minor league baseball tee shirts

The Lubbock Crickets (very vintage).

Binghamton Rumble Ponies. Binghamton is known for it’s vintage carousels. They had a contest to name the team (I think only kids could enter). One little girl said she had a dream about a carousel horse that came down from the carousel, and it was a “rumble pony.” Sure beats the old name, Binghamton Mets.

The Las Vegas 51s (no longer exists). Named for Area 51.

Lansing, MI. This one I own; bought it because I love the dizzy mascot.

This is arriving today. The team is named for the historic Horseshoe Curve train track in the city.

This was a prize of my collection. The Staten Island Yankees (they no longer exist) decided one summer that they would be the Pizza Rats at their home game that season. I wore that sucker for years, but it’s now way too big. I have it to my BF because he loved it.

I also have a South Bend Cubs shirt, which doesn’t stand out much, but the team no longer exists, and I found it at a thrift store for a couple of bucks.

I really want that Rumble Ponies shirt; also the Crickets shirt, tho it’s pretty damaged.

My tee shirts are a thing. A collection. A very large part of my wardrobe. When I was losing weight (lost 35 lbs a couple of years ago), I bought a variety of cheap clothes, which I soon realized had nothing to do with my life. I simply started dressing like I did in high school: jeans, tee shirts, flannel shirts, sneakers or sandals. I did not keep most of my XL tee shirts, tho I have some around to sleep or work out in. I bought a bunch of Levi’s, but basically only wear three of them. The new tee shirts are men’s S, which are tight over my little chest. Tight clothes are a new thing for me. I have a waistline now. (I gain weight like a man, so when I was heavy I had a big gut but my tits were still tiny.)

Starting to buy new tee shirts has been pretty fun – well, really fun. Didn’t take me long to have too many again,. They’re not all photographed, but eventually will be. At some point, I’m going to sell a few old ones which are probably valuable: two old Holy Modal Rounders, and a Michael Hurley from 1994 that is pristine (only wore it a couple of times a year, and I’ve never seen another like it).

My wrist hurts, I need shopping, I need the gym. I feel like the bf and I are kind of cooled off… I don’t feel much of a spark. But I haven’t seen him since early June. Don’t have a long-distance relationship if you can avoid it. This one even started out long-distance. It’s been more like a spread-out string of honeymoons rather than anything present and continuing. But he’s not the settle-down type anyway. Thinks a committed relationship would take away his “freedom” – which does mean dating around. It means doing whatever he wants whenever he wants, and breaking rules he wants to break until he’s caught. Kind of entitled, you know. But for the most part, we’re a great match. Does that sound stupid? Sounds a little stupid to me.

On the other hand, the last bf, on-and-off for many years, was also a lot to put up with.

BTW, this is kind of my switch-off from politics. I spend all the rest of my time reading and sweating and worrying. I’m not ignoring the fact that the country and the world are in desperate trouble. Just palate-cleansing with tee shirts and boyfriend.

I’m sick of reviewing

I don’t write reviews professionally any more, and I’m trying to live my third third as a less judgey person. I’ve seen friends look a bit surprised when I get mean about a singer or movie. I can just not like it without a stack of insults. It’s really hard to get out of the habit.

Instead, I’m trying to figure out how to move my life out of a dilapidated shared house in Detroit, where I’ve been staying with an old friend after being priced out of my hometown. As kind as it was for my friend to invite me to stay here, he does not maintain his house in any way and it’s starting to fall apart, As is he – alas, dementia has been coming on, which is both sad and infuriating.

I’m also trying to refrain from going on and on about specific political shit, because I do that on Bluesky. So just remember that I’m writing this in a country that’s well on its way to becoming a dictatorship.

I always wondered why Jews in Germany simply didn’t just pretend to be non-Jewish. I get it now. This is the point where I could think about some pretending, but those trains (not just denying my race but denying my politics) have already left the station. Can’t wipe the internet. It’s never 100% safe to be a Jew anywhere, I’ve always known that – but I didn’t think America would turn into THIS.

