends but it can be a little trying on the rest of us who vacillate between cringing at a bad note, sympathizing with the poor bastard and constantly visiting with our watches to determine if the singer is threatening to break the Guinness World Record for time consumed in delivering a performance. Some of these people have the incredible ability to consistently expand one-syllable words to five syllables. Others decide that after all these years, the song needs a new interpretation so they execute their own rendition, little short of unrecognizable. When anybody actually gets it right, the crowd is so relieved and grateful, a tremendous roar of thanks is emitted. But this doesn’t happen very often. Is anybody actually monitoring the talent or can just anybody jump out there and start bellowing? I would like to make a suggestion. Last two basketball games at UF, some wise entity brought to the mike a couple of grade-school glee clubs or choirs. Their tiny little voices, inaudible separately, joined together magificently, traveling to the heights and depths required without any seeming effort. It was glorious. So please, entertainment directors everywhere, take heed. Forget about your aunt’s dear friend, Ethel or the next door neighbor who baby sits your kids or the granddaughter of your favorite mechanic. Give us a break. Bring on the tiny tots. You’ll be glad you did. And I know WE damn sure will.
One more thing. Is it really necessary to incorporate a vast fleet of Signers (for the hearing-impaired) to interpret the goddam STAR SPANGLED BANNER, of all things? Don’t YOU know the words? Aren’t deaf people as smart as the rest of us? Well, then. Much as we hate to put needy volunteers out of work.
Isn’t This Guy A Month Early?
When April showers may come your way,
They bring the flowers that bloom in May.
So when it’s raining, have no regrets,
Because it isn’t raining rain you know,
It’s raining violets.
Well, not exactly. Not in our town, anyway. Here we’ve got The Gainesville Urinator, dreadful scourge of fire-hydrants everywhere. And unsuspecting people, too. He’s a sneaky devil, this urinator, creeping up on folks and hosing them off while their backs are turned. It’s happened FOUR times now just across from the University of Florida campus. Cops are calling the guy a “serial urinator,” and you don’t see those every day. It makes you wonder. Did little Yuri grow up in a crime family, lacking the heart to be a vicious killer, a bold stickup man or a crafty drug smuggler? Or is he just an independent sort, looking to cut his own swath? Does he incorporate the old-fashioned zipper or the much faster velcro?
Officials claim they will charge the perpetrator with “battery and the exposure of sexual organs (it’s hard to have the first without the second, right?)” if they ever catch him. We’re not sure they will. I mean, what have you got for evidence? Where’s the motive? You have to catch him in the act. Maybe the police will send out undercover personnel (in raincoats) to wander the streets, looking for uh….action. Maybe he’ll get cocky and attack the wrong person, like say, a marathon runner who knows karate. Otherwise, the mystery lingers. The seed of crime bears bitter fruit. This time, a little more bitter than usual.
Practice Makes Perfect
Blood Horse Column Finally Appears
Well, they finally got around to publishing Bill’s article, The Fastest Horse In The World, in the Blood Horse online column Racing Voices on March 14. Some of you were notified, the rest are notified now. Here’s the very long tag:
www.bloodhorse.com/horse-racing/articles/83657/racing-voices-the-fastest-horse-in-the-world
Whew. And speaking of the FHITW, Cosmic Flash worked a half-mile at Gulfstream Park Saturday in 47 seconds flat, out in 1:01, fifth best of 86 at the distance. Came back a little tired so we’ll keep on trucking til he’s ready, perhaps sometime in late April, which is beginning to look like a very busy month. We have an April 23 meeting in Washington with the FDA involving Siobhan’s EPM drugs and both mares, Dot and Wanda, are scheduled to foal just before the end of the month, only a few days before Siobhan’s niece, Ashleigh, gets married in Chattanooga. We may have to bring the mares with us. Wait a minute—then the babies would be Tennessee-breds—we can’t have that. Oh well, we’ll figure out something, says Bill, but not with an air of confidence. How come nobody ever asks us when they plan these weddings? Oh. I see. Never mind, then.