So yes, I came to stay with a friend in Detroit because it was the pandemic and I had no money and had to leave my Brooklyn apartment. It was my only choice; friends who had offered me a place to stay in Albany took back the offer. What I didn’t count on is that it’s impossible to live here without a car. I expected the bus system to be useful, but it isn’t at all. I have never driven and am somewhat scared of it, and I’m so resentful that my life is so closed-down because of it.

And now I know what it’s like to live in a food desert. In walking distance, I have: a dollar store, a “party store” (convenience store that is mostly liquor and lottery tickets), a pharmacy, one “Coney Island” (=diner), and a you-buy-we-fry fish place. (You-buy-we-fry is a way for people to get around the prohibition on using SNAP to buy cooked food. You buy the raw fish with SNAP, and they cook it for you “as a favor.” Too bad no one gets SNAP this month.) There’s also an urgent care and car parts and car repair. It’s kind of cruddy, the little shopping stretch, and the pavements are all broken because pedestrians are a low form of life around here.

I can’t visit New York any more because I have no place to stay. Used to stay with the only friends I had there who were rich enough to have the space for overnight guests. They canceled a visit I was supposed to make in three weeks; their daughter, who lives with them, is a teacher and was having a problem with one kid and was upset and crying all the time. I was assured it wasn’t personal, they weren’t having any guests. A couple months later, at Christmas, I said to the husband, “I guess Zoe [daughter] is glad it’s Christmas break.” He asked why. I said, “she’s getting a break from that awful kid.” He said, “Oh, that kids transferred out.” I asked if they were having houseguests again, and he said, “No – uh, another bad kid could transfer in at any time.” I said, “So you’re not having any houseguests until Zoe retires from the school system?” (I should mention that their house is always filled with houseguests – they can sleep seven apart from the family.) He didn’t answer. So I was being lied to, it WAS personal, and I had no idea what it was about. She never called me again. I kept asking him to tell me the truth. He wouldn’t, and suddenly was not returning calls or emails on the regular. (Did I mention that he’s been my friend since the late 70s?) I gave him one more chance to tell the truth, which he did not, and I just told him to fuck off. How are we supposed to fix a problem or issue if they won’t admit there is one? I’m not at an age where I can afford to lose friends, but I can’t tolerate being lied to, or having some strange problem floating around that I have no way to solve. It hurt a lot to lose those friends. It sucks not to be able to visit NYC. It sucks to be stuck in Detroit. I can’t get a job without a car, and I can’t move out without bringing in some money.

Current fantasy: my stepmother does the right thing and leaves me half her money. (My dad didn’t even leave life insurance for my brother and me. And yes, they were somewhat well-off.) Then I will get my ass a license, buy a good car, and buy a little lake house in southwestern Michigan (with a few bedrooms so I can have guests). Rest of the money buys an annuity. I enjoyed that area of the state when the BF and I were there; there are also lovely places up north, but it’s COLD there. There are so many lakes in the state that there are lake houses in every price range. I saw a nice one online with three bedrooms for about $225K.

Don’t get me wrong – there’s a lot of nice stuff in and around this area. Detroit is not a bad city. It’s just that it’s so spread out, and impossible to get around without a car. A couple of weeks ago, I had a concert ticket and was going by myself; Uber ran me $50 there and back. I’m lucky to have some good friends living two doors down, and we do a lot together: he and I go to the gym three times a week, and shop together, including Eastern Market (huge-ass farmer’s market) on Saturday mornings. (I’m getting to like couple-friends.) He went to high school and college with the BF, which is how I met him. (Alas, BF lives across the country and the relationship is kind of fading over the distance.) I love my neighbors. I love my (infuriating) roomie and his GF. They’re pretty much my only friends here, and I’m grateful for them.

It’s not the same, of course, from the old friends I left behind. Lost all of the acquaintance, too – that nice guy you always saw in the elevator, the pharmacist, the woman on the block with the adorable dog, the friendly pharmacist. Lost my trusted doctors, my favorite restaurants, the convenience of being able to go pretty much anywhere without a car. I’m keeping up as best I can with two old friends there, and one in New Jersey, one in Texas. It’s not a big group. Losing that couple in New York is really killing me; I’m never going to get the chance to have another 45-year friendship. But you can’t be friends with people who don’t want to be your friend.

The lying is really the worst. I hate being lied to because the liar is assuming that I’m stupid enough to swallow the lie. It makes me very angry, apart from being sad. My friend should have known – no, he absolutely DID know – that I was too smart to buy what he was trying to sell. I could probably let go of this more easily if I knew what it was about. Instead, I torment myself, guessing what might have caused it, arguing in my head… I just wish they’d have fucking said, “I don’t like you any more” or “I didn’t like it when you said such-and-such.” My BF, sad to say, is also a conflict-avoider.

I wish I could tell them all to grow the fuck up.

Facial Hair on Men

Bias: none, just a lifetime of looking around and the occasional kiss

No sir, I don’t like it.

A lot of men don’t shave because they’re lazy. Unacceptable. They end up with that stubbly shit that looks lazy and no one wants to kiss. I once dated a man who had an interestingly groomed beard, but had not shaved the negative spaces before our first, um, intimate encounter, and I had ugly red beard burn for a week. Lazy shaving will do that shit.

There are soft beards. Once kissed a guy with a very soft beard, and even commented on it. “This,” said he, “is virgin beard. I have never shaved.” Wonder if that works for everyone. Never met another man who laid claim to that, so I have no way to compare.

Of course they were in vogue when I was an older teen and I kissed plenty of bearded and mustached men. (Or do we say “mustachioed?”_ When my FWB grew his mustache back, I was very clear that I liked it not at all, but when you’re not the bottom bitch, it’s not your decision to make. Bottom bitch loved it.

Those little sprinkles of facial hair? The soul patch? OK on the right dude. I’ll go out on a limb and say, mostly musicians. Big honkin’ sideburns? The same, I suppose. But, like the soul patches, get rid of those motherfuckers when they go grey. From a distance, they look like a skin disease.

I was inspired to write about this because a dude posted a photo on Facebook with a new beard. All of his old pals liked it. Not me, and I said so. I am, I suppose, a newish friend or acquaintance. They said it made him look…I’m not sure what. No go for me.

I permit one man to have a moustache, and that is the gloriously handsome actor Sam Elliot. Sam Elliot may have as many damn mustaches as he likes.

Image result for sam elliott

This also came up, in part, relative to men’s body hair. Boy, I sure have a soft spot for that. When dear Burt Reynolds died, his famous Cosmo centerfold was reprinted in many places, and he sure did have a lovely bounty of chest hair. Something wildly virile about a man with a lot of chest hair. They can usually be spotted by dark forearm hair and a tendency to go bald; it’s a testosterone thing. There are a couple of would presently like to check on, but that can be filed under Not Very Likely. But I do enjoy rubbing my face is a pile of chest hair.

Of course, as always, Your Mileage May Vary,

Elvis ’68

The Elvis ’68 Comeback Special (theatrical version)

How obtained: I bought a ticket, about $15

Bias: None

This was a very spur-of-the-moment choice for a review, which is probably a good thing, since I’ve been knocking my head against a wall trying to figure out what to review first.

I’d never seen all of this before – just clips here and there. To situate it somewhat in time and in the life of Elvis Presley…well, I can’t go through the entire story of Elvis Presley. There are plenty of books. I recommend the two volumes by Peter Guralnick. OK, Elvis is famous, goes into the Army, comes out of the Army, and his schtick drek (Yiddish: piece of shit) manager, Col. Tom Parker, puts him in an endless string of terrible movies where he has to sing an endless string of terrible songs. These movies are often referred to as “travelogues,” because they are basically the same story in a different setting.

Someone has a very fine idea to make a one-hour TV special where Elvis gets back to basics. After this 1968 special, alas, the Vegas years start, and all the drugs, and the white spangly outfits, and the overweight, and he’s dead within ten years. So Elvis ’68 is just a lovely little pause where a more genuine Elvis than had been seen since the Army comes out to play, if only for an hour.