The 200th Blog
Don’t forget to send in your choices for favorite old editions of The Flying Pie, especially you, Leslie Logan and Marty Jourard, Pacific Northwest procrastinators both. You’re on the clock. And that goes for the rest of you, too. Remember, Bill, like the elephant, never forgets. And like Santa Claus, he’s making a list, he’s checking it twice, he wants to find out who’s naughty and nice. ‘Cause one day Santa Bill will be coming to town and you don’t want a piece of coal in your stocking. Or worse.
R.I.P. Newt
Saving the worst for last so as not to spoil the mood, you’ll remember that last week we reported our old comrade Newt Simmons, writer, psychedelic shop owner, bon vivant, had suffered a bad fall, was in a coma and drawing close to The Brink. As in most such predicaments, The Brink prevailed. And so, at 8:30 p.m. Monday, Newt’s ex-wife Anne and son Matt, adhering to his living will, cut the fragile cord restricting him to Earth and let him soar up into the cosmos, a place where subdural hematomas are not recognized. We are not entirely sure whether or not Newt is currently resting in the Big Haight-Ashbury In The Sky because current resident Stuart Bentler once told us there are no college humor magazine editors there, but we’re hoping for the best.
Newt’s last few years were lonely ones, but he might be cheered to know he was not forgotten. When the Out Of Sight website published information about last week’s Flying Pie column, a phenomenal number of people tuned in and they haven’t stopped yet. For those to whom it is possible, the ability to create one’s own life rather than to have it largely created for you, is a guarantor of a fair degree of happiness, and Newt achieved that. His vision created a healthy island of insanity in stodgy old St. Petersburg and gained him admirers for life. At the end of it all, Newt well might be Out of Sight, but for many of us he will never be out of mind.
Let’s let Newt Simmons do the final honors. I mean, under the circumstances, who better?
Newt: “That’s all, folks….”
Newt And Anne In Days Of Yore
It’s been dry for almost two weeks, so nobody’s complaining….except, maybe those accident victims. The rain hereabouts tapers off by mid-April, disappears completely in May and returns with a vengeance in June, hanging around for the rest of the Summer. This week, of course, brings the Vernal Equinox, one of two times a year (the other being September 22) when the plane of Earth’s equator passes the center of the Sun and the tilt of the planet’s axis is inclined neither away nor towards the Sun. When we were hippies, many of us would celebrate this spectacular event by trooping off to the beach at St. Augustine to greet the sun at some outrageously early hour. This did not include Bill, who is superstitious in matters of getting up before daylight. Bill would usually point out that the actual Equinox—the official arrival of Spring—was not taking place until oh, say 12:57 p.m., like it is this year. He promised to arrive before then.
When we were kids, Spring meant the arrival of baseball, and don’t let the annoying fact that snow might be on the ground trouble you too much. Hell, spring training was in full flower in Florida, it must be time to break out the bats and balls in New England, too. So we kids would drag our long-stashed gear out of the back of the closets and hike on down to the B&M (owned by the railroad) field to play a few innings. First, of course, we had to shovel out some baselines, the mound and a couple of batter’s boxes, just a minor inconvenience. After that, it was Play Ball!
I remember an early game when we got the whole neighborhood out, about fourteen kids, seven on a side. I was pitching and chubby little Paul Brooks was in right field. You know about right field, of course. That’s the repository of less talented players, the supposition being that most batters, being right-handed, will hit to left and the right fielder will have plenty of time to contemplate nature, do a set of deep knee bends and whistle a happy tune. The first pitch I threw was blasted to right field, where Brooks circled warily for a time before completely losing track of the ball. It fell nearby, but Paul knew not where.
“Come on, Brooks!” I yelled, “He’s going for three!”
“Well, gee, Bill,” the lost outfielder complained, “I can’t see the ball. It’s the same color as snow!”
No shit, Paul. Thanks for that. Inside the park home run. Great for a pitcher’s ERA. It occurred to me in later years that the softball people, with their brilliant yellow spheres, were onto something. Too late for me, as usual.