The parts I had already seen were from the “jam session” segments, where Elvis and his musicians just sat around with acoustic instruments and played some of his oldies. And there is indeed magic in these segments. Elvis is relaxed, unselfconscious, and actually seems to be enjoying himself. And there are moments where he opens his mouth, and “Elvis” comes out: that sweet, handsome, young man with that powerful voice. Where was he hiding all that time?

Elvis wears a custom-made leather suit for these segments. In one of the books I read about him – I wish I could remember which one, and I wish I could remember if the author said this or was quoting someone else – Elvis as described as being “as thin as a rake, and as handsome as ten movie stars.” Truer words were never spoken. He looks healthy and tanned (remember when “tanned” looked healthy?), his weight is just right, he has energy, his skin is clear…he just looks like Perfect Elvis.

Unfortunately, the ’68 special is loaded with several dreadful “production numbers.” There was no escaping that shit in the ‘60s, I guess. The gospel one is the least bad; Presley explains that a lot of his music is rooted in gospel, and then there’s a gospel song and African-American people doing weird modern dance and such. ‘60s TV, particularly variety shows, had a lot of this kind of nonsense, themed song-and-dance segments that were painful to watch. Another one was based around the song “Guitar Man,” where Elvis goes from town to town on a neon road. One town has a nightclub and someone breaks his guitar. There’s one with a lot of pretty girls dancing around him. There’s one where he has to save a pretty girl from a tough guy (some sanitized version of whore and pimp); this one has the redeeming quality of Elvis’ singing a snatch of “Big Boss Man,” though of course it is lip-synced. And there’s a portion where he fights off a bunch of guys who come at him one at a time, Bruce-Lee-style, while he sings. Bad, bad, bad.

Since the special was only an hour, including commercials, the makers of this release added on an end portion with bloopers, and a beginning portion where the director of Elvis ’68 chats awkwardly with Priscilla Presley. Priscilla has had so much work done and/or so much botox that her mouth hardly moves when she speaks.

I wish it were all the jam session. The jam session rocked. But it did provide a lovely glimpse into Elvis, a mature performer who was not yet his own worst enemy.

Also…

I know, I know, lots of intro stuff and no reviews yet. Be patient. We’ll get there.

Another issue I’ve thought about is the how-acquired disclosure. Most reviewers get whatever they’re reviewing (CD, book, concert tickets) at no cost. The thinking seems to be that the reviewer will have more skin in the game if s/he pays. I get a lot of free CDs from friends and acquaintances because I used to write professionally (and have recently started again), and they respect my opinion or hope I’ll talk my editor into a review or they just plain like me. But I also buy myself concert tickets, pay for myself in clubs, and buy books and even CDs.

To some extent, it’s true that I would be harder on something I purchased if the something were pricey. If I spent $150 for a concert ticket and the band only played 30 minutes, or the sound was lousy, I’d probably be a lot more unhappy than if the ticket would be free. A $15 book or CD…not so much.

So I will let you know how I came to possess the item under review. I think that’s only fair.

It Begins

This blog has arisen out of three problems, which took place over quite a bit of time.

First, back in the 90s, I proposed review of a show by a single artist and group to the largest (probably the only) folk music magazine in the U.S. This magazine is long gone and I can’t remember the name. Probably something crappy like “The Village Green.” Anyway, they refused my proposal because they felt I was “too close” to the artists. Interestingly, a review of the same show was published by the largest folk music magazine in the UK (called “Folk Roots” at the time; now surviving nicely as “Froots”).

The “too close” thing is still somewhat baffling. As best as I can tell, the editor felt I was biased because I knew or liked the musicians too well. This can be a very thin dividing line. Of course there will be bands I enjoy and see repeatedly, and I may interview or chat with one or more of the personnel. Maybe I even get to like him or her. Maybe we become, in some way, friends, or at least friendly. Does this mean that if I review his or her or their show, I won’t call it a shitty show, even if it is a shitty show, because I like this person or people? Will I write a powderpuff review because I want to promote my friends? I like to think I will write honestly regardless of whether I have a relationship with the artist. And this blog will be a place where I can do it, and even add a proviso that the artist in question is a friend, or someone I’ve known for many years, or someone I schtup on a semi-regular basis.

I did get away with the “too close” thing for a while in the 90s. I wrote for a national blues magazine, but wanted very much to try to promote local NYC artists as much as possible. The first time I did it, the particular artist was about to release his first CD, and the publisher loved it, so I pretty much got carte blanche to do this sort of thing. And I called songs weak when they were weak, side-players dull when they were insufficient, covers done-to-death when they were…you get it.

But there was one local player with whom I suppose I was “too close.” My actual thinking at the time was that he was not getting the recognition he deserved, and I was trying to get him a little more. It was also true that I went to most of his shows and enjoyed them immensely; is this wrong for a reviewer? Is it too partial, too close? Did I overlook something that was not quite good, not up to snuff, not changed enough from the original? I wrote three pieces on this musician and had another author write one, back in the day when I had my own small local music magazine. I recently re-read what the other reviewer rote, and it was just as glowing as my pieces. So perhaps I was biased toward this player…but also wrote honestly about him.

Number two (if you’re hopelessly lost, this is the second reason I started this blog): I write very occasionally for a national music magazine which recently gave me a book to review; I was asked to do 750-800 words. The cover of the book touted it as a “biography,” but the author’s name was not on the cover, nor was it on the back. When I finally located it, it was on the spine, and it was the name of the subject of the book. There’s a good word for a book of this type: “autobiography.” And it got worse.

It was abundantly clear that the author, a minor Chicago bluesman, had typed it up, run it through spell-checker (so the common words, though not proper names, were spelled correctly), and sent it to the self-publisher. (There was no publisher’s name on the book, not even a made-up one.) The book had never visited a editor, nor even some dope with a B.A. in English. Proper names were misspelled; Howlin’ Wolf’s name was not only spelled “Howlin’ Wolf,” but also “Howlin Wolf” and “Howling Wolf.” A chapter on Maxwell Street was entitled “Jew Town” and began with two paragraphs (“I guess this wouldn’t be politically correct today”) on how the area was called “Jew Town,” due to the many Jewish-run businesses at a time prior to the author’s arrival. The rest of the chapter focused on the buy-sell-trade nature of the area when the author arrived, referring to it throughout as “Maxwell Street.” So the “Jew Town” business was needed why?

As I read the book to prepare my review, I not only inserted my usual bookmarks, but also found myself circling grammatical mistakes, underlying unnecessary inclusions and inserting multiple question marks – as if I were the non-existent editor. It was nigh impossible not to do so. Once I had gone through half of the book, I was reluctant to slog through the rest, and emailed my editor to confirm the deadline, mentioning how truly awful the book was. His response was that I should cut the review length in half, and mention that the book would mostly be of interest to people from the Chicago blues scene in the 70s. (This necessitated a quick reread and underlining the names of musicians mentioned, then looking them up in a blues reference book to see if they were local or national – another major failing of the book and author).

So – I was basically told not to trash the book, which truly merited a good trashing. Whether the author was expected to advertise in the magazine, I can’t say. Maybe. The magazine does make a lot of money by advertising CDs and such, many of which are reviewed in the magazine. Partial? Too close?

Third reason: I don’t have enough outlets to write reviews, and I like writing reviews. Magazine X no longer pays its writers (and in fact still owes me $60 from 2003). This blog gives me the freedom to review more than blues books and CDs, and in fact more than blues, and in fact more than music.

I recently found myself writing shortish reviews on social media, mostly about concerts and small shows I’d seen, all of which ended with the warning, “Your mileage may vary.” (Does anyone even use that expression any more? Well, I do, meaning “you may have a different experience than mine.”) And I thought, what a fine name for a blog of opinionated reviews! Of course, the “o” and the “u” in the word “Your” would have run me an additional $2,800, so let’s hope you can all remember that “Yr” means “Your.”

Eventually, this blog will include some relevant links for monetization (e.g., a link to Amazon to buy the book or CD I’m reviewing), and an address to send books or CDs for review (no promises, though). But for now, I’m just hoping this comes out looking right, and someone decides to read it. Hopefully, someone partial or close to me.