What About Those Eggs?
Spring has been celebrated throughout human history as a time of organic and spiritual rebirth following the “dying of the year” in Winter. The ancient Germanic festival of Ostara (in honor of the goddess) celebrated the cyclical return of light and life with fertility rituals and symbols, some of which still survive in the modern observance of the Christian holiday Easter, which traditionally falls on the first Sunday after the first full moon following the vernal equinox. The egg, being the most literal and obvious of all fertility symbols, is the center of some ancient customs which survive today in the form of egg rolling and Easter egg hunts. There is also a quaint belief, which we will blame on the Chinese, that you can stand raw eggs on end on the first day of Spring. You can, too. Before you perform this magic, you might want to bet a few dollars with friends on your ability to do it. And make sure you have some strong glue in the kitchen. Just the tiniest dab on the end of the egg will do it. And make sure to glue the bigger end of the egg, dumbo.
Star Spangled Blunders
As an avid attendee of a vast number of sporting events, I get to listen to a large number of Star Spangled Banners. I like the Star Spangled Banner. The Star Spangled Banner has been very, very good to me. When I was a kid and went to the Boston Garden and later to Fenway Park, organist John Kiley would crank out the Banner, and a pleasure it was to listen to. Before the high school football games, the school band would march out onto the field, turn to the home crowd and give it their best, even if their best might sometimes make you wince a little. Some of those 18-man outfits are a little puny in the volume department and there is always the question of tone-deafness, but they are spunky so who’s noticing? Even the recorded Banners at high school basketball games are okay, although who can forget that time at a small school nearby when they popped Cotton-eyed Joe into the CD player? Everybody just thought it was the national anthem of North Central Florida. There was another occasion when a ten-year-old novice at a similar event substituted The Chicken Dance, and I can tell you the Veterans in the crowd were not pleased. But none of this is reprehensible behavior.
In the last few years, however, there has been a growing tendency to have some local amateur come to the microphone and present his or her own sparkling rendition. This is all very nice for that person and for family and friends but it can be a little trying on the rest of us who vacillate between cringing at a bad note, sympathizing with the poor bastard and constantly visiting with our watches to determine if the singer is threatening to break the Guinness World Record for time consumed in delivering a performance. Some of these people have the incredible ability to consistently expand one-syllable words to five syllables. Others decide that after all these years, the song needs a new interpretation so they execute their own rendition, little short of unrecognizable. When anybody actually gets it right, the crowd is so relieved and grateful, a tremendous roar of thanks is emitted. But this doesn’t happen very often. Is anybody actually monitoring the talent or can just anybody jump out there and start bellowing? I would like to make a suggestion. Last two basketball games at UF, some wise entity brought to the mike a couple of grade-school glee clubs or choirs. Their tiny little voices, inaudible separately, joined together magificently, traveling to the heights and depths required without any seeming effort. It was glorious. So please, entertainment directors everywhere, take heed. Forget about your aunt’s dear friend, Ethel or the next door neighbor who baby sits your kids or the granddaughter of your favorite mechanic. Give us a break. Bring on the tiny tots. You’ll be glad you did. And I know WE damn sure will.
One more thing. Is it really necessary to incorporate a vast fleet of Signers (for the hearing-impaired) to interpret the goddam STAR SPANGLED BANNER, of all things? Don’t YOU know the words? Aren’t deaf people as smart as the rest of us? Well, then. Much as we hate to put needy volunteers out of work.
Isn’t This Guy A Month Early?
When April showers may come your way,
They bring the flowers that bloom in May.
So when it’s raining, have no regrets,
Because it isn’t raining rain you know,
It’s raining violets.
Well, not exactly. Not in our town, anyway. Here we’ve got The Gainesville Urinator, dreadful scourge of fire-hydrants everywhere. And unsuspecting people, too. He’s a sneaky devil, this urinator, creeping up on folks and hosing them off while their backs are turned. It’s happened FOUR times now just across from the University of Florida campus. Cops are calling the guy a “serial urinator,” and you don’t see those every day. It makes you wonder. Did little Yuri grow up in a crime family, lacking the heart to be a vicious killer, a bold stickup man or a crafty drug smuggler? Or is he just an independent sort, looking to cut his own swath? Does he incorporate the old-fashioned zipper or the much faster velcro?
Officials claim they will charge the perpetrator with “battery and the exposure of sexual organs (it’s hard to have the first without the second, right?)” if they ever catch him. We’re not sure they will. I mean, what have you got for evidence? Where’s the motive? You have to catch him in the act. Maybe the police will send out undercover personnel (in raincoats) to wander the streets, looking for uh….action. Maybe he’ll get cocky and attack the wrong person, like say, a marathon runner who knows karate. Otherwise, the mystery lingers. The seed of crime bears bitter fruit. This time, a little more bitter than usual.
Practice Makes Perfect
Blood Horse Column Finally Appears
Well, they finally got around to publishing Bill’s article, The Fastest Horse In The World, in the Blood Horse online column Racing Voices on March 14. Some of you were notified, the rest are notified now. Here’s the very long tag:
www.bloodhorse.com/horse-racing/articles/83657/racing-voices-the-fastest-horse-in-the-world
Whew. And speaking of the FHITW, Cosmic Flash worked a half-mile at Gulfstream Park Saturday in 47 seconds flat, out in 1:01, fifth best of 86 at the distance. Came back a little tired so we’ll keep on trucking til he’s ready, perhaps sometime in late April, which is beginning to look like a very busy month. We have an April 23 meeting in Washington with the FDA involving Siobhan’s EPM drugs and both mares, Dot and Wanda, are scheduled to foal just before the end of the month, only a few days before Siobhan’s niece, Ashleigh, gets married in Chattanooga. We may have to bring the mares with us. Wait a minute—then the babies would be Tennessee-breds—we can’t have that. Oh well, we’ll figure out something, says Bill, but not with an air of confidence. How come nobody ever asks us when they plan these weddings? Oh. I see. Never mind, then.
The 200th Blog
Don’t forget to send in your choices for favorite old editions of The Flying Pie, especially you, Leslie Logan and Marty Jourard, Pacific Northwest procrastinators both. You’re on the clock. And that goes for the rest of you, too. Remember, Bill, like the elephant, never forgets. And like Santa Claus, he’s making a list, he’s checking it twice, he wants to find out who’s naughty and nice. ‘Cause one day Santa Bill will be coming to town and you don’t want a piece of coal in your stocking. Or worse.
R.I.P. Newt
Saving the worst for last so as not to spoil the mood, you’ll remember that last week we reported our old comrade Newt Simmons, writer, psychedelic shop owner, bon vivant, had suffered a bad fall, was in a coma and drawing close to The Brink. As in most such predicaments, The Brink prevailed. And so, at 8:30 p.m. Monday, Newt’s ex-wife Anne and son Matt, adhering to his living will, cut the fragile cord restricting him to Earth and let him soar up into the cosmos, a place where subdural hematomas are not recognized. We are not entirely sure whether or not Newt is currently resting in the Big Haight-Ashbury In The Sky because current resident Stuart Bentler once told us there are no college humor magazine editors there, but we’re hoping for the best.
Newt’s last few years were lonely ones, but he might be cheered to know he was not forgotten. When the Out Of Sight website published information about last week’s Flying Pie column, a phenomenal number of people tuned in and they haven’t stopped yet. For those to whom it is possible, the ability to create one’s own life rather than to have it largely created for you, is a guarantor of a fair degree of happiness, and Newt achieved that. His vision created a healthy island of insanity in stodgy old St. Petersburg and gained him admirers for life. At the end of it all, Newt well might be Out of Sight, but for many of us he will never be out of mind.
Let’s let Newt Simmons do the final honors. I mean, under the circumstances, who better?
Newt: “That’s all, folks….”
Newt And Anne In Days Of Yore
